Authors: William Hutchison
The rock hit ten feet in front Wycoat and then skittered across the pavement.
Wycoat heard it and snapped his head toward the sound.
When he spotted the source, he then turned his head sharply back in line with the rock's
trajectory to see who threw it.Andre was only half way to him when Wycoat spotted him.
"Stop right there, Dr. Kamarov!" Wycoat barked as he pulled his gun.
Andre slowed, but didn't stop until he was only three feet from him. There, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to repeat what he had done to Stearns earlier. But he was too weak from his previous mental gymnastics and all Wycoat felt as Andre focused on his hand was a mild tingling--as if his hand had briefly fallen asleep. It tickled, in fact, and for a split second, Wycoat lowered the barrel and shook the gun to regain feeling in his fingers.
Andre blinked open his eyes and focused on Wycoat to gage his results and saw he didn't have enough strength to break Wycoat's grip on the weapon. But he could tell by the way the barrel dipped slightly, that he had weakened it.
Instantly he sprang forward and with both hands, he grabbed Wycoat's wrist to complete physically what he couldn't accomplish mentally.
As he lunged forward, Debbie saw it might be her only chance for escape.
She struggled against Wycoat's grip, and with one swift wrench of her hand, she managed to break free.
Now Wycoat stood between them.
Andre continued coming forward, but Wycoat was prepared for the charge.
He raised his pistol and aimed it.
Debbie saw the gun and without thinking, turned and used her fingernails as weapons thrusting them directly toward Wycoat's eyes.
Wycoat parried her right hand by batting it aside and, in so doing, moved the gun enough so when it went off, the bullet only grazed Andre's cheek instead of hitting him in the head as he had intended.
Debbie heard the shot, but was already in motion. Her left hand struck home, her thumbnail gouging a jagged furrow in the flesh from the bridge of Wycoat's nose into the corner of his right eye.
When he felt it strike, he instinctively squeezed his eyes shut and snapped his head away to avoid further clawing.
But Wycoat was too slow this time and her nail continued it course, spearing through his eyelid, lancing finally into the soft flesh of his eyeball.
Wycoat dropped his weapon and threw his hands up to his face and then just stood there and began to wail as blood, tears, and fibrous bits of sclera streamed down his cheeks.
Burt, who had begun running toward them the minute the shot was fired, arrived just as Andre brought the butt of the weapon across the side of Wycoat's head, dazing, but not felling him.
Burt raised his own weapon and pointed it at Wycoat to finish what Andre had started.
Debbie saw him and screamed. "No! You're not a murderer, Burt!"
He hesitated. Andre's drug had lost its effectiveness and he felt
the darker side of his personality gaining control. He closed his finger
tighter
on the trigger, ignoring Debbie's pleas.
The hammer clicked back.
CCRRRAAAACCCCKKK------ the gun went off!!!
The 357 hollow-point slug rifled out and ripped into Wycoat's shoulder tearing tendons and bone as it did. Wycoat was flung back three feet with the momentum from the slug and hit the ground with a dull thud.
Burt watched as the agent writhed in pain and finally stepped forward slowly raising the gun and pointing it--this time at Wycoat's head.
"N000000000! Burt!!!!" Debbie screamed as she ran to him and grabbed
his
arm.
t first Burt resisted, but then he stopped.
He shook his head again, trying to free himself from the grasp of the demons within him. He regained control. This time!
But how many more times could he?
Each time it was becoming more and more difficult.
This time his other personality had gained control and he hadn't even linked.
It was happening just like Dr. Jerome had said it would in his report and he was poised on the edge.
Ready to jump.
To fall and never stop falling. And unable to stop!
But stop he did for some reason he didn't even understand, and when he regained momentary control and realized what he was about to do, he threw the gun to the ground and grabbed Debbie in his arms. The minute the gun hit the ground, Walker's rear screeched around the corner three hundred yards away.
Debbie, Burt and Andre looked up simultaneously.
Terror was etched on their faces with the realization that stopping Stearns and Wycoat had not guaranteed their safety. On the contrary, as the oncoming car drew closer, each knew the situation was still hopeless. No sooner had they escaped one trap than another one was being set for them and soon its noose would draw tight just as the one they had just escaped from had been momentarily loosened.
Debbie turned to Burt and Andre but they both appeared dazed and incapable of action.
It was up to her. She knew she had to make a choice: to stay and give up, or to run.
To give up might mean her own safety, but it would be gained at Burt's and Andre's expense. To run would be far more dangerous.Neither choice seemed acceptable.
She stood motionless as the car continued toward them, but then she looked down at Wycoat and remembered the gun pressed against her head. The decision was made. She was part of it. She had to run with them in spite of the danger to herself. She quickly moved to the van.
"Get in!" she yelled as she climbed into the driver's seat. Both men stood there a second as if deaf but when Debbie screeched her order a second time they clambered in after her and dove into the back seat out of sight. As they did, she whipped the van into a quick one-eighty and sped away toward the harbor.
In her rear view mirror she saw Walker's car stop and two men get out and run toward Wycoat. A car following them slowed too, and stopped behind the first.
Apparently they were safe for the time being.
But Debbie knew that their safety would be short-lived.
It only took eight minutes to get to Morrow Bay Harbor from the campus, but during that time Burt, huddled in the back of the van had been fighting a losing battle. He no longer had the strength or determination to maintain his equilibrium and as Debbie slowed the van to a stop in front of the wooden docks where only weeks before she and Burt had come on the day they first made love, Burt felt the last remnants of civilization oozing from his being--slipping like oiled smoke out of his pours and he was powerless to stop the change which was occurring within him.
Debbie, unaware of the metamorphosis taking place jumped out and began to run toward the end of the dock.
"You two stay here out of sight!" she turned and said, "I'll get Mac Tavish. He was a good friend of my father's and he'll let us use his boat. I'll be right back!" With that, she turned and disappeared down the wooden gangplank.
Neither Burt nor Andre answered. Each instead remained in the back, each beginning to feel crazed and agitated as a result of the final awful changes which were going on inside them.
Burt looked up at Andre--the dark circles under his eyes were getting deeper by the minute and gave his face and eerie emaciated, scared look-like the babies in the posters soliciting money for hunger projects or like the jagged features of some aids victims in their last days. Burt couldn't stand the sight of his friend knowing full well he must look similar. He closed his eyes, too weary to fight, too weary to rare.
South of Morrow Bay, over the rolling coastal hills, and out on the peninsula owned by the United States government, home of the Western Missile Test Range, Lt. Banachek and the crew of the three fifty first missile test wing were readying the two minutemen for the launch which would take place in less than ten minutes.
Colonel Banes, Banachek's supervisor, stood over his shoulder and by the look on his face which Banachek could see reflected in his radar screen, he could tell the colonel was pissed. As a result, Banachek didn't look up and continued to watch as the raster scan swept before him. He then switched his attention to the missile control panel monitor which would record the missiles' flight profiles for him to see if the trajectories they were following were normal or not. If not, he, and he alone would send the destruct command to avoid any potential danger to the neighboring civilian population should the weapons take an errant path. He then began to pretend he was busy validating the numbers which scrolled on the screen before him, ignoring Banes who had now moved even closer to study his actions.
He didn't want to look up. He knew he was late. But damn it all, he was there wasn't he!
Back in their van, Burt broke into a sweat and his heart began to race again. The metamorphosis almost complete, he turned to Andre to speak. His voice no longer sounded like the civilized utterings of a college student. It was low and guttural and sounded more like the gravely growls of a caged animal than anything else. His face was contorted as he gave into the schizophrenia which was overtaking him with each breath.
"We'll be on the boat in a minute, Andre," he growled. "Then we'll show those bastards. We'll show 'em!" he said curling his upper lip and intentionally bearing his teeth.
In the back of his mind, Elton John's prophetic words began to work
their
way into his conscious thoughts "get back Honky cat get back.
O00000h, the change is gonna do you good!"
Kamarov nodded his head in agreement, and like two wolves in their den, both men twitched in anticipation as drool formed in the corners of their mouths and dripped slowly down their chins.
Five minutes had passed when Debbie finally returned; ample time for their transformation to be completed.
It was quiet when she opened the van door.
Too quiet. She expected Burt to greet her or at least ask if she had been successful in getting Mac Tavish's boat, and when he didn't, she knew something was wrong. Her gut knotted like spring steel causing the bile in her stomach to defy gravity and burn the back of her throat.
As she entered she saw both men crouched, backs toward her in the dark corners of the van.
To break the silence, she addressed them. "It's the twenty foot Boston Wailer tied at the end of the pier. Mac Tavish wasn't in, but his daughter, Erin, said he wouldn't mind if we borrowed his boat. That's okay, isn't it. A twenty foot--r, I mean?"
Both men sat still, their knees pulled up under them. Neither responded.
"Burt?" Debbie spoke hesitantly.
"Andre?" She tried again.
"I've got the boat keys," she said, her voice timorous.
Neither man spoke, but at the sound of her voice, they pulled their knees up tighter to their chests and hunched their shoulders. They both looked like animals that had been beaten one too many times by their masters and cringed, but didn't answer.
An icy river of fear began to flow in her veins and she began to shake uncontrollably.
Debbie's first impression that something was wrong with the two of them instantly changed to terror.
"Burt—Andre--You don't have to do this." She feared they were as afraid as she that what they were about to do was crazy. Maybe they had changed their minds. "That's it. They've decided not to try to launch the missiles," she told herself.
"You don't have to do this," she began again, pleadingly. "Let's just leave." Her voice was cracking, her words rapidly running into one another as she tried to convince herself she could make them change their minds.