The New Haven Incident - Part Twenty-Nine

Captain Sakata paused at the T-junction. The darkness was oppressive, with just enough light to make him jump at shadows that did not exist. Unable to trust his eyes, and unwilling to use his flashlight for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention, he was relying heavily on his other senses as he led his team and the remaining survivors back the way they came. The elevator was their goal.

The signage was relatively clear so, while this was the first time Sakata had ever stepped foot inside any Cedarwood facility, he could make his way easily enough. Disquiet sat like a stone in his gut. He chalked it up to the silence that settled over everything like a blanket. There was something else, however. It nibbled the back of his mind. He couldn’t shake it.

Straining to hear, Sakata waited until he was satisfied there was nothing around the corner. He flicked his flashlight on to make sure, creating a brief snapshot of the area. The hall was empty. Moving quickly, Sakata rounded the corner and moved quietly to the next position. Warrant Officers Franz and Carter were a step behind. The survivors followed, and Savage and Bosch made up the rearguard. 

They were nearly at the elevators when the attack happened. The soft blue glow of the elevator buttons were immediately obscured by the sudden press of Infected. Sakata, unsurprised, took a knee and fired, feeling oddly calm. There was no winning this, he realised. But that did not mean he was about to give up. His mission was to get the Cedarwood researchers to safety. It was his job to do that, or die trying. He was too tired to fear death now. So let the infected come. No one could ever say Team Three were cowards. 

“Captain!” Franz barked. The warning came too late. Sakata turned in time to see a Dark One’s fist, bound in steel, before it struck the side of his head. He collapsed sideways.

Harding waited patiently in the small, nondescript white room. He looked around at the pods that lined the far wall. They were occupied now, save one; five pods, four unit members. Harding wondered if they would remember themselves by the end. He had. But then, Reinhert’s goals had been different — cure his cancer.

The diagnosis had taken him by surprise. He had only been feeling fatigue. To be rid of Mendez’ constant nagging, he had gone to the doctor, expecting to be told that he was experiencing a symptom of nothing more than aging. He was not a young man anymore, and fatigue was surely something he’d be experiencing as a result. At first, it seemed as though that was the conclusion, but his doctor had decided to run a blood test just to play it safe.

That blood test registered some anomalies. More tests were ordered and one month following that initial check-up, the diagnosis came through; a rare and aggressive leukemia, caught too late.

They gave him just months to live.

Harding had told no one. How, then, Dr. Reinhert had known was anyone’s guess. Still, three weeks after the diagnosis, as Harding was getting his documents together to prepare for his death, a small, scrawny man in a lab coat found him at a café. He knew entirely too much about Harding. Were it not for the promise of a cure, experimental as it was, Harding would have put him through the café’s walls. But Harding did not want to die. Few things about life scared him, but the untimely end of it filled him with a dread that had kept him up at night more than once since long before his diagnosis.

It was a costly cure; not in terms of funds. It cost him not a single penny. But there was a price all the same. Harding had his death sentence lifted in exchange for feeding Reinhert information on his team, on Sigma, and on their missions for the past few years. Reinhert’s experimental treatment had worked. He was now in remission, and felt fantastic.

There was no telling what Reinhert did with that information, but it must have been something grand. Before this extraction mission, Sigma leadership had pulled him aside and given him orders, to be carried out in secret. It was simple enough. Bring his team to Reinhert. They would not be killed, he had been assured, and they would remain forever his unit; totally and utterly. No more stupid quips or arguments. No questioning his orders.

Harding liked the idea, though it also made him uneasy. Particularly when it came to Oliver Mendez. They were friends, going back further than their association with Sigma. They had served two tours together. Mendez, then serving as a medic, had pulled Harding out of more close shaves than his pride wanted to admit. In turn, Harding had had Mendez’ back more than once, even taking a bullet for him… which Mendez patched.

Their friendship had remained strong even after Harding left the military. It was Harding who went in search of Mendez to recruit to his unit at Sigma when he heard Oliver had gotten out. When he saw him again, it was as if their friendship had not suffered distance and silence. Mendez was back with the quips which, though he pretended annoyance, never failed to make Harding smile.

Harding had feared that this remaking of his unit would have meant that Mendez lost that mischievous spark. He didn’t care so much about the others, but having Oliver obey his orders in mute deference would not have sat well with him. He was glad Mendez went after Sebastian. Perhaps he’d make it out.

It was unlikely. Reinhert had a plan, and in order for it to work, it had to be done in secret. Mendez had seen too much. He was too clever. Harding had never been fooled by his flirtatious, easy charm, even though he played such a convincing dolt. He’d put it together. Reinhert could not risk his escape. Still, there was at least a chance.

The door hissed open and Reinhert stormed in.

“That meddling needle-nosed bitch!” he spat.

Harding raised an eyebrow at the man.

Reinhert was everything his soft, high voice promised. A slender man of small stature, his clean-shaven round face had never quite lost its childishness, despite his age. Once light brown hair was peppered with silver, and it sat like a mop atop his head, as if he had never once dragged a comb through it. Behind him, two Dark Ones took up their positions at the doors; obeying the silent orders the scientist somehow communicated to them.

Reinhert pulled up short, as if in surprise at seeing Harding in the room. After a moment, he grunted, clearly remembering their arrangement. “They’re in the pods?”

“They are,” Harding answered.

“Good.  Good.” Reinhert turned shining pale eyes to them. He paused and turned back. “Joy?”

“Dr. Lundt is in the cages with Team Four,” Harding noted. He surprised himself with how dispassionately he spoke. Team Four was Sigma. His people. He should care what happened to them, should he not? Despite knowing this, Harding found that he did not, in fact, care. He wondered at it briefly.

“Good.” Reinhert turned back to the pods. “Are you not saddened, Captain Harding?” he asked as he walked over to a console. He began typing. “To see your own team so helpless?”

“I thought I would be,” Harding admitted. “But I…” He paused and cocked his head. “I just don’t care.”

“Good. Excellent.” Reinhert sounded distracted, as if he had not heard Harding.

For a brief moment, Harding wondered what it would be like to wrap his hands around the scrawny man’s neck and squeeze; to see the pale eyes bulge, the lips turn blue… the delicious panic of a man meeting death. He wondered at this, too. He had a short temper, it was true, but thoughts of violence like this were not in his character. It should have worried him, and yet he could not muster the energy to care.

“Your superiors were right to select you,” Reinhert noted.

“You selected me,” Harding noted.

“Oh, for the cure to be sure.” Reinhert practically mumbled as he focussed on the console before him. “It was a good way to get the information I needed. A fair exchange. But as a candidate for the BASAW programme, there could be no better subject. Well… except that agent fellow. I shouldn’t have lost control of him. Something happened. We could do some tweaking there.”

“Is that what will happen to them?” Harding asked as he waved at the unconscious men in the pods. “Will they stop caring, too?”

“Ah,” Reinhert said, turning a knob. “None of them are quite as fine a specimen as you. They will stop feeling anything at all.” He pressed a button with a flourish. Then he frowned. He counted the filled pods, noticing for the first time one was empty.

“We’re missing one.”

“Oliver Mendez left the group before I could deploy the trap.”

“Oh dear,” Reinhert said. He shook his head. “He was also a fine candidate. We might have been able to do something special with him also. Too bad.” The small man turned to Harding. “You may have to kill him. Are you okay with this?”

Harding wanted to say no. He wanted to say that there was no way he could betray the man who had saved his life countless times, one of the few friends he had in the world. Instead, Harding shrugged. “It would be a shame,” he said easily. “But I’ll do what must be done. How can I not be okay with it?”

He knew he meant it.

Reinhert smiled.

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