Aurora Square. Saturday, May 17, 2014. Time—6:32 PM
The rumble of helicopter blades broke through the cotton that seemed to have stuffed his ears. Scat—Lucas Bauer—was slowly returning to reality, as if surfacing from a deep pool. The red haze still hung in the air, but not as dense as a few moments ago.
Lucas raised his head, trying to focus his gaze. Hansen lay on his back, his limbs twitching convulsively, as if electric current was being passed through his body. But the most terrible thing—he made no sound. His mouth was wide open in a silent scream, and his eyes... his eyes were filling with blood.
Dark red liquid oozed from the corners of his eyes, flowed from his nose, his ears. The veins on his neck and temples swelled, pulsing in a frenzied rhythm, as if snakes were writhing under the skin. Lucas tried to move away, but his body wouldn't obey.
Hansen suddenly froze. For a moment it seemed that it was all over. But then his body began to rise—not naturally, but as if invisible threads were pulling his limbs, forcing him to assume a vertical position. He stood, swaying, his head thrown back at an impossible angle.
The blood in his eyes instantly darkened, turning into a black crust. The veins on his face became clearly visible through the pale skin, creating a horrific pattern. Lucas couldn't look away from this nightmarish sight.
And then Hansen screamed.
The sound was inhuman—a high, piercing howl that made his ears ring. Lucas instinctively tried to cover his face with his hands, and just in time.
Hansen's head exploded.
The skull burst like an overripe watermelon, and a fountain of blood, brain tissue, and bone fragments doused everything within several meters. Hot splashes hit Lucas's arms, spattered his uniform. The smell of copper and something putrid hit his nose.
"Motherfucker..." Lucas croaked, trying to wipe the blood from his face with the back of his hand.
Someone's hand roughly grabbed his shoulder, pulled him aside. He hadn't even heard them approach—his ears were still ringing from that inhuman scream.
"Don't move!"
Figures in black gear materialized around him. "Aftermath Liquidation Squad." Full chemical protection suits, modern gas masks with tinted visors, automatic weapons at the ready. They treated him as potentially infected—there was no room for courtesy, only clear commands and brute force.
"I'm Agent Bauer, call sign Scat!" he tried. "I have identification..."
"I don't give a damn," cut off one of them, his voice distorted by gas mask filters. "Here. Quickly."
They dragged him to the helicopter, whose blades continued to slice the air, raising dust and small debris from the ground. Part of the squad remained in the square—Lucas saw from the corner of his eye how they were deploying equipment, preparing sprayers. Disinfection. Or something worse.
He was literally pushed into the helicopter cabin. It was dark inside.
"Sit down and don't move," ordered one of them.
As soon as Lucas sat in the hard seat, a tight black blindfold was pulled over his eyes. The world plunged into darkness.
"Is this really necessary?" he asked, trying to remain calm.
The answer was silence. The helicopter jerked, lifting off the ground. Lucas felt himself being pressed into the seat. They were gaining altitude.
The flight took place in complete silence. No one talked, only the hum of engines and the whistle of wind outside. Lucas tried to determine the direction by feel, but the helicopter changed course several times, making it pointless.
He thought about what had happened. Hansen is dead. The sample has been released. Dozens, if not hundreds of civilians have died. The operation's failure is complete and unconditional. And now...
Now they're taking him somewhere unknown. Most likely, he'll face a debriefing, long interrogations. Standard procedure after a failure of this magnitude. He understood this. But something inside suggested that this time would be different.
The helicopter began to descend. From the change in pressure in his ears, Lucas understood they were landing. The landing gear touched a solid surface—probably a concrete pad.
The cabin door opened, letting in cool evening air. It smelled of pine forest.
"Get out," commanded the same voice.
The blindfold was removed from his eyes. Lucas, squinting, looked around. They were on a helipad surrounded by a high fence with barbed wire. Ahead rose a gray concrete building with no identifying marks.
They led him inside. The corridors were sterile clean, the walls painted a faceless gray color. Security cameras in every corner, heavy metal doors with electronic locks. This place reeked of secrecy.
The second underground floor greeted him with a hospital smell—sharp, chemical, causing instinctive rejection. They led him through several airlocks to the quarantine zone.
"Undress," ordered a woman in a medical suit, her face hidden by a mask. "All clothes in the container. Shoes, belt, watch—there too."
Lucas complied. They made him take a decontaminating shower—the liquid stung his skin and stank of chlorine. Then they gave him a hospital gown and led him to a procedure room.
The next two hours turned into a series of medical tests. They took blood so often that his left arm went numb. Swabs from throat, nose, even from under fingernails. X-ray, MRI, some other scans on devices whose purpose he didn't know.
The medical staff worked silently, efficiently, but with that detachment with which they handle potentially dangerous material.
Finally, they left him alone in a small ward. White walls, narrow bed, chair, sink. More like a cell than a hospital room. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall.
What the hell happened to Hansen? Lucas had seen a lot during his years of service, but this... As if the virus didn't just kill him, but turned him into something else. Into a time bomb made of flesh and blood.
The door opened. The same nurse entered, but now without a mask. A young woman with a tired face and dark circles under her eyes. Behind her loomed a guard—a sturdy guy with a stone expression.
"Mr. Bauer," she said, checking her tablet. "Your tests are clean. No traces of infection. Honestly, this is... amazing. Considering your proximity to the source and time at the epicenter."
"So I can go?"
She shook her head.
"They're waiting for you upstairs. First floor, interrogation room three. Security will escort you."
The interrogation room lived up to its name. Metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs on opposite sides. Mirror on the wall—obviously two-way. Camera in the corner under the ceiling.
Lucas waited about fifteen minutes before the door opened. The man who entered exuded authority with every cell of his body. About fifty, gray temples, scar on left cheek. Military bearing, heavy gaze. Even in civilian clothes, he looked like a career officer.
"Colonel Kramer," he introduced himself, sitting across from him. A folder with documents lay on the table between them. "Internal Security Department. We need to talk about what happened at the square."
For the next hour Lucas recounted. About the briefing, about preparation, about how everything went wrong. Kramer listened, occasionally making notes in a notebook. His face remained impenetrable.
"And you claim that Hansen acted alone?" he asked when Lucas finished.
"As far as I could see—yes."
"No accomplices? No one who might have been waiting for him?"
"The square was under surveillance. If there had been someone else..."
"Under surveillance," repeated Kramer with a slight mockery. "And yet Hansen managed to remove the sample from a secure facility, get to the city center and arrange... this."
There was poorly concealed contempt in his voice. Lucas understood—they needed a scapegoat. Someone had to answer for the failure. And he, as the operative on site, was the ideal candidate.
"I followed protocol," he said evenly.
"The protocol prescribed preventing a leak," Kramer closed the folder. "You failed the mission, Agent Bauer. Dozens of civilian casualties. Unknown consequences of virus spread. Panic that now has to be suppressed."
He stood up, buttoning his jacket.
"You are suspended from operational work indefinitely. Further decision on your case will be made after a complete investigation of the incident. Meanwhile..." he headed for the door, "you can go home. A driver will arrive soon."
"That's it?" Lucas also stood up. "No surveillance, no quarantine?"
Kramer turned at the threshold.
"You're lucky, Bauer. Damn lucky. The chance of not getting infected with such contact—one in hundreds of thousands. Maybe even a million. Consider it your second birthday."
The door closed, leaving Lucas alone.
They led him to a small waiting room near the main entrance. Regular office chairs, coffee table with outdated magazines, coffee machine in the corner. After the sterility of the underground levels, this place seemed almost cozy.
Lucas poured himself coffee—it wasn't the worst, but hot. He sat by the window, looking at the darkening sky beyond the glass. The sun had already hidden behind the tops of the pines, leaving only crimson reflections on the horizon.
He thought about what had happened. About Hansen, about his words before death. "This is a reflection. In it—us." What did he mean? What kind of virus did they create?
And why didn't he get infected? Kramer was right—the chances were minimal. He stood at the epicenter, breathed contaminated air, was splattered with blood... of a carrier? What do you even call what Hansen turned into?
The entrance door opened, letting in cool evening air. A man in a dark jacket and jeans entered. At first glance—an ordinary driver. But Lucas had learned to notice details over the years of service.
Short haircut. Scars on knuckles. A gaze that scanned everything around. The gait of a person accustomed to carrying heavy equipment. This was no simple driver.
"Mr. Bauer?" The voice was low, with a slight hoarseness. "I'll take you home."
He didn't introduce himself. Lucas nodded, finishing the cooled coffee.
"Let's go," the man turned to the exit. "The car is waiting."
A black sedan stood right at the entrance. An unremarkable car, plenty of which on the roads. The driver opened the back door, inviting Bauer to sit.
The interior smelled of new leather and pine-scented air freshener. Lucas settled in the back seat, buckling up. The driver got behind the wheel, started the engine.
They left the complex territory through the checkpoint. The barrier rose, and the car drove onto a narrow asphalt road leading through the forest.
Pines lined the road on both sides, their trunks lost in the gathering twilight. The headlights snatched a narrow strip of asphalt from the darkness, beyond which began the impenetrable blackness of the forest.
For fifteen minutes they drove in silence. Lucas looked out the window, watching the flashing trees. Not a single oncoming car, not a single sign of civilization. Just forest, road, and silence.
Something was wrong. Lucas tried to understand what exactly bothered him. And suddenly realized—they hadn't blindfolded him.
When they were taking him to the complex by helicopter, his eyes were blindfolded. Standard security procedure—don't let outsiders know the exact location of secret facilities. But now...
Now he could see the road perfectly. He saw mileage signs. He could, if desired, memorize the route and return.
If only they would let him.
"Been working as a driver long?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
The man behind the wheel shrugged without turning around.
"Long enough."
"Served before this?"
Pause. Then a short nod.
"Marine?"
"Yes sir."
Lucas smirked.
"Must be boring after the army driving all sorts of staff rats around."
The driver didn't answer. His gaze remained fixed on the road.
"Although," Lucas continued, "work is work. Much better than killing people, right?"
Silence again. But this time different. More tense.
"You probably put down quite a few people," Lucas added casually. "In service, that is."
The driver still remained silent, but his shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. The knuckles on the steering wheel whitened.
Lucas had already put it all together. No blindfold. A silent driver with a military past. An empty road through the forest. Suspension "indefinitely."
They weren't taking him home.
They were taking him... to write off.
They drove in silence for a few more minutes. Lucas forced himself to breathe evenly, maintain calm. Panic wouldn't help now. Need to think, look for a way out.
But what way out? He's unarmed, in a car with his executioner, in the middle of the forest. Even if he manages to get out of the car—where to run? Kilometers of forest around.
The car began to slow down. Ahead appeared an exit—just a beaten dirt road going into the forest. The driver turned, and the sedan bounced along the uneven road.
After a hundred meters he stopped. Turned off the engine. In the ensuing silence, only the ticking of the cooling engine and the distant cry of some night bird could be heard.
"I need to take a leak," said the driver, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Sit tight."
He got out of the car and headed into the forest, disappearing behind the trees. Lucas remained alone.
For a few seconds he sat motionless. Then reached for the door handle. Locked.
He looked around, trying to find anything that could be used as a weapon. Fruitless. Clean interior, no forgotten tools or even anything like that.
Footsteps. The driver was returning. But now he approached not his door, but the back one. The lock clicked, the door swung open. In his hand was a pistol.
"Get out," the driver ordered in a calm tone.
Lucas slowly got out of the car. The ground underfoot was soft, covered with a thick layer of rotting leaves and pine needles. It smelled of dampness.
"Forward," the driver pointed the pistol into the depths of the forest. "Walk."
They walked for several minutes. Lucas in front, the driver behind, keeping him at gunpoint. The trees closed overhead, almost completely blocking the sky. Darkness thickened with each step.
"Stop."
Lucas stopped. Before him was a small clearing. And on it...
A pit. About two meters long, one and a half wide. Nearby lay a carelessly thrown shovel, with clumps of dried earth visible on it.
His grave. Prepared in advance.
"Turn around," the driver ordered.
Lucas slowly turned. The driver stood two meters away, the pistol aimed precisely at Bauer. Professional stance, confident grip.
"You know," said Lucas, surprised at how calm his voice came out. "I always thought I'd die somehow... heroically. Saving the world, protecting the innocent."
The driver was silent. Finger on the trigger.
"And instead—a bullet to the back of the head in some wilderness. From my own people."
Lucas smirked, shaking his head.
"You know what's funniest? I survived there, at the square. In some unthinkable way. I survived a virus that turned Hansen into... I don't even know what. And all so I could get a bullet from someone like you."
He looked the driver straight in the eyes, then continued:
"I wonder what you'll tell your children? If you have any, of course. 'Daddy killed a good man today, now let's go, I'll buy you ice cream'?"
Lucas cast one last glance to the side and said:
"Look me in the eyes when you pull the trigger."
A shot rang out.