22. Into the Forest

An energetic tune made its way into Brandon's eardrums. Whose phone is that? he wondered, sitting up with a half-closed eye.

The music stopped abruptly. "Sorry, Sir."

Brandon recognized the light, gentle voice. Opening his eye, he twisted his neck to gaze at the speaker. Amid the sheer gray, he saw a blurry mix of tan, brown, and a lot of white. Douglas in his lab coat, no doubt.

"Boss told me to stay the night here," Douglas said, sitting still on the steel bench, "and wake up early in the morning so that I can help you prepare yourself for today."

Prepare yourself for today. Brandon's eye widened, and his vision stabilized. Yes, today he would see what Wong had planned for him. To shoo away the remaining drowsiness, he pressed the buttons on the remote control attached to the side of his bed and turned his sleeping sanctuary into an armchair.

"You're feeling better already?"

Brandon nodded slightly, recalling what happened yesterday. Zach's son. If he hadn't killed Zach, the baby might still have the chance to live. Or perhaps the little boy would have died and then returned as a human; as impossible as Zach's life goal sounded, with the burning passion and love of a father, he might have made it come true.

"Glad to know that." Douglas smiled. "Albert told me that whenever you forgot to take off your prosthesis before sleeping, it meant you got a lot in your mind."

Albert learned it from Mika. Brandon smirked, his gaze falling to the stump of his right leg. Everybody in Millennion would soon learn to read him like an open book because of her, but for sure, none could ever be as special as his little girl. Because her ability feels so natural.

"I bet you miss doing morning workout."

The smile on Brandon's face grew even wider. Now that his lung had healed, he could do hundreds of push-ups and various other workouts at once. He took off his shirt and flung it away.

"Though you probably won't have enough time for everything. Boss needs you in about one and a half hour."

Brandon's big smile melted into a frown. Douglas should've woken him up earlier, but he chose not to argue since it would only waste more of his precious time.

He got up from his armchair and dropped down. With his arm supporting his body like a pillar, he began the push-ups. His heart pounded fast. Beads of sweat dribbled down his body. However, his lungs no longer blazed, which made him clench his teeth in joy.

This is life.

One hundred push-ups later, he balled his hand into a fist. Back when he was still a human, his friends would yell at him for doing knuckle push-ups due to the risk of hurting his hand. Then Brandon would stop the exercise, although he might do it again when nobody was noticing. Now that his hand ran the risk of harming the floor, anybody who warned him about the danger would only earn a glare from him as he went on with the workout.

After two hundred knuckle push-ups, Brandon lay down and rolled to his back. Leg flexed and placed on his armchair, he started the ab crunches. No painful, burning lungs. Just harder, faster heartbeat and more sweat. Sometimes, the moisture would prick his eye and force him to stop for a while.

But it's part of my routine. Scrutinizing his muscular thighs, he reminisced how he gained the body that many men dreamed of.

Necrolyzation serum had increased his height at the start of his undead life and, with the help of a rigorous training regime, given him a ripped physique. He was in peak condition when he died, but the serum chipped away at the last stubborn fat he did not bother to take off simply for vanity's sake. He leaned out while retaining the muscular mass, his body sporting washboard abs, gorgeously shaped delts, hams and calves. Nothing screamed steroids to an onlooker. He was a lean humanoid workhorse, perfectly suited for intimidating some stubborn humans, overpowering the rampaging undead, and caring for a young child.

Sometimes he wondered if he could earn extra money by being a model for fitness magazines. Sadly, humans outside the organization would quickly deny his application upon finding out that he was an undead man. And those gunshot and surgical scars... Imagine how the famous David statue would look with holes and cracks on all over his artfully sculpted torso.

Suddenly, rubber screeched against metal. Brandon halted and looked up to see Douglas push a wheelchair towards him. Darn, the doctor sure knew how to ruin his mood. Just seeing the mobile chair made him feel like a helpless grandpa.

His furrowing brow brought a chuckle out of Douglas's throat. "I'm so sorry, but you should take a bath now. Boss is coming anytime now."

Having no choice, Brandon stood up with Douglas' assistance and sat on his wheelchair. Then he quickly wheeled himself towards the bathroom.

"Um, won't it be tough to take a bath with just one arm? I can lend a hand if you want."

Brandon entered the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Actually, there was nothing wrong with asking for Douglas' help; he was a doctor and people's private parts weren't alien for him. However, Brandon had just known him for several days. Who in the hell would want to take a bath with a stranger around, even if said stranger intended to help?

"Mr. Brandon!" Douglas called from behind the metallic door while knocking on it. "You forgot your clean clothes and towel!"

Growling in annoyance, Brandon whirled and opened the door. After taking the forgotten items, he uttered an almost inaudible "thank you" and closed the door. Then he stripped off the rest of his clothing and went into the shower room, in which a plastic stool stood.

Whenever Brandon took a bath without someone's aid, he'd roll his eye at the idea of scrubbing the soapy sponge against his only arm. Using his teeth as a substitute for his lost hand always resulted in getting some soap water in his mouth. He wasn't supposed to feel icky because he had dead taste buds, but still.

At least he'd learned to brush his teeth only after showering in the morning. Rinsing his mouth with fresh water comforted him.

He wheeled out of the bathroom after putting on his clothes - his favorite white t-shirt and pair of black pants. As he headed back to his armchair, he put his towel back on the rack and tossed his worn stuff into the bin of grimy apparels on his way.

"You look even better," Douglas said, helping him move to his metallic recliner. "Taking a bath is refreshing, isn't it? It helps you focus more."

Brandon nodded. Indeed, he now noticed Douglas' puffy eyes. His heart suddenly ached, and a lump formed in his throat. "William, is it?"

A surge of relief flooded him. Perhaps it was the time to confide about William.

Douglas' lips trembled. Then he looked down and began quietly, "How did he...die?" He sure took his sweet time trying to utter that dreadful three-lettered word.

The air conditioners whirred harder and louder as though they were drill heads, the object that demolished William. Stronger, colder gusts of wind escaped from the condensers.

"Zach killed him, but... He died for me," Brandon replied. "No." He remembered the overwhelming rage and grief that transformed him into the frightening necrolyzer-superior hybrid. "For us."

"'Us?'"

"Actually, William could've dragged me away from Zach's attack, but he decided to take the fatal blow." A pause. "It's like he already foresaw my transformation."

"I see." Douglas looked up, revealing his tear-filled eyes. "So, I guess we can say that he died happy." He smiled. "Because he already knew that his sacrifice would help you greatly."

His chest suddenly felt very light, as though a gale had blown away all the burden in it. Brandon shifted his gaze to the ceiling, wondering if he would see William and the rest of his family up in the sky out there. Including Bernard; for some reason, Brandon's hatred against him had subsided.

Perhaps it was because Mika was recovering well and all of Bernard's necrolyzed victims had died in peace.

"Sir," Douglas called, drawing Brandon's attention, "are you curious about why William matters so much to me?"

Brandon nodded. It seemed like Douglas had known William for a long time and was a very close friend of him, but oddly enough, William rarely mentioned Douglas whenever he talked to Brandon.

"He was the only supervisor to care about me during my residency at Billion General Hospital. Others saw me as just an indigent who somehow got a scholarship for a med school." Douglas took a deep breath. "You know, I didn't even have the money to buy those thick med textbooks. I tried searching for free ebooks on the Internet, but I rarely got anything good."

"Then how did you keep up with your study?"

"I relied on the library and some good friends. Also, William often borrowed me-"

Several knocks from the trailer's entrance cut him off. Douglas went to open the door and welcome the guest: Biscoe.

"So, how are you doing, Brandon?" the mob boss asked as he approached Brandon.

"I'm fine."

"Good." Something whirred behind Biscoe, prompting him to glance over his shoulder. Douglas was pushing a swivel chair towards him.

"For you, Boss."

"Thank you." Once Biscoe sat down, he continued, "Okay, I'll save Mr. Wong's issue for later because there's a more pressing matter."

Brandon quirked an eyebrow.

"Last night, Albert told me about the possible location of Zach's hideout. It's inside a forest at the mountainous region of Billion."

"How did he know?"

"He learned it from William, who met Zach's giant werewolf there."

"Excuse me, Boss," Douglas chimed in. "Mr. Brandon will be investigating the forest with the Anti-Necrolyze squad then?"

"Yes."

"I just want to say that..." Douglas cleared his throat. "Well, I heard that the werewolf had an active digestive tract, so it could take a dump. Its excrement might contain some metabolized serum and create something crazy in the forest."

"Like treants?"

Brandon gritted his teeth and grunted. Why couldn't necrolyzation serum boost his brain a bit, or at least make him more eager to study? He didn't even know what that weird term meant, though from how it sounded, perhaps it had something to do with trees.

Biscoe and Douglas turned to him and laughed softly. Damn, he should learn how to hide his feelings better.

"Come on," Biscoe said, "you're not that stupid. Knowing you, I believe you can define 'treants' by yourself."

"Tree. Ents." Brandon snorted. "Tree stuff."

"See? You're pretty smart." Biscoe gave a thumbs-up. "Treants are tree people. They're often found in fantasy novels, movies, and video games."

Somewhat proud of his intelligence, Brandon smirked. He never had any interest in those stuff after all. Novels? They always lulled him to sleep, especially the ones with complex vocabularies. Movies? Whenever it came to TV shows, everything depended on Mika, who loved cartoons like Tom and Jerry and Looney Tunes. Video games? Brandon knew that his limited money had a better place to go.

"Just in case you see an unfriendly treant, drain its sap," Douglas explained. "Sap is basically the blood in trees. It transports nutrients just like blood, the most important thing in every single necrolyzed and superiorized being."

"Oh, I've also brought something for you." Biscoe pointed at the stump of Brandon's right leg. "A new, stronger prosthesis."

While inside the van, a smiling Brandon kept flexing his new prosthetic leg. Biscoe had ordered his scientists to craft it from the werewolf's bones and reinforce the whole thing with alloy. Tough as his massive axe Bonehacker, it would let him fight without having to worry too much about breaking it.

It took about two hours to arrive at the mountains. Three armored trucks, surrounded by dozens of men in helmets and body armors with anti-necrolyze rifles, lay before a cluster of fallen trees - a good place to start the exploration. That giant werewolf must've caused the mess.

Once Albert parked the van near the trucks and turned it off, Brandon placed Bonehacker between his teeth, opened the door and stepped out. His eye widened at the sight of one gray-haired man, the only person who wore neither a helmet nor a body armor.

He was Oswald Briggs, the man who commanded the organization's Anti-Necrolyze gunmen to shoot Brandon down for protecting his guilty friend Harry. Rumor said that Oswald even argued with Biscoe when the mob boss commanded him to spare Brandon out of Mika's wish.

Although Brandon rarely met Oswald face-to-face, he had a hunch that the man still didn't like him. Oswald's unpleasant stare at him proved it.

"You?" Oswald began bitterly. "You once turned against us. According to Millennion's law, you were supposed to die, but Boss bent the rule and spared you."

"Quit it, Oswald," Albert - now equipped with a bulky backpack - spoke from beside Brandon. "If you're a good man of Millennion, you should work together with him. Not digging up the old conflict."

"You know the old saying? 'Betrayal hurts someone for a lifetime.'" Oswald pointed at Brandon. "I can't trust the man who once betrayed the organization. Especially a necrolyzer."

Betrayal... Betrayal... Gritting his teeth, Brandon looked down with his eye screwed shut and his fist clenched. His knuckles would love to rattle a jaw if Oswald went on with that story.

"Once again, quit it, bro," Albert grumbled. "You know what? You're lucky to have a friendly necrolyzer around. You don't have to worry so much in case these undead things get out of hand."

"Yeah, right. Now, lead the way." A long pause. "Sir."

Oswald's tone reeked of resentment, but Brandon would care less as long as the man stopped talking about the past. Bonehacker in hand, he approached the forest's entrance and observed the felled trees. They formed a trail, a very helpful guide to find Zach's hideout.

Leaves rustled in the breeze. Dried twigs and foliage swished and creaked beneath their shoes as they went deeper into the partly-deforested woods. Having so many men to protect in this perilous journey, Brandon kept his ears perked up and eye wide open as he walked.

"Something is off, Sir," Albert suddenly warned. "I hear no chirping birds. I couldn't find any little critters wandering around either."

Brandon nodded, slowing down his pace for a more careful observation. When it came to exploring the wilderness, one could never go wrong with Albert, an outdoor enthusiast.

A discordant mixture of harsh crashes and screeches pierced Brandon's ears all of a sudden. The cacophony came from further ahead, telling him to halt.

"Stop!" Brandon yelled. "Albert, binoculars!" Then he put his axe between his teeth.

"Yes, Sir!"

Brandon snatched the instrument from Albert's hand and checked the commotion ahead.

Gargantuan ants.

And a scampering tree.

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