Catabolism - Part Two: Diplopia

Chapter Two

"How many cases so far?"

The man stared down at the files in front of him. A growing tension headache pulsed behind his eyes; he was ready for the day to be over. In truth, he had forgotten about the meeting, too much of a bureaucrat to cancel, and yet somehow not enough of one, either.

"Five confirmed cases, sir. With... varying results."

The man had to admit, the cases were strange. He understood why the officer had wanted to speak to him directly. Five deaths. Unrelated beyond the fact that the victims were known drug addicts. Three had been homeless. One just out of rehab, evidently having relapsed shortly after. But only two were overdoses. One was pulmonary aspiration, choking on vomit likely due to their staggering blood alcohol content. One fatal stabbing. One suicide. Different ages, backgrounds, ethnicities.

But why their files were on his desk now had nothing to do with who they were in life, instead they were linked together in death. The coroner's reports included photographs. Plenty. Each corpse showed unmistakable signs of mutation. And the officer was accurate, the results body to body varied. Some of the mutations were arguably minor, others were significantly more advanced.

Half-zombified corpses were not exactly new to the acting director of the DSO, but he had to admit, he was intrigued.

"This has got to be something new, right?" the officer asked with deeply furrowed brows. He had been looking between the reports and the man behind the desk expectantly, waiting for a reaction that was not likely to come.

The man picked up the nearest report, leafed through the pages, eyes skimming. "And they were tested thoroughly?" he questioned. Five dead drug addicts were not exactly a pandemic, nothing to get feathers ruffled over. "We've had a few random cases of the A-virus popping back up, people who did not receive the vaccine—"

But the officer was already shaking his head, solemn. "The coroner was positive. Not the A-virus. In all cases, the mutations occurred post-mortem."

The man had to admit, that was the detail that he could not easily explain away. He did not readily know of a virus that effected the host only in death.

The knock at the office door reverberated behind his eyes. He was almost thankful that the door cracked open a second later, saving him having to decide between unfavorable responses to the officer.

"Sir, I'm very sorry to interrupt."

The mousy agent squeezed into the doorway looked ready to retreat at the first sign of danger. When the officer gave a courteous nod and stepped back, the man cleared his throat.

"Yes, Agent Hunnigan, what is it?"

The woman sucked in a breath, readjusted her glasses, and began. "Sir, we've received an urgent update from the BSAA."

The man nearly sighed. It was something more concrete, at least. He waved a hand and the agent fully stepped into the room. He did not think she was afraid of him, from what he had gleaned from the FOS agent, she did not seem the type. But with the consistent reshuffling of administration, he supposed the lack of stability the DSO had been recently recovering from was enough of an excuse.

The late President Benford had crafted the twin agencies himself, handpicked the agents that made up the DSO and FOS. It had been his in a way that the new administration and President-elect could not quite live up to, leaving a hole that he had spent the last year doing his best to mend.

"Yes, of course."

She cleared her throat, looking as though she had finally found her bearings. "The latest report is that they have successfully infiltrated the facility."

The man nodded. So, the intel must have been good. "And have they apprehended the subject?" Dr. Eric Elliott. Having slipped through their fingers once already, hopefully finally cornered—

"They were... unclear, sir. Though they have confirmed his presence."

That brough forth a frown that unfortunately worsened the pressure in his head.

"But their report stated that no other persons of interest had yet been located."

Meaning Dr. Elliott's pet. Apparently equally as slippery, which did nothing to ease the mystery surrounding her. Or the suspicions.

He gave another nod, though more in acceptance than agreement. He brought a hand up to rub his chin. "In that case, I suppose it would be worth sending someone to assist—"

His thought was cut off when the agent made a small sound, a word severed in her throat. Her face screwed up, eyes to the floor. After a moment, she mustered her courage and spoke.

"An agent has already left, sir."

A brief silence filled the office as the man processed her words.

"Without orders?"

"Yes, sir."

It was the way her admission landed heavy on the carpet between them. The timidness was gone completely in that moment, instead leaving reluctance trailing in her tone. That alone told him all he needed to know.

The man finally let out a deep sigh, hand moving from his chin to pinch the bridge of his nose.

The agent understood that they were both on the same page now. Her shoulders dropped, the tension in the room wrung out. "There was no stopping him," was all she said.

"Of course not," the man grumbled, not meaning to speak the words aloud. Benford's favorite, but his own waking nightmare. "And might I ask how Agent Kennedy learned of the report?" He did not suppose there was a point in asking, but there needed to be some semblance of order, especially with the third-party officer present, watching silently.

The agent adjusted her glasses again, though the man was sure nothing had happened to jostle them. "The BSAA agent in charge of the mission contacted him directly, sir."

And there went the last shred of the illusion of proper procedure. "And I suppose he filled you in on his way out the door, is that it?"

The agent opened her mouth to speak, half a syllable uttered, before she closed her mouth again. Somehow, her shoulders sunk lower. "That is correct, sir."

The man blew every remaining ounce of tension out in a weighty breath. The headache remained, though the rest of him felt blessedly lighter. He looked down at his desk, collecting the files together to be pondered over at a different time. It was not an immediate threat, and he had nothing left for today.

"Well, let's hope he has better luck this time."