Chapter 29
His name is Winston, and he’s the brains behind Project Phoenix.
How do I know that? While two of his goons return to the SUV, driving off who knows where, the man with the black eyes and red tie instructs the other three to grab each one of us by the nape of the neck, herding us to the NRI building.
The glass doors open, as though they recognize the men, and we’re marched inside a lab that is sterile and clean, yet smells like caramel.
Not burnt sugar. Not like the rot of a lurker, but close enough.
Because that’s what they are. Lurkers who have their wits about them. Lurkers who can talk, who can go out in the sunlight, who can control their hunger. Oh, they get all of the upside. They’re fast. They’re strong.
They’re indestructible.
Because that’s what the Injection was meant to do. What the scientists who worked for the NRI had spent years working on.
Project Phoenix. A state-of-the-art medication that, like the National Resilience Institute was instructed by the US government to create, was designed to turn ordinary Americans into superhumans.
Or, as Winston explained after he led us into an empty office, forced us into three of the four visitor chairs before taking the one behind the expensive-looking desk, it was meant to make us, “The perfect blend of human and monster. Strong enough to withstand anything, powerful enough to conquer any who oppose us, and as close to immortal as we can be. Like the phoenix, we would rise up from the ashes of a world on fire and then our administration would rule it.”
Fuck that.
I’ve always hated the government. Not like I’m an anarchist or anything.
I just don’t believe that, even in the before times, they did enough to help us ordinary people.
Hearing that they planned the Injection, that they were trying to turn the American population into some kind of supersoldiers…
yeah. That doesn’t sit right with me at all.
And that’s not even counting that they obviously failed somewhere. Project Phoenix was Project Fuck-up as far as I’m concerned, but I know better than to interject. It’s probably not a good sign that Winston is offering us all of this information unprompted.
Maybe it’s because he thinks highly of himself and this project and just wants to show off.
Or maybe—
“The first trials were done on volunteers in the NRI. As you can see,” he says, gesturing at himself, “they were a success. Apart from a newfound intolerance of the sun and bright lights, Project Phoenix did what it was supposed to do.”
Then, in case we need any other evidence of how fucking amazing Winston is, he rises from his chair, bends down behind his desk, and, with one hand, lifts the whole damn thing two feet off the ground.
That looks like mahogany to me. That sucker’s gotta weigh close to four hundred pounds and he’s holding it with one hand.
Message received. As if one of the other goons snapping Mav’s forearm like a twig wasn’t proof enough of how impossibly strong they are…
“In case it didn’t, some of our finest minds had a backup plan,” Winston says, setting the desk back down on the floor.
“Unfortunately, the antidote wasn’t… let’s say, perfected.
” Again, he gestures toward his face, drawing attention to the shades that the agents wear even indoors.
“By the time we worked out the bugs on that, the president had insisted that we push through the most recent batch of PP-56”—the Injection, I’m betting—“that was unfortunately… tainted. A sad mistake. When it was designed to go into effect, it… turned.”
No, asshole. It Turned.
There’s that rage bubbling up inside of me.
I couldn’t give a fuck about the sunglasses-wearing prick standing behind me.
I know he was ordered to keep his hand on my neck during our march to the NRI because it would take a twitch of his damn pinkie to snap it.
The threat was real. They had us, and we had no choice but to go with them.
He could kill me now. Considering Winston had gone to great trouble to capture us before we could blow up their building—almost as if he knew or suspected something like that could happen as we approached the NRI—he has to have a reason.
Add that to how he’s still giving us all of this information like a villain monologuing…
either I’m safe or I’m dead either way, and I might as well let out some of my rage before it burns a hole in my gut.
“Because of your tainted medicine? Because your stupid fucking president”—who made a big display of taking the Injection on TV, one of the first to do it, and who inevitably became one of the first lurkers to Turn…
though, I remember, the white house kept that under wraps until their commander-in-chief chowed down on his press secretary in front of TV cameras and there was no one left to create the spin for him—“released an untested medication to thirty percent of the population? Millions of people died that day!”
The lurkers have decimated America for a half-assed science project?
“Yes,” Winston says, and there isn’t a hint of emotion in his pale face.
No shame. No regret. “The antidotes were too late to save many. And… well… a cage didn’t work to contain certain indispensable individuals as it should have.
That will have to be adjusted for the next phase of Project Phoenix. ”
“Next phase?”
Next phase?
He nods, seemingly bored—and I loathe him.
I loathe every fucking monster who had a hand in this.
For what? Fame? Power? Profits?
The powerful men and women at the top of the food chain played with our lives and basically ruined them.
Knowing now that the president was kept in a cage after his Turning by men like Winston—men who were strong enough to contain him, then failed, leading to the rest of the world discovering that the president was a lurker…
and withdrawing any help they had offered us—doesn’t make me feel any better.
Good people died, too, and I will never forgive anyone who put this into motion.
“Fuck you.”
“Pardon?”
A pair of chilled fingers pinch my neck. I don’t care. Way I see it, we’re dead anyway. “I said—”
“So what happens now?” That’s Chase. As always, he’s my knight in shining armor, rushing to my rescue. “Are you going to let us go?”
He might be wearing shades, but there’s no denying the scrutinizing look that Winston gives Chase, almost like he’s peering through a microscope at an unusual creature. “You won’t be allowed to leave New York.”
“So… what? We’re just staying here now?”
“Oh? Did I give you that impression? I’m sorry. Of course you won’t be staying here.”
The goon responsible for Maverick raises his hand; no reason to watch the cop closely considering he’s gone silent, sagging in his seat, completely out of it since we were caught by his enemies before he could exact his revenge. No help from him, though I do feel a little bad.
If being snagged by these assholes is bad for me and Chase, it must be hell for Maverick—especially after they snapped his arm, leaving him cradling it against his chest.
Winston nods at the other agent, gesturing for him to come closer. As the other man leans in and whispers in his boss’s ear, Winston listens and continues to nod.
“I stand corrected. I guess you could say that this facility is your new home. You see, I lead the project, but I’m not in charge of any of the science behind it.
That’s above my pay grade, and I just follow orders from those left to give them.
In this case, that’s the Doctor. Seems like we’re in need of test subjects for further trials for the next phase of the project. You three will do nicely.“
Winston rises up, planting his hands against the desktop. “We’re done here,” he says, addressing our new bodyguards. “Take them away.”
They don’t shackle us or handcuff us the way that Darryl did, but with six more suit-wearing lurkers coming out of the woodworks, flanking us on each side as they lead us underground, I admit that there’s no point in running.
There’s nowhere for us to run to.
They take us down the emergency stairwells. Each level is gloomy and dark, carrying that same sickly sweet smell with it. It’s the perfect amount of light to keep these almost-lurkers from wincing, though they all keep their sunglasses on as we’re herded down so many flights, I lose count.
My head is spinning. They’ve moved their formation so that there is at least one agent standing between the three of us. If we try to speak, the one in the back barks at us to keep quiet. I can’t say anything to either Maverick or Chase, and that includes any plotting for an escape.
Even hand signals are out. I twitched my finger once, and the agent directly behind me said that if I did it again, he’d break it. Bastard. I already have a broken pointer finger on my right hand. I don’t need another one.
Still, I hold out hope that we can get out of this mess before they turn us into a trio of human guinea pigs—hope that lasts until they march us in front of a glass door, pull it open, wait for us to go in, and slam it shut.
I don’t need to hear the lock turning to know what this is.
It’s a cell.
The three of us share a small room around the size of Stacey Finch’s bedroom back in the Grave.
A small stainless steel toilet is in one corner, an even smaller sink perched over it.
Two narrow cots—twin-sized if we’re lucky—are lined up against the furthest wall, a small gap between them, making the setup look like an equal sign.
No blankets, only a sterile white sheet and a single creased pillow.
A pair of video cameras are positioned in opposite corners. Two of the walls are made of solid grey cinderblock. The third has a white door built into it that is across from the door we entered in through on the fourth wall.