Scarla (9 page)

Harris cleared his throat. “He’s high up. It’s a bad sign that he’s here, you’d normally never know he existed. A guy like Smith only shows up in worst case scenario.”

Facil didn’t miss a beat. “What’s worst case scenario?”

The color seemed to drain from Harris’ face.
Or maybe it was the overhead light.

“A fast-moving virus that gloms onto any host with a heartbeat. I haven’t even found a way to slow it, it adapts and morphs, immunizes against everything I’ve tried. It’s a steamroller.”

“So are we talking about the mother of all STD’s, or what?”

Harris eyed the hanging woman, shook his head. “Technically, it’s not sexually
transmitted.
I’ve looked at every possible link and I just can’t trace it to
any
external source. It seems to be self-generating in the primer pheromones.”

“Are you saying it can’t be stopped?”

Harris balked, speechless for maybe the first time ever.

Facil continued. “What’s Smith’s plan?”

Harris rolled his eyes. “He can’t
do
anything. Not if we have no answers at ground zero, man, and I’ve got nothing. I know
what’s
happening, I don’t know
why
.” Deep breath. “Those teeth. Where did you get them?”

Facil paused, thinking. Where
did
they come from? Were they souvenirs from Overlook Drive, or elsewhere? He decided not to think too much about it. “Leftovers from some trouble last night. Did you get a look at them?” He glanced at the piranha on the computer screen again.

Harris didn’t mince words. “They’re piranha teeth. But they came from someone’s mouth, right?” He waited for the answer. Facil nodded. Harris lifted the hanging woman’s arm, showing clawed fingers. “DNA tests tell us this is Marlene Schneider, but these nails are wolverine.” He pried her lips apart with his fingers, revealing sharp teeth. “Dental records don’t match Marlene Schneider, this grill is Canis lupus. Wolf teeth. That’s three completely different
species
in one host.”

Facil kept firing, figuring he’d have plenty of time to ponder in his jail cell. “The pill.”

Harris saw the cops fidgeting by the elevator, sensed the time constraint, came back fast. “What about it?”

“Is it addictive?”

Harris scoffed. “
I’m
not the person to ask.”

Facil stepped even closer. “Explain what it does.
Exactly
what it does.”

Michael Glissberg clutched his chair arms with white knuckles, eyes shut tight as Scarla poured gasoline over his head. She dropped the can, letting it chug through the carpet into the hallway’s hardwood floor. She squeezed his hands tight and stared hard, their noses almost touching. He was shaking badly.
“Open your eyes.”
He refused. She head-butted him, broke his nose. Blood poured down his shirt.

“Oh, God!” he wailed.

She’d grown sick of the wimpy routine. He’d been such a coolly detached, controlling presence over the intercom, the reality was more than a little disappointing. He was crying. It made her hate rage like a brushfire. She smacked him in the face. He pursed his lips and shuddered, snot running from his nose, still refusing to look. She raised her fist, fighting the urge to rip his bouncing adam’s apple from his throat.

“You were pretty cool on your intercom, I was looking forward to meeting you.” He wiped the gas away with his sleeve, eyes fluttering open, filled with watery dread. She waited for him to speak. Maybe he was pissed and would surprise her with a great quote in the face of death.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name …”
Fucking dogma.
His voice was shrill, unrecognizable as the one smoothly delivering disembodied commands just hours ago. It wasn’t even going to be a fight. She turned away, bringing out a pack of smokes as he continued praying. “… thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven …”

She drew a Red, flipped her lighter open. He fell silent.

She smirked, looked back. His eyes were wide. She teased the flame. “Go on, I don’t know that one. I wanna hear the rest.” Instead, he did the most predictable thing a rich guy could do. He bribed her.

“I have money. Anything you want. Just name it.”

That
really
pissed her off. She motioned behind him to the end of the hall, the missing balusters giving way to the long drop into the foyer. He didn’t look. “You probably watched the header that kid took. Nasty, but y’know, he died on impact. You could break your neck,” she snapped her fingers, “and lights out. You could break your neck,” she shrugged, “and go quadri instead of para. Guess it all depends how you land.” She struck the lighter and a golden flame jumped. “How fast can that chair go?” She lit her cigarette, taking a long drag, listening to it crackle. Glissberg floored his chair, whirring as fast as he could to the drop-off. She let him almost get there, surprised at the shot of life he got from his choices of death, before dropping her cigarette on the gas-soaked floor. Flames sprang after him quickly. She watched his face as the fire dogged him, first closing the gap, then licking at his useless heels, and finally overtaking him as he reached the edge. For an instant, their eyes locked. His—wild and resigned at once. Hers—indifferent and empty in hollow revenge. He shrieked as he was engulfed, then dropped backwards off the edge and was gone. It was strangely silent as he fell. She watched a warm glow light up the foyer wall. The moment seemed oddly prolonged, until his chair exploded on the marble. The only noise after that was the crackling of flames.

The fire rose higher in the hallway, licking the wall art. Scarla looked down, saw the wheelchair in pieces and Michael Glissberg’s body lying still, contorted, burning. From her overhead vantage point, she could smell the cooking flesh.
Guess he landed right.
Her phone vibrated, she dug it out, eyed the screen. A message from Face. She knew right away something was wrong. She threaded the corpses, heading for the basement emergency room. There were some things she wanted down there. Upstairs, fire swallowed the hallway and began snaking into the bedrooms.

* * * *

Scarla emerged from the house with no expression, carrying scalpels, syringes, med bottles. Fire raged from the upper windows and had begun nipping the roof. She jumped in the van, turned the key, glanced back at the real Veronica—lying on the floor, limbs and mouth duct-taped, eyes darting fearfully. She’d be left curbside downtown, unharmed, and if she made enough racket when parking enforcement came to write the ticket, she’d be freed to rejoin her four kids in their third floor walk-up nearby. Death might’ve been the better option, but it wasn’t coming for her yet. The van sped down the driveway, tires squealing, black smoke billowing into the blue sky.

“First let me ask, what do
you
know about that pill?”

Facil didn’t like his tone, but played along anyway. “It’s an amphetamine derivative, a sensory heightener to sharpen reflexes.”

Harris’ brow furrowed. “But you have doubts.”

Facil’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“Should I?”

Harris stared, unreadable. “I think the answer’s in your question.”

Facil didn’t appreciate the run-around. “What
is
it then?”

Harris spoke fast. “You’re partially correct, but different things are happening as the ingredients release into the bloodstream. It’s essentially a speedball. I set a high-level amphetamine into an atenolol base to cap stimulation so it doesn’t pop the user’s head like a grape, for starters. There’s also a female libido enhancer I’ve been fooling around with, experimental in every sense of the word, and as far as I know it doesn’t exist anywhere in the world. Don’t ask me what the side effects are because I have no idea. Has the test subject reported any problems?”

Facil frowned. “What test subject?”

Harris was matter-of-fact. “Scarla Fragran.”

Facil was taken back. “How do you know her name?”

Harris scoffed. “
Duh.
I had to know exactly who that strange brew was for. I shadowed her lab work, EKGs, MRIs, gynos, you name it. She was under a physiological microscope before I ever
started
working on that pill.”

“So, it’s safe?”

“Depends what you mean by
safe
.”

Facil lost patience, clenched a fist in Harris’ face.
“Is it safe for her to take?”

“It’s kept her alive so far, right?” As if that was reassuring.

Facil seethed. “Is that a
yes?
”

Silence. Carmichael cleared his throat by the elevator, got their attention. He nodded at Facil to wrap it up, but his eyes were
asking
, not
telling.
They disregarded him.

Harris deviated. “When I was brought in last year, it was under the auspices of studying Landon Caulner. I wasn’t given a timeframe. When he, uh,
died,
I went to work on the body, every fiber, every cell, every angle I could
think
of, to pin down a cause. After a couple weeks, Rattan told me the department was using an undercover street op. He also said she wouldn’t last the month, so I’d never be briefed on her, meet her, or even know her name. He wanted me to engineer a very specific drug for her to guinea pig, since she wasn’t expected to live very long. It was a violation of ethics and I flat-out refused. Rattan eventually caved and gave me her file, along with two new bodies.” Pause. “I
knew
her. I was at one of her title fights in Long Beach, about ten years ago. I thought,
goddamn, that girl hits like a truck!
” Then, picking up the thread. “Listen, I take no issue with experimental medicine. I’ve worked in it before, for the government and the private sector. What I
won’t
do is supply someone with serious and untested neurological stimulants or inhibitors without a withdrawal plan.” He took a deep breath. “An
out
clause.”

Facil’s voice was quiet, measured. “What’s the out clause?”

Harris gulped, shrugged, brow jumping when he spoke.
“Death.”
Facil grabbed him by the lapels. “I
swear
it was unavoidable, LeTour! Rattan was right, whoever took that job was nothing more than a sacrificial lamb! We learned what we could from Caulner, but he’s
dead
and the trail ends there, the only logical step was
another
living subject! With Fragran, we could kill two birds with one stone! For all we knew, she’d already been
exposed
, she was his
wife!
We could either lose
one person
to research or a
whole city
to inaction! The entire
human race
is at risk!”

Carmichael and DiCenzo exchanged looks, moved in.

Facil hissed through clenched teeth. “What
else
is in the pill?”

Harris waited until the rookies were within arm’s reach. “Cartilage.”

Carmichael tapped Facil’s shoulder. “Time’s up.”

Facil ignored him.
“Cartilage from what?”

Harris eyed the cops, spilled the beans. “From Landon Caulner, at first.” Facil’s eyes went cold. “I processed the last of him a couple months ago, since then I’ve culled from subjects.
Her
victims. In theory, her heart rate should remain stabilized at a level too low to support any transformation, but as her system absorbs more and more of the new cells over time, the wild card is
when,
not
if,
she’ll turn.”

Silence. Facil laughed out of reflex, then choked Harris until the rookies took him down, all four men landing in a heap on the floor. Carmichael cuffed Facil’s wrist and ate an elbow to the jaw. DiCenzo drew his taser, shot Facil in the chest. Facil seized, fell limp. Harris scrambled away, crawling under his desk. Carmichael drove a knee into Facil’s back, secured the cuffs. DiCenzo sheathed his taser, helped haul Facil to his feet. “Someday, I hope you’ll let me buy you a beer for this, Lieutenant.” Carmichael spit blood as they made for the elevator.

Harris watched them go. “I’m sorry, LeTour,” he called.
“I’m sorry.”

* * * *

Scarla popped another pill, standing nude in the bathroom mirror, studying the stitches in her unwrapped wrist. She thought of those stupid zombie movies and the infected bite idea, seeing it for the pure lazy fiction it was. She fingered the faint vaccination scar just above her bicep. Facil’s message said it was in there, and he wouldn’t lie.
Would he? No, he wouldn’t
lie
. He just keeps secrets.
She climbed in the shower, hung her head under the water. It felt nice. Everything felt nice. She closed her eyes, realizing her heart was pounding in her chest, but not in a bad way. She stood swaying for awhile before lifting the chrome shower nozzle off its mount, lowering it between her legs. A tingle shot up her spine, popping in the base of her skull and raining back down through every cell in her body. It felt incredible as she held the spray to her clit.

* * * *

The holding cell was eerily quiet, considering its head count. Facil sat on a bench, hands in his lap, back against the wall. He watched the floor while two dozen pairs of eyes watched him. Overnight in population. Rattan wasn’t doing him any favors. The thought occurred that maybe it was easier to shank him into retirement than to let him ride into the sunset. Ride into the sunset, you might one day ride back. But get laid six feet under, game’s over. Facil knew Rattan didn’t like skeletons in his closet, he’d sooner burn the house down. Lately, he had one hell of a pile of bones stacking up. Something had to give, and Facil’s head was first on the chopping block. He wondered if Scarla got his message, if she was alright. But he knew she wasn’t. He knew she’d never be alright again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the big ugly tattooed motherfucker finally stand up. The vato’s name was Lupe Garza, but he was dubbed
Pirado
by his gang, the 41st Street Diablos. They shared a long history on opposing teams. Back when Facil worked the beat, and Garza was still a juvenile offender, they had countless run-ins. Garza had since grown up and was headed for three strikes, but the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. “Policía maricón!” Pirado bellowed. Facil heard snickering, restless shifting, but didn’t react. They’d all been waiting for it to jump off. He looked up, saw Pirado’s new black handprint chest tattoo—full-fledged Mexican mafia—and sighed.