He tugged at his collar and glanced over at Dr. Livingston. The doctor had his nose buried in his notes, showing no sign of discomfort. A tarnished silver ring with a milky white stone wrapped around his right ring finger, the ridges in the band almost appearing as eight thin legs. The only embellishment the doctor ever wore.
The general licked his lips and gazed at the single decoration the forty-minute ride offered—two unmarked buttons on the control panel. For the hundredth time that hour, he fantasized about sitting. Years of military service had not been good to his knees.
How the hell did the old codger manage to stand the entire time?
The minutes dragged on with only the occasional page turn to break up the monotony. They should have decommissioned Epsilon-8 after neutralizing the Finder in 1987 in Slovakia. The site was a waste of taxpayer money. Dr. Livingston had brushed his concerns aside for the last decade, always ranting about anomalous readings from space or some other irrelevant bullshit. Imagine being so useless you resorted to raving about aliens to avoid being shut down. Not their program, mind you—their research was invaluable to combating America’s enemies—just the site.
Lambda-3 had opened up recently, if he recalled correctly. They could move the entire operation to the new site within the week. General Braxton eyed the scientist. Dr. Livingston couldn’t escape him now. Maybe he could finally make the bonehead see why an insulated, underground base in the middle of nowhere wasn’t efficient for anyone’s time, especially his.
General Braxton opened his mouth.
Dr. Livingston, eyes never leaving his papers, interrupted before the general could speak. “Do us both a favor, General, and keep whatever ruminations you are experiencing to yourself. I doubt there exists a modicum of insight in that thick skull of yours that I haven’t already considered.”
The general gritted his teeth and imagined cracking the doctor’s skull. Decades of service, dozens of tours, more accolades than most generals a decade older—even so, the bastard dared talk to him like he was gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. This was why he hated organizations that operated outside the chain of command. They thought themselves above him. All they did was hide away in their bunkers and research—and on children no less.
Monsters, the lot of them.
General Braxton inhaled through his nose and turned away from the eyesore. Just ten more minutes. He wouldn’t have to deal with the prick again after that.
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The vibrations built to a crescendo before fading to a near-imperceptible hum, signaling they had arrived. The doors opened, and stale air with a hint of chemicals blasted in from the lab as the elevator repressurized. Dr. Livingston strode down the hall without a word.
General Braxton followed, glaring daggers at the doctor’s back. He just needed to grab the weapon. Then he could leave. Down several branching hallways, they entered a room crammed with books and whiteboards covered in technical jargon.
Dr. Hanley sat in the corner, dressed in a navy-blue skirt and an off-white blouse, holding a glass of wine.
“Alphonse, you’re back! Did you get approval for—” She glanced at Dr. Livingston before offering the general a strained smile. “General. What brings you here?”
General Braxton’s gaze lingered on Dr. Hanley, and he smiled. If she had done her makeup, worn tighter clothes, and ditched her glasses, she would have been quite the looker despite her crow’s feet and bookish appearance.
The general opened his mouth to speak, but again Dr. Livingston cut him off. “The honorable CIA would like the Israeli prime minister to take an unfortunate tumble.” His words dripped with derision. “A compulsion weapon would be optimal. C-318 should perform adequately. The general could then be on his way.” He glanced up from beneath his furrowed brow to give Dr. Hanley a stern look.
“O-Of course. I’ll retrieve C-318 immediately.” Dr. Hanley set her glass down and hurried out the door.
“Don’t forget her file,” Dr. Livingston stated as she rushed past, his nose already buried in his papers again. He readjusted his glasses and turned to leave. “Wait here for her to return.”
If there was one thing General Braxton appreciated about the doctor, it was his efficiency. Less than ten minutes later, he was back in the elevator with the weapon. He opened the file Dr. Hanley had given him.
= = =
Weapon C-318 (Teresa Childs)
Classification: Compulsion
Threat Level: Alpha
Sex: Female
Age: 13
= = =
General Braxton looked at the bone-thin girl in front of him, draped in only a nightgown with a bag over her head.
Threat-level Alpha? They’d given him a dangerous one? And she’s old. How unusual.
He glanced down at the box of pacification drugs the doctors had given him. “Administer every thirty minutes when not in a secure facility.” He flicked the girl on the shoulder, and she didn’t respond. Incredible stuff. Put date rape drugs to shame. He continued reading, familiarizing himself with her skill set.
“Good luck.”
The words blasted into his mind as if someone had turned a TV on behind him.
“What the fuck?” The general covered his ears and ducked, the sudden noise triggering his PTSD. After taking a moment to calm himself, the general looked around for the source, finding the elevator empty. He glanced at the motionless girl a few feet from him. That wasn’t her doing, right? A pop, followed by a wet growl, sounded behind him.
The general turned around.
Two lumps of beach-ball-sized green flesh righted themselves up on gangly green limbs, their long claws clicking against the floor. The two beasts turned and peered at him in unison. A crack on each of their faces split, revealing fang-filled grins too large for their round heads. Definitely not the girl.
“What the fuck are you?”
The creatures leapt. General Braxton pushed the girl to the side and reached for the pistol at his hip.
Pain seared across his chest, and bullets ricocheted between the walls.
Three minutes later, the elevator fell quiet, the faint breathing of a teenage girl barely audible above the hypnotic hum.
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