A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Major Fitzpatrick wasto tio time on niceties. He crossed the room in three huge strides, the pistol aimed unerringly at Michael's head, his craggy handsome face marred by a furious scowl that drew deep grooves from his nostrils down the sides of his chin, and created valleys between his thick grizzled eyebrows. Michael pushed himself up onto his knees and raised his hands, biting back his screams; he was so full of the horror of the past hour he felt physically ill. He could feel the thick glutinous blood drying on his face, could feel its clotting accrual sliding down beneath the collar of his shirt; he knew his jeans were still undone and halfway down his buttocks but he was far too afraid of the Major to do anything about it.

The older man stood before him, tall, intimidating, shaking with rage, but the big strong hand that held the pistol before Michael's face was steady. "Who the fuck is he?" shouted the Major, gesturing briefly with the muzzle; Michael was terribly aware of Death staring him in the face, and through his panic recognized that perhaps to die right here, right now, would be preferable to the alternative, especially where Major Fitzpatrick was concerned. Fighting down blind terror, and cringing away from the bright smoking muzzle, Michael choked out:

"I d-don't kn-know – "

"BULLSHIT!" Michael jumped when he shouted, heart in his throat. "Who the FUCK is he and what the FUCK are you two doing in a classified military zone!" Michael closed his eyes and pursed his lips over a whimper of fear. He felt the muzzle press against his forehead; it was very hot, and smelled of sulphur. "TALK!"

Michael took a deep shuddering breath. To talk and be tormented by this horrible man and his minions, or to be silent and die?

Death it was, then. He opened his eyes and looked up into Major Fitzpatrick's face, terrified but adamant. The Major read his refusal in his eyes, and clenched his jaw, fuming and impotent; his hand tightened on the grid hid his forefinger twitched in preparation for squeezing the trigger.

But there was then the sound of scrabbling feet on the linoleum outside the door; the Major turned, gun cocked and ready, holding it out against an intruder who would almost certainly be more of a threat than the weak and sniveling homosexual sobbing on his knees before him. A shadow passed in front of the door, which quickly coalesced into a human form – dark-clad, dark-haired, tall and slim and panting hard from a headlong run – Michael recognized him instantly, and though he felt the sudden warm surge of relief he knew his lover's presence would only reinforce his decision.

"Frances! Run, save yourself!" he shrieked, making a grab for Major patrpatrick's back; he felt his fingers scrabbling on the coarse cloth, slipping over the thick seams, but managed to get a firm hold, jerking the man back as the gun discharged harmlessly into the drop ceiling. With a shout that was half-irate, half-triumphant, the Major turned, faster than Michael thought a man his age could move, and grabbed Michael by the collar, dragging him to his feet and pressing the burning circle of the tip of the muzzle to the side of his head.

"Stop!" bellowed Major Fitzpatrick. "Stop or I'll kill the little faggot right now!"

Michael's head stopped spinning, and he saw Frances standing, a large ugly-looking pistol in hand, hesitating in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Michael's face; he looked both relieved and horrified. No, thought Michael, this would NOT happen; he would NOT sacrifice himself just so Frances would go all noble and have his face blown off like Legs; Frances WOULD escape! What would his life mean, even if he did manage to get out of this metal buig ing in one piece, if Frances died because of him? It would be Unthinkable. "Run!" he yelled again. "Get out, quick! Run!"

The muzzle pressed harder against his head; Major Fitzpatrick had clutched him closer. "I mean it!" he grated. "I'll kill the littlck. ck. Drop that Glock and get your pansy ass in here."

There was a horrible silence, punctuated by the three men's breathing: Hoarse, uneven, shallow. Frances' face did not mirror whatever thoughts might have been milling behind it; he studied Michael carefully, his pale eyes showing only the barest hint of fear; after a long appalling moment bod body, tensed to run, relaxed a fraction of a hair, and Michael groaned in disappointment. But still Frances' angular black gun pointed straight at the Major, and he showed no other signs of capitulation. "Drop the fucking gun!" shouted Major Fitzpatrick again, and Frances smiled.

"Do you really think that will help you?" he asked calmly, as though he were discussing the weather. "Do you think we came here alone?"

"I already plugged your fancy-pants friend, you fucking faggot," snarled Major Fitzpatrick; Michael could feel the spit on his cheek as the other man spoke, and his large rough hand was around his throat. Michael tried to swallow, and watched as Frances leaned forward and to the left, looking round Major Fitzpatrick's body to see Legs, sprawled in his own blood on the floor.

"Ah, so you have," he said evenly, the corner of his mouth twitching up. Michael suddenly remembered how much Frances had disliked Legs, and was appalled to realize Frances was glad he had died. "Hm. You did a rather thorough job, too. I congratulate you, Major-General Fitzpatrick; he's rather hard to kill, you know."

"Nothing a forty-five can't cure," growled the Major, and Frances inclined his head politely. "So give up the fucking Glock, faggot, and tell me what the FUCK you assholes did to our computers!"

"Very well," said Frances, and to Michael's horror he took the handgun and lightly tossed it to the side, so that it landed with a hollow thunk on Legs' belly. "It was his anyway," he said, holding his hands palm-out to show the Major he was unarmed. "I thought I might as well give it back to him."

"Shut up!" snapped Fitzpatrick. "Talk or I'll kill him." And he squeezed Michael's throat, making him gasp, pressing the muzzle of his gun against Michael's temple. Don't tell him, don't tell him, thought Michael desperately, wishing he could communicate telepathically with his lover. Don’t tell him – turn and run – save yourself, save Dr. Walker, get out of here – at that point Frances' eyes lost their polite blandness, and a spark of dark humor surfaced.

"Well, that's rather to the point, isn't it, Major-General?" he said, his voice low and edged with warning. "If you kill Michael, I'll be compelled to attack you in turn, and in the ensuing mayhem I'm almost positive one of us will die. If I die, you won't learn a thing because he and I will both be . A. And if I kill you, which is the more likely ending to this suppositional scenario, trifling considerations such as the Yong Virus will be quite beyond your scope. So I suggest to you it is in your best interests to remove that gun from his temple, and I will tell you what you need to know, in order to preserve his safety, because quite honestly if something happens to him I'll have precious little to live for."

Michael stared in amazement at him, and he could tell from the sudden stillness that Major Fitzpatrick was staring too; after a long, painful moment the muzzle shifted, and with only the slightest bit of hesitation the handgun now pointed straight at Frances. Michael's mind was a whirl. Frances was going to Betray Them. Frances loved him enough to die for him. Frances gla glad Legs was dead. Frances was willing to give up everything for him. He was so torn between delight and horror he hardly caught what Major Fitzpatrick said next.

"All right then, you fucking faggot," he said, his voice even and calm once more, which to Michael's mind was far worse than his previous angry outbursts. "How about this: You talk or I'll kill you, and then I won't kill your precious little butt-buddy – I'll do worse to him, much worse. Wouldn't like that much, would you?" Fran eye eyes glittered dangerously, but he remained still; Michael could feel Major Fitzpatrick shift a little, holding on to his collar tighter, and wished he were fast enough to grab the Major's arm and push it down so Frances could escape. He didn't dare risk it, though; all it would take w be be the slightest clue on his part that he was about to move and he knew the Major would shoot. "But if you talk I'll put you in a cell together – hell, I'll ship you off to D.C. for your sedition hearings together – and you can keep both eyes on him as long as you want. How's that for bargaining?"

Frances appeared to consider this, though Michael, who knew him well, could tell he'd already made up his mind and was only pretending in o to to buy himself a little more time. "Fair enough," he conceded, and smiled. "So long as he's safe, I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

No, no, no, thought Michael, his heart sinking down into his feet; don't tell him don't tell him don't tell him – he felt Major Fitzpatrick's cheek move, and realized with a jolt of nausea he'd licked his lips. "All right then," said the Major. "Who are you and what the fuck are you doing?"

"My name is Dr. Frances Steward, and I'm a contract programmer," said Frances casually, as though he were introducing himself at a dinner party. "I primarily work on security systems for government agencies – predominantly enforcing stronger security packages, making the proprietary information contained in the agencies inviolable. I'm rather good," he admitted immodestly, smiling; "I actually wrote the program you were using here in Chinp'yŏng – " Major Fitzpatrick started, and though Michael couldnee hee his face he knew the man was surprised. "Yes – I even know the code name of this facility," said Frances. "I know when it was established, I know who authorized its formation, and I know its nefarious function. I know who Yong Ahn is, I know what the Sŏndŏk Virus can do, and I know for what purpose it was created. And I also know another program – a clever little program, that a friend of mine designed – that turns Cray Threes into glorified adding machines, and that, Major-General, is what happened to your computers. What I DON'T know, however, which is rather puzzling me, is why you have chosen to go by the rank of Major and not the more eminent rank you have already achieved – I can only guess that for some reason you have decided to lie to the men under your command about the purpose of this facility and project, as well as to your superior officers, including the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, your President." He smiled then, an unpleasant smile that made Michael shudder. He could feel Major Fitzpatrick begin to shake, and was sure he was shaking with anger; that frightened him, because an angry Major Fitzpatrick was very dangerous at this point, and with the words "I'll ship you off to D.C." Michael had begun to nurture the pitiable hope that they might actually escape alive. But from what Michael could tell, from what Frances had said, it sounded as though Frances and Grim had hacked through the security of the government facility's computers – and a spurious government facility, at that – and somehow Legs had installed the program to destroy all the files contained there.

But if the information on the computers had been so important, thought Michael, surely they would have saved the information elsewhere, wouldn't they? One of Michael's co-workers had accidentally erased half the bookkeeping files once, and although Mavis, their manager, had been angry, all it had taken was calling in a computer expert, and the files had been restored. Major Fitzpatrick apparently was thinking along the same lines, because he said slowly: "Well, you might have killed our computers here, but don't think we didn't have back-up – "

Frances laughed lightly. "Good heavens, Major-General, do you take me for a complete innocent?" he asked, smiling, his gray eyes twinkling. "Of course I know all about the disaster facility in Phoenix, and the back-up drop in Miami. Did you realize your ISP connected all those files by satellite so any changes would be automatically updated? Did you?" When the Major didn't respond, only quivered slightly, his breath accelerated, Frances shook his head. "Dear, dear. One of my collaborative efforts with my friend, the one who wrote the worm-virus, was to break through all firewalls connected to the infected program via the ISP and destroy that data, too. And don't worry about fragment shadows – we cleaned them out, as well."

Michael felt like smiling; really that had been very clever – but then the Major's hand started shaking, and Michael realized with a jolt of renewed fear he was angry again. Frances watched him carefully, tracking the quivering muzzle, and after a monumental effort on the Major's part his hand steadied.

"Well, faggot, you've managed to destroy about ten years' worth of work, haven't you?" he growled; the bitterness and rage trembled in his gravelly voice, and the hand started to tighten on the gun. Don't shoot him, thought Michael to himself, filled with panic; please don't kill him, I'll die right here right now if you do – "You fucking bastard – it'll take me ages to rebuild all of this. And I will rebuild it," he added, and Michael could almost hear the burgeoning triumph in his voice. "All this data can be recreated, and with the proper support from the Senate members sympathetic to – "

"I know about Senators Holman and Fischer too," said Frances calmly. "They're being dealt with on another level. And as Yong Ahn is the mastermind behind Sŏndŏk – " Frances smiled then, a very unpleasant smile, that reminded Michael of how evil Legs could look when he wanted to. "We know where Dr. Ahn is. We'll take care of him."

"Like hell you will," grated the Major; his voice sounded tight, as though he were frightened. "He's gone, he's protected. And you can't – " Then he started, and Michael heard him swallow convulsively. "How many of you are there?"

"Depends," said Frances airily. "Do you mean just the regular human ones, or the Undead? If you mean just humans, say say probably no more than five or six. Of the Undead, fifteen."

Undead? Michael stared at Frances in confusion. What on earth was he talking about, vampires or something? Had he gone crazy, or was this a stalling tactic? Just what he needed – Frances was supposed to be escaping, or better yet working out how to get them both out of here, and now, not only was he Betraying them, he was going all Anne Rice on him! His answer also seemed to puzzle Major Fitzpatrick – Major-General Fitzpatrick, then – but his confusion only heightened his anger, and the muzzle of the gun held to Frances' chest was quivering. "What the hell do you mean, undead?" he snapped. "Is this some paramilitary group, terrorist organization, subversive faction, what?"

"You've no right to disparage paramilitary groups, terrorist organizations, and subversive factions, you know," chided Faramir, examining his fingernails. "Project Chin-ji falls into that category. Not exactly up to the U.S. Army's protocol standards, in my opinion."

The Major-General seemed to draw himself up proudly; the arm holding the gun past Michael's face stiffened and strengthened. "North Korea is a definite threat to the Asian countries friendly to the U.S. – "

"So by killing millions of already-starving citizens, you're striking a blow for capitalism? I fail to follow your logic."

Fitzpatrick's breath hitched is tis throat; his next statement belied his anger and unease, for his voice shook a little. "Shut the fuck up! And tell me who the fuck this Undead faction is!"

"Goodness gracious!" said Faramir, blinking a little at his tone. "You don’t know what Undead are? Your education is sadly lacking, Major-General."

Fitzpatrick ground his teeth. "If you don't – " he began in a low growl, but Frances waved his hand negligently.

"Oh, very well," he said with a sigh, seeming to indicate the conversation bored him, and Major-General Fitzpatrick was the equivalent of a particularly ignorant schoolboy who had not learned his lessons properly. "All right. I'm not sure how much you understand about voodoo and animism and other religions that vilify the ancestors that have already Passed Over, so here we go. Undead people are ones you can't kill – you know, zombies, vampires, resurrected mummies – because they've already died, so that – "

"What – shut the fuck up!" exclaimed Fitzpatrick, sounding bewildered and angry. "I didn't ask for a fucking science fiction lesson, I asked you a straightforward question and I want a straightforward answer, dammit! There's no such thing as zombies or vampires so you can cut the Undead shit RIGHT NOW and tell me who you really are!"

Frances looked blankly at him, though Michael could tell he was baitine Mae Major-General, and that made him more than a little nervous. Why wasn't Frances frightened? And why was he spouting on about such strange things and not answering the Major-General's questions? After all, if he were going to Betray them, he might as well suck it up and get to his Betrayal and nasteaste all this time that could be better spent elsewhere – anywhere, really; a cool dark lonely cell would be an improvement, one with no blood or bodies on the floor, and no psychopathic subversive Army guys threatening him with guns. "The next time I see one of those Be-All-You-Can-Be posters I'm going to draw eyelashes and lipstick on the model," he thought to himself, hoping against hope he would some day have the opportunity to actually be someplace with posters and sidewalks and trees and cars again – what a strange few days it had been, planes and motorcycles and guns and intrigue; realhe whe was not made for This Sort Of Thing.

"There aren't any such things as zombies?" Frances was asking Major-General Fitzpatrick. He looked surprised, as though this were unexpected information that challenged a long-held belief. Michael heard Fitzpatrick make an exasperated noise and twitch his head impatiently.

"NO, there's no such thing as fucking zombies!" shouted Fitzpatrick angrily. The hand around Michael's throat tightened, and he let out an involuntary squeak, eliciting an irate shake from the Major-General.

"Oh!" said Frances, seeming taken aback. "Well, you'd better tell HIM that." He gestured with his chin to their left, and both Michael and Major-General Fitzpatrick looked over automatically.

Legs stood there, half his head blown away, his remaining eye focused and anga laa large plate of skull hung down from the side of his head exposing the mangled jelly inside. But the hand that held the Glock was steady as he squeezed the trigger, and Fitzpatrick didn't even have time to cry out before he died in an explosion of light and noise and blood; he dropped heavily to the floor, his gun clenched tightly in his hand.