“So I could get my goddam gun!” she screeched from the floor.
“Stand her up!” Hilliard ordered. Two soldiers scooped her from the concrete floor and lifted her to a standing position.
She tried to blow a strand of hair from her face and straighten her stance, resuming her air of grace and confidence as best she could under the circumstances. “I needed my gun.”
“But why?” Andre asked, his mind unable to accept what was happening.
She cocked her shoulders back and squared her jaw. “He was screwing my personal assistant.” Her eyes darted to a filthy blonde in another cell. Even through the blood, bodily fluids, and fecal matter smeared on the walls, it was obvious she had once been attractive.
“Who is this man to you?” Carol asked.
“He was my husband,” she stated flatly. She glanced to his still form and smiled. “Consider that a divorce.”
“Get her the hell out of here!” Hilliard barked. He turned an angry eye to Broussard. “Tell me this cure of yours works,” he dared the man.
Broussard’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. Carol stepped between the two men and gently pushed the general back. “Sir, with all due respect, we can’t foresee the state of mind these people will be in once they’re treated.” She finally got his attention and he looked down at her, his eyes unyielding.
“So they could all be batshit crazy like this one.”
Carol gave him her best answer. “We can’t know. That’s why we need to study them before we treat the others.” His eyes widened and she quickly added. “At least then we’ll know if there has been any permanent brain damage.” She held her hands up in surrender. “Right now, it’s the best we can do.”
Hilliard took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We have a problem then.” His voice was soft and low and the tone scared the two researchers more than if he’d been yelling.
“What’s that?” Broussard asked, unsure if he really wanted to know.
Hilliard met their gaze and his face fell. “General Green may have…‘jumped the gun.’” He stepped back and swiped a heavily calloused hand across his face. “He informed the president that you had found the cure,” he turned and gave them a knowing look, “so you can imagine who wants to be here when his vice president and best friend wakes up.”
“Oh no,” Carol groaned. She looked to Andre. “We bring the woman back and secure her. Surely somebody has some psychiatric training. Maybe we can determine—”
“NEGATIVE!” Hilliard responded. “That woman is a threat and will be dealt with accordingly.”
“Surely you don’t plan—”
“She will be dealt with…accordingly,” Hilliard stated slowly. He looked back to Broussard. “You have less than seventy-two hours to make your determination. After that, all bets are off.”
Simon turned and stared down the hill towards the roadblock. “I know this is a trap.”
“It would have been,” Trent replied.
Simon stiffened and tightened his grip on the pistol. “So, you lied to the idiots.”
“Of course,” Trent replied. “How about you give me your gun.”
Simon shook his head. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” He took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves. “In the immortal words of Charlton Heston…from my cold, dead hands.”
“Deal.”
The two men’s eyes locked, and although Trent was easily twice his size, Simon knew that he had a reputation amongst the bikers. Those who remembered him knew that he was a cold blooded, thrill seeking hedonist. He was certain that the stories about him had been embellished over time. Probably to the point that he was somewhat of a legend in certain parts.
Simon pushed what little fear he had deep down inside and stared at Trent. He felt a cold smile begin to form, and in the moonlight he caught the glint of a sweat bead that ran down the side of the man’s face. He took that as a tell and stepped back.
“Okay. You win.” He held the gun to the side and opened his grip, letting it fall to the dried pine needles below.
Trent’s face showed obvious relief, even in the shadows. “Kick it to me.”
Simon knew exactly what he was doing. He watched as Trent’s eyes slid down to his boots and as Simon toed the pistol between them, his hand slid to his lower back, and he gripped the razor sharp Bowie knife.
As Trent began to bend for the pistol, Simon deftly slid the blade from its leather sheath and plunged it to the hilt into Trent’s liver. His other hand shot out and gripped the man’s wrist, holding the pistol barrel away from himself.
As Trent’s body reacted to the shock and pain, his grip instinctively tightened, firing the pistol into the night sky.
The two men danced a slow waltz of death as Simon straightened his arm and put his full body weight on the blade, slicing Trent from sternum to belt buckle.
Trent’s immense size pushed the two of them forward and down the hill slope. Simon felt his wounded arm losing its grip and his feet slipped in the pine needles below them. He fell to his back with Trent coming down on top of him.
Simon opened his eyes and saw Trent’s face hovering above his own. His mouth registering surprise, frozen in a silent scream. Simon stared into his eyes and saw the fear radiating from them like the light from a flickering bulb.
In that brief moment, it was as if their two minds were locked together. Trent knew that he was dead, and he feared what waited in the great beyond. He feared being judged for all his misdeeds; most of all he feared that the evils he had committed on others were waiting for him on the other side of the veil.
Simon continued to stare into Trent’s eyes until the spark of life left him and the man’s head collapsed onto his chest. He
