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  Bosco looked at Remmie with suspicion. “Don’t try anything.”

  “Not much I can do.” She held up her bound hands. “We have to trust each other.”

  Bosco held out the box to her, holding the two buttons down. She lifted her arms and flipped the switch at the top. She could feel the force of her heart pushing at her chest.

  Bosco looked down at the display and let go of the buttons. The screen started to boot up, but there were no dots. Remmie remembered Victor saying that it took a bit to warm up, its range slowly expanding. Then a red dot and a blue dot appeared in the middle of the screen.

  “There we are, on the screen,” Bosco said. “It works, so let’s head back. Eli will be ecstatic.”

  It was hopeless. The device didn’t work. Then she thought of Kyle’s limp body lying in the trailer. He didn’t know what had hit him. Maybe it was better that way. She wished she’d been shot with him. Poor Kyle would rot in that nasty trailer, never given the respect he deserved. She had believed that somehow she could get an edge over Bosco if he was activated. Her limbs felt a numbing cold.

  She leaned into Bosco and gave him a gentle kiss on the lips. Their tongues touched. She felt her breakfast crawling up her neck.

  She did her best to gaze seductively at Bosco. “I love you. Please untie me.”

  His grin was lustful as he pulled a small pocket knife from his cargo pants. He snipped her ties, and her gaze found a crowbar secured to the side of the utility box at the back. She pulled Bosco’s hand onto her breast and kissed him again, gently nibbling his upper lip, one hand moving up his leg, the other reaching for the crowbar.

  She bit his lip with savage force, unrelenting.

  A wail of distress torpedoed from his throat. She jammed the crowbar into his gut, thrusting his wail and the rest of the oxygen from his lungs. With her teeth firmly entrenched in his lip, she yanked her head away, tearing the upper lip from his face, spurts of blood echoing the spray of blood that had escaped Kyle’s forehead. She swung the crowbar across Bosco’s jaw and his body fell to the floor.

  She got to her feet, hitting her head on the ceiling of the van. But her eyes remained locked to Bosco’s blood-soaked face. He rolled his eyes up at her, but . . .

  He was docile, hollow, as if there was no self behind those eyes. Her peripheral vision was then drawn to the screen.

  Two red dots in the center. Damn. It worked.

  She grabbed Bosco’s gun and watched him, curious. Could that have been why he was so quick to untie her? She pointed the gun between his eyes. Fresh blood was pouring down his face, his front teeth now partially exposed where his upper lip had been. He picked up the shard of flesh that was his upper lip and looked at it curiously.

  “Why’d you do that?” Bosco said, his speech distorted but calm.

  “Tie your hands,” she said.

  He put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a couple of ties, and pushed his hands through them. Remmie pulled them tight.

  “Why?” Bosco said.

  He didn’t resist, but simply stared off into space. Remmie imagined what the world would be like if everybody suddenly became as Bosco just had. That wouldn’t bode well for the success of humanity. This wasn’t control. It was lobotomy.

  “I’m bleeding,” Bosco said, gurgling.

  She dug around the van and found a first aid kit. She grabbed a wad of gauze and covered his open wound, taping around his head.

  “It hurts,” Bosco said.

  Now what? She would take care of Kyle, then destroy the device. But what if the device was capable of deactivating the Dames? What was state four? Surely Victor had a greater purpose in mind. She wondered if she should leave Bosco alone while she returned to the trailer.

  No.

  “Stand up. Follow me,” she said.

  Bosco got to his feet, bumping his head on the ceiling.

  Remmie looked at the gun, the gun that had killed Kyle. Her legs trembled and she felt utterly alone. She missed her parents and wished Kyle were there to comfort her, share the peril. She contemplated putting the gun to her own head, then thought of shooting Bosco. The sight of his bloody face magnified her rage.

  But was he even Bosco any longer?

  He was, though. He had to be. The Dames had simply hijacked lines into the brain, but Bosco was still somewhere in there. It was just a different form of restraint, like the ones on his hands.

  She looked at the device, and there were now two additional dots, a red and a blue, in the vicinity of the trailer. Maybe Samuel had accompanied Bosco. Maybe the blue dot was Jack, another double agent. But the trauma of the day had numbed her emotions. Maybe she could surprise the two. Or maybe she was just tired of running, and she would face whatever hand fate dealt her.

  She cocked the gun and made her way to the trailer.

  FIFTY-THREE

  KYLE FELT A soft hand touch his face. A pleasant waft of perfume curled into nose, comforting his discombobulated state. His scalp felt numb and his limbs weak as he tried to open his eyes, but they were already open, his vision blurred. He felt his body turn, and the hand slowly moved from his face to the back of his neck, supporting his head. Two eyes gradually came into focus, shiny lips, a ponytail of bright red hair hanging over her shoulder.

  He lifted his hand, which had lines of crimson that ran the length of his arm.

  “Kyle?” she whispered.

  “Remmie?” Kyle strained to speak.

  “Lie still, and don’t talk. You’ve been shot.”

  Kyle brushed his forearm across his eyes, rubbing, and a burst of energy flung her name from his mouth. “Rachael!”

  He attempted to rotate his body, but a gouging pain ripped his cranium. He attempted to grab the back of his head, but Rachael’s hand was there. He was in her arms, and barely able to move.

  “You shot me.” His words came out like he was speaking through dish soap.

  “Look at me.”

  His eyes moved to her deep blue eyes. So beautiful, so psycho.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood. I didn’t shoot you. It was Bosco, and we don’t have much time. I need to stop the bleeding. I need to be able to look at you in the light. Eli needs to look at you.”

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “I was hiding in the back of the van until you reached the burrito joint. Look, I realize we’ve seemed to be in opposition, but I don’t want you to die.”

  “Okay by me.”

  “Eli can fix you. You’ll survive until then. It looks like the bullet didn’t penetrate your skull . . . as lucky as lucky can be. It seemed to travel under your scalp around the surface of your skull and exited at your forehead . . . must have been the angle it hit. If I can keep you from bleeding, you’ll make it. Sorry, but a hospital isn’t an option with the fate of the world at stake.”

  Kyle felt black overtake his vision again, all sound moving into a deep tunnel. The last sound before he lost consciousness was the click of the door.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  REMMIE TURNED THE tattered doorknob of the trailer. There was a loud click and she jerked the door open, launching herself in, chaotically pointing Bosco’s gun in every direction. There was only Kyle. But he was now turned around, facing the door, his head a maroon pulp. Someone had moved him. Her body felt exposed from all directions. Her breaths became narrow.

  A toaster catapulted toward Remmie’s face, causing her to lift her arms in defense, dropping the gun as Rachael sprung from behind the workstation.

  She pointed a gun between Remmie’s eyes. “We need to get Kyle to Eli ASAP. You must follow my directions. His life depends on it.”

  What? Remmie turned to Kyle, whose head rose, one of his eyes partially opening.

  He was alive!

  “Kyle!” She leapt to him, dropping to her knees. “How?” She thumbed blood from under his eyes.

  Bosco stepped in and Rachael turned her gun on him while squatting to pick up Remmie’s gun. “Hands up—my God, what happened to
your face?”

  “Remmie bit my lip,” Bosco said, robotic. “I love her.”

  “What?” Rachael appeared mortified.

  “Remmie,” Kyle said with a gurgle. “I’m alive.”

  “Kyle, my Kyle.” Remmie’s eyes spilled a torrent and she said to Rachael, “We need to get him to an emergency—”

  “No. We need to keep the bleeding under control. We need to get to the van and head south. That’s your only option.” She turned a studying eye back to Bosco. “You activated him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Remmie said. “Victor’s device switched him from bull to steer.”

  “Wow . . .” Rachael appeared fascinated. “Well, Bosco, help Remmie get Kyle to the van.”

  “Kyle needs—”

  “The emergency room is not an option. Otherwise, he’ll die, because I’ll have to shoot you, and that will complicate our extraction of Kyle.”

  “If he doesn’t survive, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

  “Your boyfriend’s the one who shot him. I’m trying to keep him alive. You’re lucky I’m here. Let’s go!”

  “I did hold him responsible. That’s why he’s activated and missing his upper lip. And he’ll be missing more than that before this is over. Tell me what do I need to do?”

  “You and Bosco each grab a shoulder. Don’t let his head flop around. Kyle, can you walk at all?”

  “I can try.”

  Remmie and Bosco pulled Kyle to his feet and carefully navigated him to the van.

  Rachael said to Remmie, “You drive. And don’t do anything stupid. These are desperate times, and I will commit desperate acts to ensure we get back to Mr. Sands. If you care about Kyle, trust me to look after him.”

  Remmie took the driver’s seat. Rachael grabbed the van’s first aid kit and focused on keeping Kyle from bleeding. Remmie navigated the van out of the trailer complex.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” Remmie said. “He’ll bleed to death.”

  “No, he won’t, and I do know what I’m doing. I was an EMT for three years, and I know the brain as well as Victor. Don’t pull into a police station or start speeding. I won’t be caught and I’ll take you down with me.”

  Remmie tried to think of a plan but came up short. What would Kyle do if their roles were reversed? What did the odds dictate? Rachael was like a volatile bomb. But she was also a scientist, and probably knew what she was doing. And Eli was a neurosurgeon. Enough reasons why the odds were best if they got Kyle to Eli. But what about delaying treatment to Kyle? What difference would that make?

  And what about her own condition?

  “I can’t drive straight through,” Remmie said. “I’m exhausted as it is. I can’t focus.”

  “You’re gonna have to if you want him to live. It’s going to be a long day for you.”

  “How’re we going to make it through the border?”

  “The same way I made it in and you guys didn’t know it. This van will scan clean every time. Besides, going into Mexico is way easier than coming out.”

  Remmie felt like a baby about to crawl a marathon. “What if I have to pee?”

  “I’ve got some diapers for you. I use them a lot . . . saves time.”

  Remmie cringed at the thought of wearing a diaper, then wondered again how Eli could have betrayed Victor.

  “So, you’re with Eli too then?” Remmie said.

  “No. And when we return, Mr. Sands will be in charge again. I’ll make sure of that . . .”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  THE ODOR OF plastic and baby powder subdued Remmie’s desire to breathe as she struggled to pull her already tight jeans over one of Rachael’s diapers. This was ridiculous. Remmie peeked from behind the utility box in the back of the van. Rachael was outside pumping gas, unwilling to let Remmie step out, even for the toilet. Poor Kyle had already peed himself twice since getting shot.

  Rachael inched the sliding door open and tossed in a few bottles of water and microwave burritos, unheated. “You ready? We need to get back on the road.”

  Remmie struggled to button her pants. “I’m trying.”

  “Kyle’s still bleeding and may have traumatic brain injury,” Rachael said.

  “If you’re so worried about him, why don’t we go to a hospital?” Remmie crawled back to the driver’s seat, leaving her jeans unbuttoned.

  “There’s better medical equipment at Mr. Sands’ house than you’ll find in a podunk hospital around here. And don’t forget, the world’s at stake. I’d like to save his life, but it is optional.”

  Rachael handed Remmie a bottle of hand sanitizer. Remmie snatched it and squeezed a goopy dollop on her hand, rubbing alcohol flushing the smell of baby powder from her nose. As she returned the bottle she felt a jab of sympathy for Rachael, whose hair was down, matted, parts looking like strips of turkey bacon. And her puffy eyes looked like they’d sprouted tongues beneath. She appeared defeated, and she turned her careful attention back to Kyle.

  Rachael was doing a good job with him.

  It was late afternoon. And back on the highway the traffic was light. Remmie figured they were no more than half an hour from the border.

  “Now we drive straight through,” Rachael said. “It’s just a few hours to the house.”

  Exhausted, Remmie felt her eyelids drift down from time to time, but she would stay focused for Kyle. She looked up at the mirror to see how the bags under her own eyes were doing. Better than Rachael’s.

  She needed to talk to stay alert. “What’s Eli going to do with Kyle? Why would he even care? And how can there be more medical equipment in that small house? Kyle needs an X-ray, CAT scan, antibiotics . . .”

  “That house has all of that. But I guess you wouldn’t know about that because you probably never left your room. There’s nothing to worry about. Eli is a great neurosurgeon. And I can’t believe he wouldn’t help. Kyle will be fine, with proper medical attention.”

  “What’s your motivation in all of this?” Remmie said.

  “You know my motivation. I want to see an end to war, poverty, violence . . . the arrogance of humanity. And it’s going to happen sooner or later anyway, so why not be in the driver’s seat? And I’m helping Kyle because I’m not the psycho bitch you think I am.”

  “You’re lobotomizing humanity. How is that not bad? And do you really trust Mr. Sands?”

  “I do trust him. His intentions are not so immoral as you think.”

  “I trusted Bosco. So did you.”

  “I never trusted Bosco. And I’m sorry, but you’re not so bright when it comes to men.”

  Remmie pulled at the steering wheel, flexing her modest arm muscles to their limit. “You should talk. Your real motivation in all of this is to get back at Victor.”

  Rachael kicked at the back of the driver’s seat. “Careful what you say.”

  “Kill the world to get back at Victor. Talk about control! Victor’s actions are what define you. Eli too . . . seems Victor has a magical power in that area.”

  “You got any more of those diapers?” Bosco said, monotone. “I think Kyle just defecated.”

  A powerful stench filled the van. Remmie remembered when she peed her pants, back when all this started, how ashamed she’d felt. Poor Kyle. But Bosco’s voice felt like razors sliding across Remmie’s flesh. He was the reason why Kyle was in the condition he was. She thought of her kind words to Bosco, the things she did with him, to him, that she’d trusted him. And every breath of Kyle’s reek echoed his frail state, inflating her guilt. She wiped her eyes and looked at Rachael in the rearview mirror.

  “You really care for Kyle,” Rachael said. “That’s a gift and you have to treat it like a gift. Call it fate, luck, whatever. Take care of it.”

  “You act like we have a future.”

  “You have Malclenersy. You remember Mr. Sands proposition—he’s a patient man and more generous than you realize. You’ll have the opportunity to get your lives back.”

  “Ge
nerous? He’s psycho, like Bosco.”

  “Don’t let anger define you, control—”

  “You’re lecturing me on anger? And anger is not what’s driving me right now, it’s the need to make sure my friend lives to see tomorrow, and to stop you and everyone like you from destroying the world, making them like that eunuch in the back of the van.”

  Remmie saw the top of Kyle’s head in the mirror, and Bosco, the pulpy red bandage where his upper lip once was. She wished she were the one on the floor and that Kyle was driving. Anger did define her, in part. She had never imagined killing another human being in her life until that moment. But she now knew she could do it. She could kill Bosco to save Kyle, Rachael too, if need be.

  Remmie’s tongue felt freeze-dried. “I need some water.”

  Rachael handed her an open bottle. Remmie gulped it down and Rachael reached and rubbed Remmie’s shoulder. Remmie jerked away.

  “Please relax,” Rachael said.

  “When I know Kyle will be okay, then I’ll relax.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  VICTOR’S GAZE TRACED the links of the chain that shackled his feet. He thought of the evening he had first approached Kyle, starting the latest chain of events in his paranoid life’s journey. He remembered a brief urge to flee, on that night, to live on in apathy and ignore the plague he believed had infected humanity.

  He wiggled his feet and moisture blurred his vision. His actions had redefined those closest to him. He had given them their disease, for we are all the disease of each other.

  Memories, did they ever leave us? For even if the events they recorded were no longer accessible to the conscious mind, the way in which they shaped us remained. Victor pondered what control really meant. Did our flesh constitute a genuine piece of what we were, beyond its role as an interface with physical reality? Or could we be whittled down to information that would still be us, wherever it happened to be? Yet we continuously changed, because of our flesh, a growing of information, a process that continued until our bodies expired.

  Would control simply filter that information by altering our physical interface?