Arrival By Wrath Part 25

But for the lack of progress he had made recently on the Bloodstrife case, he wondered why they hadn't merely stabilized him and sent him to the street.

In was then that some of the memories rushed back. He'd been so used to the stagnant nature of the case that he'd forgotten it may already be over. The excitement welled up inside him, then quickly faded.

He tried to move again, but still found himself unable. Craning his head upward from the pillow, Preston saw that both his chest and his left leg were covered in bandages, which looked to have been freshly applied.

His right hand was held together by splints, and after wiggling his forehead slightly, he realized that he wore a large dressing on his head as well.

The smell of gauze and iodine filled the air, drowning him in the sanitized odor. He held back the urge to vomit, seeing that he was hooked up to an IV which stuck somewhat painfully out of his left arm.

Ignoring his own predicament, he moved his head to the left as much as he could, noticing a peel away calendar on a small table beside the bed. If correct, then it was telling him that the incident at Jack's apartment had taken place two days earlier.

The rest of the room was predictably bare. The old television set hanging from the wall in front of him hung idly. No picture was displayed, and the screen looked as if it hadn't been used for quite some time. There was a fake houseplant by the window and two ratty plastic chairs by the door, both vacant. The rest of the room was composed only of white walls and well trafficked linoleum, not much different than the white void where he had conversed with Wrath.

Preston took a moment to listen, noticing that he couldn't hear any screams.

There was another table to the right of him which held a small present, rectangular and wrapped in newspaper. Out of season, the newspaper gift was dotted with a red Christmas bow, small reindeer and snowflakes riding around the outline. He raised his right arm to grab it, remembering that his hand was bandaged, two fingers in small splints. With a considerable amount of effort, Preston managed to bring out his right arm and s.n.a.t.c.h it clumsily from the table, grasping the box between his thumb and pinky while his pointer and middle finger stuck straight outward, held securely in place.

Using only his left hand, it took Preston almost a minute to get the gift unwrapped. Inside, he gazed with curious awe at a new trinket. It didn't bear any similarity to The Twist, but Preston suddenly remembered he was in need of a replacement.

"You look like s.h.i.t, my friend," the voice drifted in casually. Preston barely flinched. Slowly, he turned to see the source. At the door, he saw Jack holding a cup of coffee as he entered the room. "Sorry, I stepped out for a second. I'm sure you thought I had abandoned you or something."

In his other hand was a bouquet of flowers. It held a mixture of common colorful flora and a single red rose.

"Not in a million years," Preston replied distantly. Not missing a beat, he said, "Are you giving me flowers?" He felt his bandage crinkle as he raised his eyebrows.

"Don't look at me," Jack replied coolly. "These are from the wife. She wishes you all the best, but she had to work today. I might get her to come by later."

Noticing that there was no vase in the room, Jack merely placed the bouquet on its side atop one of the ratty chairs, taking a seat in the other.

"Fill me in," Preston said the moment he sat down.

They spent roughly an hour going over what had been gathered together in the two days since he'd been shot. The police had managed to detain all four trucks with only moderate difficulty.

However, there had been a few casualties.

Since Wrath had told them of the shipment coming to Chicago General, the police had stopped it in time. The driver was a surprisingly well-dressed middle management type who, based on the severity of his veins, had only recently been addicted to the drug. He was arrested before he could release any patients or forcibly inject anyone. In fact, he'd begun crying the moment they had arrested him. The man had been driving a medium-sized moving truck which was only about half full of kilo-sized bags.

The other two trucks had been a slightly darker story. The first had been sent to one of the commercial districts, apparently intended to disperse Bloodstrife among the afternoon restaurant crowd. Unfortunately, it had been a partially successful operation. The driver had stealthfully injected at least twenty individuals, who in turn began injecting others when promised with more Bloodstrife. When around fifty individuals had been injected, the driver had opened the SUV he was driving, allowing a mob to form.

It was only after several 911 calls from bystanders had begun to flood the phone lines that the riot police arrived on the scene.

However, they had arrived too late. Since word had reached them through Jack that it represented the last of the supply in the city, the responding officers decided to merely let the citizens empty the truck rather than open fire on them and risk killing civilians. Naturally, they had arrested as many as they could, using riot gear, tear gas, and rubber bullets, but the Bloodstrife allowed the mob to withstand such non-lethal implements for a time. When the driver attempted to attack police, he was gunned down, just like the one in front of Jack's apartment.

No other citizens were killed in the melee, but sadly, many more of Chicago's residents felt their first touch of the drug. Fortunately, it would also be their last.

The remaining truck had been handled with relative ease. Possibly due to audacity by Wrath, the truck had set up shop only two blocks away from the police station. Theories suggest that the department itself may have been a possible target, however, it seemed unlikely. The driver, a fresh out of prison and gang-affiliated youth, had just begun randomly accosting people on the street as soon as she'd arrived on the scene. Only five or six individuals had been injected before the police showed up and confiscated the entire supply.

The young driver was armed and, after a brief shootout with police, was gunned down in similar fashion to the other drivers.

Naturally, the Myers-Echowan van parked outside of Jack's apartment had been dealt with first. For that one, the public was none the wiser.

The DEA had confiscated large quant.i.ties of the supply. The rest of it was destined to be destroyed after the department was done with it. When Preston first heard this information, he wanted to jump out of his bed and find Agent Wilson's replacement so he could wring him by the neck.

"Calm down," Jack said as he held his partner down. "It's not like they'll be able to reproduce it. Without Wrath, they can't make anymore."

"I'm still worried," Preston said. "Go on, tell me the rest."

As expected, Greed, l.u.s.t, and the infant Wrath were nowhere to be found. Additional police swept through the factory and the freezer with a fine-toothed comb. In the end, they found nothing more than what the SWAT team had discovered when first arriving, an empty factory within the building's infrastructure.

Of course, that was aside from the large dried puddle of the pure catalyzed blood on the floor of the freezer. From what Jack had seen, someone had attempted to scoop up as much of it as they could, possibly with a fragment from the broken containers.

Additionally, the entire SWAT team had been wiped out, but that wasn't news. What surprised Preston most was that Jack had allowed the rest of the police to believe that the team leader had been killed by Envy, thus recording that the man died with the rest of them.

"Maybe if Agent Wilson had survived, I would have been a little more forthcoming with the truth," Jack said with a shrug. "Why put the stigma on his family, if he even has one, that is. I don't really care to be honest."

Jack made a special note to himself after discovering the remains of The Twist in the freezer. The oily water was partly dried, having stained the white tile floor in blue dye. Pieces of broken gla.s.s were covered with Greed's dark red blood, still laced with catalyzed Particle N. Seeing the mess on the floor, Jack remembered immediately what Preston had told him in the car on the way to his apartment, hence the gift. It hadn't been hard to find.

Preston wouldn't be well enough to attend the funeral of the two officers who had been slain by the driver outside of Jack's apartment, but Jack would be attending tomorrow with his wife. The children would be at school, and thankfully, would also be none the wiser.

Jason McGovern was trying to weasel his way in with the government. He'd mentioned at the final factory that he may be able to get a n.o.bel Prize for his discovery, disregarding the fact that it wasn't really his.

"I'd say that about wraps it up," Jack confirmed. "Granted, there's still some Bloodstrife use in the city, but it appears to be only residual supply. The addicts should use it up by the end of the week based on how quickly they've been going through that stuff as of late. Once word hits the street that this plague has gone the way of the typewriter, they'll go nuts." Jack took his last sip of coffee, throwing it into a nearby garbage can. "We'll be giving information to the press this afternoon. It's a good thing you have a TV in here. I bet you'll be all over the six o'clock news."

"You'll understand if I pa.s.s," Preston said.

"Well, to each his own, I guess," Jack replied.

"What about me?" Preston asked with growing concern. "Have I become . . ."

"Like Greed?" Jack said with a comfortable smile. "No, you lucked out. You should know better; you told me yourself, after all. Wrath said you would need regular injections to become the next Envy." Jack looked on confidently as he spoke. "Still, I was a little worried at the beginning. It took more than a day for the veins and the tattoo to fade away. The worst things you have to worry about are the bullet holes, my friend."

"Swiss cheese," Preston stated comically, looking down at his chest and arm.

"No kidding," Jack affirmed. "I'm a pretty good shot if I do say so-missed everything vital."

"Your family," Preston said, trying to rise. He stopped immediately, feeling a rush of pain from his wounds. "They didn't see anything, did they?"

"They just heard the gunshots fortunately, which in reality, isn't that fortunate," Jack said.

The final memories came back, crystalizing in his mind and glowing like tainted diamonds. "Oh my G.o.d," he gasped. "The gun-I tried to shoot you," Preston lamented. "I'm sorry."

"I've made my peace," Jack said seriously. "Even when we were fighting out in the parking lot, none of the neighbors paid much attention. Everyone tended to have their windows closed with the AC going. My family never even knew it was us firing gunshots in the stairwell. And, because I was covered in so much blood, I didn't even go up to see them before the ambulance came. I called my wife from the hospital and gave her the scoop. I doubt we'll ever tell the kids what really happened."

Preston breathed a sigh of relief, wondering if the scourge was really over.

"Did you check out the Bloodstrife wing?" Preston asked, growing suddenly nervous.

"Oh yeah, I had the pleasure this morning," he said, rolling his eyes. "That's pretty much my idea of h.e.l.l. If I ever go back there, it won't be for at least a few weeks, not until after it clears out a bit." Jack crossed his fingers and smiled cautiously.

"Good," Preston said, thinking of nothing else to add. Then, after rubbing his tongue around inside his mouth, he finally noticed something missing. "Say, what's wrong with my teeth?"

"We'll have to get to that later, partner," Jack said, looking at his watch. "Right now, it's getting close to dinner. The lieutenant gave us both some vacation time."

"I still feel terrible about trying to shoot you," Preston said irritably.

Jack noticed how troubled his partner appeared at the thought. "Well, I was hoping you wouldn't remember it at all, but since you did, I can let you in on a little secret." Jack leaned in, raising his hand to cover his mouth as if trying to shield his voice from imaginary eavesdroppers. "It wasn't loaded."

"What?" Preston virtually shouted.

"The gun you took from Agent Wilson; you must have emptied it sometime after you left the freezer. We found the bullets on the ground right by where you had picked it up." Jack shrugged. "Way to plan ahead, my friend. I guess you knew you wouldn't be able to stop yourself if the worst happened."

Preston didn't remember it clearly, but began to laugh with relief until his chest started to hurt.

"Well, like I said before," Jack reminded him, "I've got dinner plans."

Preston raised his right hand, the two fingers sticking up, held by splints. "Peace," he said with a smile. "Considering all that's happened, I think I'll be over after I get better," Preston stated quickly, "for dinner, I mean. I'll just need to clear a few things out of my apartment first."

Jack's eyes lit up as a smile spread across his face. He didn't say anything more as he departed with a wave.

Detective Preston Burroughs lay back, fumbling with the remote for a few moments, which he found on the small dresser, behind where the gift had been. He began watching ba.n.a.l daytime television, clicking through channels without much regard for their content. Eventually, he took his new Twist out of the box, looking at the now turquoise liquid floating about inside.

Then, feeling suddenly tired, he leaned back and began to drift off to sleep. And, unremarkably, the Detective remained silent.

The End.