The futility of the morning was wearing thin. The status meeting should have been over fifteen minutes ago but Jorgenson wasn't even listening. To Darren he said, "Uh-huh. Uh-huh." To Kevin, he said, "Good. Good. Keep that shoulder up." His hand traced the air like a maestro directing an orchestra.

Darren should have stayed to bed. What was the point of coming in early to prepare a brief that his boss had absolutely no interest in? Apparently, Jorgenson was just fine with a mole in the Tacoma R&D lab leaking formulas to the competition. Apparently, the business of SBI took a backseat to the boy's cosplay.

Kevin was shadow fencing to get the feel for a real sword. It wasn't as large as the prized Ulfberht sword on the mantle but it had the same chunky, wide blade, which hinted at ancient, barbarian battles. The boy wore a leather jerkin and a ridiculous tin pot of a helmet that swayed back and forth as he swiped the air in front of the hearth. The low embers of the fire raised the temperature of the cool, dark atmosphere of the office and kept him beaded with sweat.

"We have begun conducting interviews with all of the staff with access," Darren said, his tone drifting into a monotone recital of the facts. "And the forensic sweep of the computers is ongoing, although unless the spy is particularly inept, it's unlikely he stored anything on our equipment."

While Jorgenson corrected the boy's stance, Darren took the opportunity to glance at his phone. He hadn't heard from Gracie in over twenty-four hours. Ordinarily that would be a good thing but he was anxious to discover if her scheme was successful or had blown up in her face. Either way it meant he was free of the psycho and his family was safe. But there had been no news and he was left in limbo.

If she was successful, there ought to be something about it in the news—a man hunt or at least an APB. But so far, nothing. She was in such a hurry, so why was she waiting? Unless they shut her down before she could get started. Found her smuggling in the tools of her attack with the supply run and shot her on the spot.

He'd like to believe that was true.

What was so important to her to take the risk? She couldn't really care about the boy. Could she?

Kevin adjusted the straps on his armor and launched another offensive at an imaginary foe. He looked like a small child playing make-believe in his backyard.

"No!" Jorgenson said and Kevin froze. The usual fatherly kindness was absent from his voice. "How many times have I told you, do not lead so far with your left foot? It puts you off balance." He reached out and poked the boy's shoulder hard with two fingers. Kevin stumbled away, his feet pin-wheeling. He almost used the sword to balance himself but must have remembered the punishment he'd gotten earlier when he let it touch the ground. He kept the blade up but he landed on his butt with a loud, "Oooph."

When Darren realized he was watching the boy's humiliation with a grin, shame flooded in heating his face. Jorgenson was the monster here. Kevin was just a child being manipulated. And for what? To be another weapon in the big man's arsenal? An object of amusement today and an expendable tool tomorrow?

Barbara had said, she couldn't sit by and watch another child spend his life in a prison. Claimed she would have done something to help Amy if she was able, but the security at The Music Box had been too tight. The Ranch had weaknesses she could exploit, so she was going to risk her own life to get the boy out. Darren hadn't believed her. How could that succubus care about those children and threaten his?

"Go again," Jorgenson ordered Kevin.

"I'm tired."

"Do you think the beast will let you rest when you fight it? You will have to battle through dozens—hundreds—of its bloodthirsty minions before you can even reach it."

Kevin snorted with laughter. There was some genuine amusement in his reaction but it was clear he was stalling. Darren had seen the same technique employed many times by Carrie and Madeline.  It was the "I have a secret" ploy to derail a conversation, typically about bed time or chores.

Jorgenson took the bait. "You find that amusing, do you?"

"I'm just imagining being swarmed by little yellow creatures in overalls."

The big man's eyes flickered with confusion. The childless bachelor had never had to sit through those cartoons all afternoon and had no idea what the kid was talking about. The bewilderment only lasted a second and was quickly replaced by a renewed sternness.

"You will not be laughing when you are set upon by berserkers. Do you know what a berserker is?"

"Of course, they're in my game."

Jorgenson didn't ask what game. He just turned his back and assumed a professorial pose with his hands clasped behind his back. "Well then, enlighten me.  Tell me what they are."

"They're fighters in a battle rage. The rage makes them stronger and fiercer."

"A passible explanation," he conceded. "The vargynja is able to turn people into mindless, bloodthirsty animals to fight for her. They will set upon their enemy with every gram of strength in their bodies and won't stop until they are killed or their foe is dead." Jorgenson turned and headed back toward the boy. "So fierce and horrifying were these twisted mockeries of men the memory has lived on long through the ages. In the myths they are portrayed as frenzied Viking warriors, but there is nothing noble about these fiends. They will come at you like a pestilence. So—go—again." He pointed at the sword held limply in Kevin's hands, which slowly rose and began the routine from the start.

What a joke. Was there nothing these werewolves couldn't do? Not according to Jorgenson. The only person being turned into the mindless killing machine around here was that boy.

That boy.

Was Barbara Gracie putting her life on the line rescuing one boy while he sat watching another one suffer in front of him?

Darren had always assumed she'd kill his family without a second thought. He'd read the files—the files that Jorgenson had provided. They painted her as a remorseless psychopath. What if he had it wrong? What if she only had been playing him all this time? If he had called her bluff, would she have gone away? After all, she had made him kill all those people at the inn and murder his old boss, Connor. Perhaps she took no pleasure in death.

"Will you not listen?" Jorgenson was rushing back at the boy, his face flush with anger. Kevin raised the sword for defense but only for a second before he put it to his side in submission. "I will not tell you again." Jorgenson slammed Kevin's shoulder with an open palm. Kevin didn't stumble this time but went straight down. The helmet cracked against a pile of cordwood.

Darren stood up and put himself between the big man and the boy.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jorgenson demanded.

What was he doing? His pistol was in his hand.

"Enough," Darren said, surprised at his own voice. "He's a child not a plaything."

"I shall decide what is enough and was is not. And I think I have had quite enough of employing a little worm as my head of security. You may go and pack up your desk."

Darren raised the gun. "Fuck you. Do you have any idea how many hours I've spent listening to your preening, sanctimonious voice? You're not the hero you think you are. You're not even the villain that people believe you to be. You're a loon. A total and complete nutcase. And I'm not going to let you turn this child— "

The next word didn't come. It felt lodged in his esophagus. Jorgenson smiled at him, looking at his chest. Darren meant to only let his eyes dart down for a glance, but the sight of the metal point sticking out beside his sternum made them freeze to the spot. The steel was slick with his blood.

In a flash, it was gone, yanked out though his back. Pain flooded in to replace it and the wound seemed to release the strength from his body like steam. The pistol clattered to the floor. His knees hit the ground next.

"I can defend myself," Kevin said.

"I should say so." The humor was back in Jorgenson's his voice. "Well done. Congratulations on your first kill. This calls for some ale."

Darren's face pressed against the cool wooden floorboards. The only part of his body that could move were his fingers, which clawed at the hole in the center of his body. If only he could see his girls—his angels one more time. If only he had taken the day off and spent it with them.

He watched the silhouettes of the Kevin and Jorgenson walk away from him.  The big man looped a congratulatory arm around the boy's shoulders. The sky in the background blurred around them until all was black.

***

The granite tiling in the elevator made it feel tomb-like. If there could be any worst start to a Monday morning than this, Maxwell couldn't think of it. He had to go to the 23rd floor to see the results of their terrible and unnatural procedure. They had completed it yesterday evening but he hadn't been around for it. Maxwell had made himself scarce. He'd left early, saying he needed some rest. It wasn't a lie, although the excuse excluded his misgiving about being there for what was being referred to as "the awakening."

He hadn't expected he'd be able to put it out of his mind. It was a moment when he almost wished he was drinker. Oblivion seemed like a better option than spending the rest of the day in dread over what was happening in the lab. But then Emily called and he had a whole different set of problems to think about.

He had been against her helping Amy, the poor woman didn't need that kind of trouble, but dating her had taught him that her stubborn streak was not to be underestimated. Had he stood arguing with her in the marina, she might have missed her chance to escape, and he might have missed his to rein in the chaos. And at the back of it all—the silver lining to Emily's folly—was the possibility that she'd get Amy out of the country and Maxwell could close the book on Project LARS once and for all without having to terminate the girl.

Donnelly and the rest of the brass were convinced the escape had already happened. As far as they were concerned, the monster was free, slaughtering somebody else's citizens and scattering other people's armies. Now that Maxwell knew it was a lie, he had hours, at most days, before he'd have to set up a task force to hunt her down. One confirmed sighting and his ass would be in a sling. No more acting sector chief. He'd be lucky to get that Portland field office job once his assurances were proven false.

And the other problem—the one that was in its own way more troubling—was he had told Emily he would come to see her. Why had he said it? It wasn't like they had any kind of relationship. He wasn't even her boss anymore. The Music Box staff was all being released and dispersed. Maxwell had signed the paperwork for a letter of recommendation and a government pardon to be issued to her. She was free of the Agency and him.

Not that he was happy about having everything between them severed. He still wanted to be part of Aaron's life. And maybe even Emily's.

If only she had used her brain more and hadn't run off to help that god-awful Lauren Kendrick. Emily believed he was angry at her for everything she had done. He wasn't. The infidelity he could have gotten over in time. And cleaning up her crime wasn't that big of a burden. If anything, burying that scumbag's corpse in the desert should have brought them closer together. Standing over a dead body and being so close to mortality created a powerful link between two people. He had learned that in Iraq.

No. The only thing Maxwell had trouble getting over was that she had walked out on her boy. And after four years, he was growing tired of carrying around that anger.

The elevator finally opened on the 23rd floor and Prendergast Laboratory C. The name was etched into a dull blue, plastic sign. The drab, officiousness of it failed to convey the gravity of the experiments going on and felt inappropriately whimsical, like hearts dotting I's in an obituary.

Maxwell cleared the biometric security and made his way to the central chamber. Dr. Bryant had designed the layout so she could always be in the midst of the work, like a spider in the middle of her web. The main chamber had rows of research stations with computers, microscopes, centrifuges, and everything else a biochemist might need. It also had two surgical beds, a physiotherapy area, and a containment cell. The west wall was a series of glass panels and doors allowing unobstructed observation of the patients. They were all dark except for one solid square of white. In the absence of light, it might have been easy to believe that the blacked out rooms were empty, but four of them contained the botched results of Bryant's experiments. The creatures were things the Agency usually destroyed, not created. A day would come when he visited this lab for them, but this morning he was there for the occupant of the well-lit room.

On his first day being sector chief, it was explained to him that Dr. Bryant's and the Prendergast Laboratory C's sole function was to research the substance being called Wychwood Coagulant Gel R4. It had been named after the estate in Connecticut where it was recovered. That was all Maxwell was allowed to know about its origins. The operational reports were sealed and not even his new clearance was high enough to access them.

A number of scientists in lab coats sat at terminals and didn't even look up when Maxwell walked in. Dr. Bryant was parked in the center of the open floor blocking his path with her wheelchair. She kept typing on her tablet until he was standing beside her.

"Ah, Mr. Wylie, right on time," she said. "Our patient is awake and anxious to see you."

"Is she...?" Maxwell trailed off unsure of what came next. "Okay "didn't seem like the right word and "a walking nightmare" seemed too timid a thing to ask.

Using the small joystick on the arm of her chair, Bryant pivoted to face him. Even if she could stand, she'd be considered petite. In line at a coffee shop, she would have appeared unremarkable, with a sharp face and limp, mousy curls hanging down to just above her shoulder. The heavy glasses would have tempted Maxwell into guessing she was a librarian, but he'd probably reason there was too low a probability of that occupation and settle on office assistant. But here in her domain, there was no mistaking it: she was a formidable force.

Or perhaps, all of her strength resided in the fear dwelling in Maxwell's heart that one day, he would wake up in one of those dark rooms with her look across from him and welcoming him back to the land of the living.

Bryant regarded him with a pitying expression and said, "Don't be squeamish. It doesn't suit any man, least of all someone in your position."

"What I meant to ask was if the procedure was a success or not."

"A resounding success. The reanimation agent is performing admirably. Since it was administered fourteen hours ago, her motor functions have improved astonishingly. At this rate, she should be up in a day or two. v You might even have her back out in the field in a few months."

"Really?"

"We got very lucky. The bullet was a standard round-nose .25. Any larger of caliber or if it had been a soft point shell and the damage would have been too extensive for a full recovery. And thanks to you, we recovered the body quickly and were able to get it in cryo before rigor mortis set in."

Yes, thanks to me. Maxwell wondered if anyone other than this mad scientist would ever thank him for this.

"Well, in that case, I guess I better go say hello." He kept his voice casual not letting on how much he wanted to run the other way.

As he passed Bryant, she grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Be gentle with her. Be kind. It's rough for them at first. I'm no psychiatrist but coming back isn't easy for them. Don't worry though, she's a fighter. She'll be alright."

Maxwell wasn't so certain of that. The less successful patients were kept heavily sedated after one of them had bashed his head against the window until it was mush. For the others the anesthetic was a precaution, but for the creature bent on returning to the underworld, it was to stop the hellish moans emanating from the pulp at the end of his neck.

Maxwell walked the rest of the way to the room conscious of every muscle he moved. At the door, he plastered a sympathetic smile on his face and said, "Hey there. I heard you were up."

Katie turned her head toward him. Large sunglasses covered her eyes and half her face. Little rhinestones glitter at the temples. Her skin still had a gray-blue pallor but her nose was red and raw from crying.

"Up? That's an understatement," she said.

"Yes. You've been through quite a lot. But you're looking good."

"Am I. Am I really." Katie took of her sunglasses. Her left eye socket was filled with a mossy green foam. Maxwell knew it went all the way through her skull patching the cavity left by the bullet. It hadn't been trimmed to lie flat or perhaps it had swelled and oozed out again since Bryant spackled it in. Katie's eyelid twitched against it unable to close. In a soft voice, a voice that begged to be let in on a secret, she asked, "Max, what the hell have they turned me into?"

That was the big question. Of twenty-six subjects, she was only the fifth to come back from the dead, and the only one they were calling a success. But without a heartbeat, what was she? 

***

Author's Note: So we got two of the least sympathetic characters in today's installment.  Did death ennoble Darren at all?  Or make him a touch more likable?  I could resist making Barbara the catalyst for him recovering his humanity. And by the way, I believe he was completely wrong about what would have happened if he defied her earlier.

And does being a reanimated corpse make any of you feel sorry for Katie or are you reaching for your cricket bat (the premier zombie fighting weapon, in my opinion).

Next week is the last of chapter 11 and has one more look at RJ and Amy.  After that there's an epilogue and then we're done.