The Things We Bury - Part 2: No Big Apocalypse [Completed]

Chapter 3: Surfacing (Part 1 of 7)

Since getting out of a sleepless bed, R.J. had been running through a tally of lasts. The last drive down the 101. The last time walking through the Aira atrium. The last time getting scanned at security. And the last, slow ride down, in the industrial elevator. However things turned out this morning, it would be the last time R.J. ever did any of these things, which had become intimately ingrained in his routine.

He just hoped a last breath wouldn't make it onto his list.

Four years ago, he was the victim of a plot against The Music Box; today, he would be the perpetrator of one.

The last time someone tried to interfere with the Agency, everyone of them was carried away in a body bag. Or in a plastic bin. The darkness clouding his mind became a little stormier at the thought of the container of incinerated remains.

And these were trained soldiers that failed. R.J. was nothing but a middle-aged biologist. What chance did he have?

What choice did he have?

Standing in the elevator, R.J. ran his hand over his gut. The scar was undetectable under the cotton of his shirt, but he could still sense it. Long after the pain was gone, he was aware of its presence. It had nearly killed him, and now the nickel sized circle of white flesh marked him like a mystical symbol. It was a sign on his skin linking him to his own mortality.

"Who told you to play the hero?" Nikki had asked, leaning over him in his hospital bed after giving him a kiss on the cheek.

When he was out of critical condition, the government had moved him from the Air Force base to a private hospital in the city. Maxwell had spent days debriefing him on the attack and coaching him on his cover storybefore the transfer.

"I didn't. Believe me, I was no hero. They shot me before I could turn and run."

"Poor, baby," Nikki said running a hand through his hair. The words might have sounded condescending in a different tone but they held only tenderness.

R.J. detesting lying to her. It wasn't even his lie. Wiley or some Agency propagandist came up with the story about a group of activists who had broken into Aira Cosmetics in protest of their cruel animal testing. The militant group set off a bomb in the lobby and used pistols to fire some warning shots at the night staff. A stray bullet happened to catch R.J., while he was working late.

The government's version of events bore little resemblance to the full on assault by paramilitary mercenaries, but no one ever questioned the flimsy story, no matter how often he repeated it.

Nikki sat down in the chair beside his bed. "I told you we should quit our jobs and move down to Mexico. But you had to be an ass and breakup."

"I was an ass."

"I know." Nikki folded her arms the tenderness was gone from her voice.

Neither of them said anything for a while. Only the noise of the hospital around them kept the room from growing deathly silent.

"How have you been, Nikki?"

Her body tightened up. She pressed her arms closer against her chest. "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't called in over a month. I had to hear that you were in the hospital from the TV. Do you really care how I am?"

"Of course, I do."

"In that case, I'm lousy. Yeah, I know you've been shot and you've got me beat there. But my job sucks. My rent is late. And I can't stop thinking about my ex-who's a total ass. Did I forget to mention that?"