Dawn of the Mad (25 page)

“Good. I’ll get you the rest of the specs and a phone number for the weapons. You know the way out.”

Cyrus set down his glass, walked to the door, opened it, and paused. He turned around and asked, “Why do you do all this? I mean, you’re about to croak. No offense.”

“None taken,” Dean said as he started to cough. He grabbed his oxygen mask and inhaled deeply from it, and replaced it over his shoulder. “I do it because I have nothing else to do. It excites me, and it keeps me busy.”

“Yeah, whatever, man. See you around.”

CHAPTER 23

After the black Mercedes E350 sedan passed through the gate of the underground parking garage, Dr. Keitel hit the button on the small transmitter again, closing the gates behind him. He replaced the transmitter in the glove box, closing the little door. He had been through here three times already. The first time was with his unwilling hostage, whom he had abducted earlier from the county coroner’s office. After a brief moment of intense persuasion, the hostage had led him to his loft apartment, in the small downtown building above this garage. The underground parking garage was excellent for concealment.

On a second trip, Dr. Keitel removed his salvaged equipment from the shipping container and transported it here. The crash site was becoming too dangerous, and it was too risky with the attention his patient was bringing. The solution was having a side effect he had not counted on: Its properties could transfer from the host to another body, and the effects were similar.

His third trip, just ending, was the most rewarding, as he finally recovered his patient, and just in time. While he was driving to the apartment, he kept looking into the back seat. What he saw was not very promising. The solution’s effects were indeed short term, and he needed to find out why.

The doctor quickly pulled into the parking space assigned to his hostage and the Mercedes. He parked without a problem; there was nothing complex about operating the vehicle, and he had mastered it within minutes. He exited the vehicle and scanned the garage. It contained only three other vehicles. He quickly opened the driver’s side rear door, grabbed his patient by the arm, and pulled. He arose slowly, with difficulty, and did not protest or struggle. The unlikely duo slowly made their way into the elevator. Dr. Keitel used his hostage’s key card and activated the lift by swiping it in a card reader. He pressed the number for the third floor and within a few seconds, the doors opened. He put his shoulder under his patient’s arm and guided him down the hall to the apartment. Using the key card once again, he opened the door and entered.

“I must work quickly,” Dr. Keitel told his semiconscious patient. “Yes, you have sustained much damage. There is so much for you to learn, especially about protecting yourself. If only you wouldn’t have taken off on your own.” Dr. Keitel helped his patient onto the island in the spacious kitchen and had him lie on his back. He opened his patient’s perforated leather jacket and began making an assessment.

“The rate of healing has slowed; there are multiple wounds consistent with a small-caliber projectile weapon. Yes, yes. Oh my.” Dr. Keitel stopped as he examined the metallic port in the lower abdominal area. “The waste port is damaged; most likely one of these projectiles hit it at an angle. It is folded shut. No wonder you’re beginning to overheat. You can’t dissipate heat fast enough.”

Dr. Keitel put on a pair of surgical latex gloves he had found in a box in the apartment. He wiped away some of the black blood that had begun to seep from the damaged port in the abdominal area. He retrieved a large clamp from one of his cases, along with a simple pair of pliers. Holding one tool in each hand, and with each attached to a different part of the waste port, he pulled and grunted until the port opened. Satisfied, he replaced the tools and removed a surgical kit from one of his cases. Some of the lacerations were deep, and he stitched up those. Once that was complete, he loaded a syringe from a bottle of the pink solution. He was about to inject it into his patient’s arm when he noticed bruising and a distinctive puncture mark at the bend of the elbow.

“Curious. He must have tried to self-administer something.” He shrugged and inserted the needle into the black vein. Depressing the plunger, he watched all of the pink liquid disappear into his patient’s arm. He placed the syringe on the counter behind him and began to check for any other physical signs of damage. Seeing none, he sighed and pulled off the surgical gloves. He opened another case which had a small computer terminal and a coiled hose apparatus. He switched on the computer and connected the hose to the newly repaired exhaust port. The computer terminal initiated a diagnostic check of the implanted organs and tissue. Seeing that the check would take some time, he poured himself a cup coffee and walked into an adjacent room, most likely a study, as it was lined with numerous books on various subjects. His hostage was sitting in a black leather office chair, his hands and feet duct taped. He still wore his surgical scrubs, which were now soaked in blood. His throat had been cut from left to right, with the blood pooling on the floor underneath the chair. His head was slumped forward, his chin resting against his chest. Dr. Keitel briefly thought he may have been overzealous in killing his captive so soon, but he quickly reassured himself. He had acquired what he needed from the man, and he did not need any more witnesses. He reached for a stereo receiver and hit the play button. Turning up the volume, he smiled as he sipped his coffee with Beethoven’s Symphony Number 5 in C Minor reverberating throughout the apartment.

“Feeling better?”

It took a moment for the patient to process the question. After a moment, he understood. Yes, he was feeling better, much better. He wearily opened his eyes. He felt cool, actually very comfortable. He sat up and looked around, immediately realizing he was in a tub filled with water. His jacket and pants had been removed, leaving him feeling vulnerable. He stood up with ease, chilled water running off his body and down into the tub.

“Take this and dry yourself off. When you’re finished, I have much to tell you. Your clothes have been cleaned and are here for you. I couldn’t find anything here for you to wear. The previous owner wasn’t very large in stature.”

The patient watched the man, whom he remembered from earlier, depart the bathroom. The man had saved him, that much he remembered. His body was nearly healed; most of the lacerations had healed themselves or were covered with adhesive bandages. He looked in the mirror and noticed the patchwork of black veins snaking across his chest and down his arms. Grabbing the towel, he dried off and quickly put the jeans and leather jacket back on. Most of the blood and other stains had been cleaned off. He walked through the main living area of the apartment and into the kitchen, where he sat down in a chair that was pulled out from the table.

“I hope you recognize me now. I am Dr. Keitel. I have been working on you for quite some time. Do you remember me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I am preparing a field kit for you. Show me your arm.”

He obeyed, retracting the sleeve of his jacket, exposing his pale forearm. Dr. Keitel secured the end of a strip of duct tape to his patient’s arm and pressed a syringe filled with pink solution against the forearm, parallel to it. He pulled the tape across the syringe and pressed it down on the skin on the other side. He placed two more syringes against the forearm and secured them similarly with the same length of tape. He wrapped that section of arm, holding the three syringes, running the tape twice around the arm. Satisfied, he pulled the jacket sleeve down.

“That’s in case you get into trouble again. Take a syringe and plunge it anywhere on your body. Once the solution wears off, I think that is when the blood lust begins and you lose control. I apologize for the cold bath, but ice helps bring your core temperature down to manageable levels in an emergency. You were overheating because the port was broken, but it’s repaired for now. As long as you keep your core body temperature down, you should be ok. Otherwise your body will begin to shut down and you will die eventually. Your brain is the key. You have been generating entirely too much heat, and your body cannot regulate it fast enough. While you were unconscious, I took some blood, and somehow a synthetic opioid got into your system, something similar to what I would prescribe for pain. I must implore you to inject only the solution into your body—nothing else. Any outside substance you introduce can amplify the effects of hyperthermia, leading to brain tissue destruction.”

He sat there trying to remember something—anything. The events of the past kept coming to him in gaps while he was unconscious. He remembered fighting in a war, in different places, and he also remembered being shot multiple times and feeling almost no pain. It dawned on him that he was extraordinarily powerful, but with limitations. His body could endure only so much … and he was tired no longer.

“You’re not saying much,” Dr. Keitel commented. He sat down across from his patient, sipping on a cup of coffee. “I have a plan.” He took another sip, carefully eyeing the other man, who sat passively, black eyes unblinking. “We are going to create an army of followers, but we need to do it the right way. Your methods, while instinctive, are creating too much attention. Once you are at 100%, we will proceed.”

“An army,” the words escaped his dry, chapped lips, “that I can lead once more.”

Dr. Keitel smiled and set his coffee cup on the table. “Yes, you will once more lead an army on the field of battle. With my help, you will be unstoppable.”

The black Mercedes pulled into the parking lot of a T&A Truck Stop, just off of the interstate. Dr. Keitel drove the vehicle into a parking spot, halted the car, and placed it in park. Across the road was a large, nondescript wooden building, but what was behind it, nestled inside a gated compound, intrigued the doctor the most. The smaller, one-story building held a faded, hand-painted sign reading “Dean’s Automotive and Body Shop.” Even at first glance, it didn’t seem like much of an automotive shop. A large party appeared to be taking place inside, and loud music blasted out whenever the front doors were opened. A long line of motorcycles of various makes and models fronted the building, and a few pickup trucks were parked haphazardly in the dirt lot.

“This might be a good place to try,” Dr. Keitel said to his passenger. “The city is getting too dangerous, with the police attention. Go in there and see what you can do. We need soldiers. I’ll be close by.”

With a grunt, the passenger exited the car, closing the door behind him. Dr. Keitel backed the Mercedes out of its spot and left the lot rapidly. His passenger walked purposefully across the street, anticipating a battle. He was ready.

Two bikers, each drinking a bottle of Lone Star beer, looked at the strange man walking through the front door, and one commented “Get a load of this fucker.” The man, built with a solid frame and wearing a brown motorcycle jacket marked with numerous holes, entered the smoke-filled, crowded bar. The jacket was unzipped, and he was bare-chested beneath it. His jeans, torn in several places, featured numerous stains that appeared to be blood.