Mission Cure

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - M:FAC/1 - Charlie

CHARLIE

Where are those kids?

Charlie's phone beeped as a new message came through from Adrian.

It read: Sick got out. Stay in room as ships link. We come to you.

"What?"

Crickets!

Charlie didn't even bother texting back. Instead, he texted Dreary to hurry up and get back to the apartment. Then he texted Jace the same and wished he could scratch his head. Being tied to the sofa was only managing to increase the stress washing through his veins. He even started breathing faster and could feel the onset of a panic attack when Dreary finally texted back.

Simply : Coming.

He should have been relieved, but until that door opened, and his daughter was safe inside, he wouldn't be able to calm down. Also, there was a strange itch inside his shoulders. Was it psychosomatic? The inability to move causing his senses to overact?

The itch crawled down his arms, then his fingers stretched outward. He tried to close his hands but couldn't. No amount of concentration helped to make his hands into fists.

The panic increased.

Was he actually losing control of his body? Was this an effect of the sickness? His mind whirled with fearful thoughts of what might become of him. When the infection fully took over, would he know it? Beneath the drooling, grunting, rabid animal, was there an actual soul? Remnants of what used to be? Memories and thoughts and feelings of regret for what they were doing?

The itch disappeared. The muscles in his hands relaxed. He was finally able to make fists and point one finger at a time. He was fine. Worried for nothing! It was obviously involuntary muscular spasms - just a result of the stress he was experiencing. If Beth were here, she would go through a reassuring medical diagnosis, telling him how it was a perfectly normal response as she ran her fingers through his hair and offered to make him a hot cup of tea.

That's it... It's chamomile withdrawal!

Charlie laughed out loud. Beth would have appreciated that joke.

Sounds of arguing came from the kids' room. It sounded like the boys were trying to initiate a game of Simon Says as a way of getting the girls to pick up their toys. And Nikita wasn't buying it. He could hear her little voice very clearly through the bottom of the door as she tattled on them - at least they were complying with Dreary's rule to keep the door closed.

"You don't have to pick up the toys!" Charlie called out to her.

"But Oren says if we don't pick up the toys then we lose the game!" she called back.

Charlie had to laugh. "That's okay."

"No, it's not!" she argued. Then her voice could be heard instructing her sisters to do what Oren says. Clearly, losing the game was worse than cleaning.

Charlie wondered if her skin would be easy to bite through. The skin of a child, rubbery and soft or easily split between his teeth?

He jerked himself out of his thoughts. Where had that come from? The panic returned with a new flush to his skin. He started to sweat as he checked his hands again - opening and closing them to make sure that he could.

The kids would be easy to bite. All of them stuck in that room like sardines.

No!

Charlie's stomach clenched. He leaned forward as far as possible and vomited all over his lap. Iced tea and bits of cashew. He heaved again and again until there was nothing left inside.

When he could finally take a breath, he noticed a new itch. But it wasn't in his arms this time, it was in his neck. Traveling up toward the base of his skull. He rubbed against the back of the couch, trying to get rid of the irritation, but it only persisted. At least it was distracting him from thinking evil things.

At least it was keeping him from thinking about the taste of blood.