Your Massacre of Me

Deathbed Confessions

Dr. McHugh held a plate of food in one hand and a feeding tube in the other.

"It's your choice: Lovely bowl of soup and some bread or a giant tube stuck up your nose and down your esophagus. It doesn't exactly take a rocket scientist to figure this one out." He paused. "Of course, I'm assuming that you aren't a rocket scientist."

"I'm really not hungry."

"Feeding tube it is, then."

"All right!"

Chuck accepted the dishes and stared mournfully at its contents. He pushed the spoon around, picked it up, then let the chicken broth dribble down. After some hesitancy, though, he gave it a try and found it soothing on his throat. He polished the soup off quickly and took a few bites of the bread. Why bother resisting, anyway?

"I'm done."

Dr. McHugh looked up from his copy of the DSM-IV. "Are you?" He walked over and inspected the bowl. "See? That wasn't so bad—probably a lot better than forced feeding."

"My only options were the soup or a feeding tube."

The doctor took the bowl. "We'll split the difference—coerced feeding." He went to reach for the glass of water but found himself unable to juggle a diagnostic manual, his reading glasses, a plate, bowl, and cup. He set the book down and grabbed the cup. "Here, learn something."

Chuck watched Dr. McHugh leave the room, walk past his office, past the guard, and out into the hall. Sometimes the weirdness of the situation made him forget his heartache. The government easily had The Twilight Zone beat in every category.

Director Webb walked in a few minutes later with a guest.

"You look much improved," he exclaimed. "It's amazing what a couple days of rest and drugs can do for a person." Mike turned to the man next to him. "Would you believe he nearly died from pneumonia two days ago?"

"Here? How did you get pneumonia here?"

"Oh, he's a new arrival," Mike said before Bartowski could answer.

The guest smiled genuinely. "I'm Assistant Director Ankulos, but you can call me Harry. What's your name, son?"

Chuck was taken aback by Harry's demeanor. He looked a lot like Mike—tall, dark-suited, early 50s, stupid chiseled features like stupid John Casey—but he didn't possess Mike's terrifying, calculated manner. He seemed nearly human.

"I'm Chuck, Chuck Bar—…um, just Chuck."

Harry's grin grew wider. "Chuck, eh? Not a lot of young men go by that name anymore. You must be quite an individual. Are you making your way around here all right?" he asked while Director Webb went to speak with Dr. McHugh, who had just reentered.

This place is killing me. "It's okay."

Harry sat on the edge of the bed. "I didn't really have you pegged as the lying type, Chuck. Y'know, you can't tell me your last name or where you're from or what you've done, but you don't have to pretend to be happy."

Chuck's eyes widened in surprise. He had started to become accustomed to being the government's science project—they didn't really like him, but they'd go to any lengths to protect their good grade. Harry, though, seemed truly interested.

"It's not okay," he admitted. "I don't know what to do. I miss my family…the government took everything and…" Chuck stopped and looked down. He hadn't expected to be so painfully honest. "I can't live like this," he said softly.

Ankulos placed his hand on the younger man's forearm. "You can't give up," he whispered fiercely. "You've got to hold on to hope, Chuck; things can change—especially if you know the right people."

Chuck looked up suddenly, surprised by Harry's statement and forcefulness. He wanted to question the man further, but Webb interrupted.

"I hope you two aren't telling secrets."

The comment made Chuck jumpy, but Harry answered with perfect aplomb. "As a matter of fact, I was just telling him my secret remedy for getting over the stomach flu. I was in fifth grade back in, gosh, it must have been 1967. My stomach started to hurt in class and I tried to get my teacher's attention, but she told me to wait my turn. Well, she didn't make me wait much longer after I redecorated her classroom carpeting. My mother picked me up and I spent most of the day going back and forth between our living room sofa and the bathroom. Then, in the evening, I managed to keep down a grape popsicle and fell asleep. When I woke up a couple hours later, I felt perfectly fine. That was when I discovered the curative powers of grape popsicles." Harry stood up. "You'd probably enjoy one yourself. I'm sure it works just as well with pneumonia as with the stomach flu."

Chuck smiled a little. "That sounds good."

Director Webb lit up. "Wonderful! We'll go get one now."

"Let's get a few," the doctor said. "I'm a firm believer in preventative medicine."

The men headed for the door, but Harry stopped and turned to look intently at Chuck. "I'll come by later and see how you're doing. Maybe we can finish our conversation then." He turned back around and said, much more breezily, "You can tell me about a time when you embarrassed yourself in front of an entire classroom of eleven-year-olds."

The following day, Chuck took the opportunity to write a letter to his sister. It took him forty minutes just to get past "Dear Ellie," and the entire composition—including two naps—consumed the whole day. Nevertheless, it made him feel less lonely and awakened a sense of hope and perseverance.

Dear Ellie,

Do you remember my last birthday? The one when you tried to introduce me to your and Devon's doctor friends? Well, when that failed, I went to my room and found an email from Bryce, which was quite a surprise since he got me kicked out of Stanford and stole the only girl I ever loved. It was even more surprising when his email downloaded millions of top secret government files into my brain.

Shortly after, I acquired two new "friends." You know them as Sarah, my girlfriend, and John Casey, my scary coworker. Neither is what he or she seems (well, Casey really is scary). Sarah works for the CIA; she was (is?) Bryce's girlfriend and fellow agent. Her job was to "protect" me the computer in my head. Casey's an NSA assassin who also "protected" me. Mostly, they told me to stay in the car while they went to fight bad guys, but this never worked out because they both suck.

Recently, the one person who knew my identity who wasn't supposed to (he's part of some other agency and kidnapped Bryce so everyone thought Bryce was dead, but Sarah and Casey found him, then the other agency guy found out who I was and tried to take me, but Bryce shot me while I was wearing a bulletproof vest and the CIA took him—not Bryce—away. My life has turned into some sort of soap opera from hell) escaped from custody. The government told me I had to go into hiding until they found this Fulcrum (that's his agency's name—I think) guy, but I found out that they wanted to keep me here forever.

I tried to escape. I tricked everybody and nearly got on a plane to Arizona, but Casey found me and I agreed to talk with him in a public place. That's the last time I'll ever trust a government agent; he drugged my drink and I woke up in some Godforsaken underground prison. Sarah told you I died and I know we're not supposed to hate people, but I think I hate her and Casey and Bryce. After everything that's happened, it feels like I have a black hole in my chest and it's killing me.

But I'm not going to give up, Ellie. I don't care how long it takes or what I have to do—I'll find a way back home to you and Devon and Morgan. And even though you'll never read this, I'm holding myself to my promise.

Chuck

Shortly after Chuck signed his name, Dr. McHugh raced into the infirmary from his office and began grabbing machines and equipment off of shelves. As he hurriedly placed items on a tray, the sickbay's doors burst open and Director Webb and a guard helped Harry make his way into the room.

"It's like a vice clamp," Harry gasped when he got to the bed. He gripped his chest with one hand and a fistful of sheets with the other.

"Take off his shirt and lay him down," McHugh ordered as he reached for the oxygen mask. With the rapidest movements, he set up the heart monitor, listened to Harry's chest, inserted an IV, and looked at the ECG readout. "So, is this your first heart attack?" he asked calmly while he measured out syringes of medication.

"Yes, and I'd like it to be the first of many, so hurry up with the drugs."

Chuck watched in awe as Dr. McHugh took blood, continued to observe and examine vital signs, and administer heparin, digitalis, nitroglycerin, beta blockers, and morphine—not that Chuck knew what was in any of the syringes. Incidentally, that was probably why, when Dr. McHugh gave him "a little something" to go with the antibiotics last night, Chuck never expected to be out cold a few minutes later.

"The treatment seems to be working," McHugh said eventually, "which is great, since I'm not equipped to perform an emergency angioplasty or bypass surgery. How are you feeling? Less pain?"

Harry nodded. "Things seem a lot less constricted." He let out a sigh of relief and relaxed against the pillow. "I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't been here. I could have been in my hotel—or on the road."

"But you weren't," Mike replied and patted Harry on the shoulder. "You were here and now you're gonna get some rest tonight and we'll ship you back to D. C. when the good doctor gives you the okay."

"That should be tomorrow," Dr. McHugh said. "I'll go get on the phone with your GP right now and have him schedule a surgeon for you." He shook his head as he headed for his office. "First pneumonia, now a heart attack. I'm gonna be stuck here forever if this keeps up."

Director Webb chuckled softly. "You two get some rest. Harry, we can discuss that new project later, when you aren't on death's door. Chuck, in addition to national secrets, we'd like you to keep your pneumonia to yourself, as well. Oh, and I'll drive you to the airport in the morning, Harry." Mike smiled at them, turned around, and walked out. He stopped briefly in Dr. McHugh's doorway for a short conversation.

Chuck, with his mouth slightly agape, stared blankly at Director Ankulos. "Did you just have a heart attack? And now you're fine? And he's making jokes?"

"Things move very quickly in this business."

"You're telling me," Chuck whispered to himself. He then asked, with the true concern of a civilian, "Are you okay?"

Harry smiled. "I'm fine. I saw this coming and Dr. McHugh did exactly what he should have—which is a lucky thing for me. Besides, it's my own fault; I have a family history of heart attacks, but I just can't say no to a good prime rib. Or a stick of butter."

"It was incredible to watch. I haven't seen a lot of medical emergencies, but my sister talks about them over dinner. She told me once about handling some guy's wriggling intestines after his stitching tore. The spaghetti wasn't—" Chuck stopped suddenly and put his hand over his mouth. "Sorry! It was an accident."

"Calm down. Nobody's gonna shoot you for letting something slip. Actually," he admitted in a much quieter voice, "I was gonna ask a little about you. For example, how did you wind up nearly dying from pneumonia while under government supervision? Have they been neglecting you?"

"Neglecting me? No. No, I didn't want them to know I wasn't feeling well. I just wanted them to leave me alone."

Harry tried to turn over to get a better look at his roommate, but the various cords and tubes restricted him to a single position. "Something tells me you weren't really prepared for life here. Not a willing member of the intelligence community?" he asked.

"When I was young, my mom left the family. Dad worked all the time and then he died when I was nineteen. But if I could go back in time and change any one thing, I would throw away my acceptance letter from Stanford and go to UCLA. Or USC. Or any place where Bryce Larkin wouldn't ruin my life. Twice."

Director Ankulos nodded knowingly. "College. That's where they recruited me, too. What did I know? I was twenty years old and up for adventure. Now, 31 years later, I'm world-weary and ready for a triple bypass. And I'm alone."

"Alone?"

Harry sighed. "I never got married. It's hard to get close to someone whom you can't share anything with. All of the lies and deception wreak havoc on relationships. It even distanced me from my family; I haven't spoken with my sister in seven years, ever since I missed our mother's funeral. All I told her was that I had business overseas, but I couldn't explain that my business was helping organize a massive operation against FARC in Columbia. When I finally got home, Helen slammed the door in my face. The work is rewarding, but it comes with a heavy price."

"You haven't seen your sister in seven years?"

"Seven very long years."

Chuck's shoulders fell a little. He hadn't thought about the actual passage of time, just the concept of not seeing his family. "I have a sister," he said quietly. "Ellie. She's taken care of me for most of my life; she's one of my best friends. They told her I died."

"Oh, Chuck…oh, that's horrible. She must be devastated." After a moment, he asked, "Do you think you could tell me what happened to cause all of this? If the circumstances are right—" He suddenly looked around and then urged Chuck to move closer. "If the circumstances are right," Harry whispered, "I might be able to find a way to get you out of here."

Chuck's jaw dropped and his eyes grew to the size of satellite dishes. "How? I thought that was impossible."

Harry smiled. "I may only be an assistant director, compared to Mike's director, but I have more authority; I run the CIA's Computer Technology Research and Development Department for the Technological Services Division—MK-HALO. You wouldn't be the first person I've pulled out from the underground, but this could take some finesse. And possibly a bit of deception."

"I don't think I have any skills that the Computer Research…Tech…MK…your department could use."

"Let me be the judge of that. Just tell me what you did that got you thrown in here."

Chuck hesitated for a moment. He knew everyone had told him to never reveal himself, but "everyone" had also tricked, drugged, lied to, and imprisoned him. Finally, he took a deep breath and began.

"When I was in college, I had this friend, Bryce; he was the closest friend I'd ever had. He introduced me to the girl I fell in love with, he looked out for me, he got me into our fraternity. Then, in the last semester of our senior year, he framed me for cheating and got me kicked out of school—and he stole my girlfriend. Ostensibly, this was to keep me from getting recruited by the CIA.

"A year ago, Bryce sent me an email that somehow downloaded millions of government files into my head, making me a target for bad guys—of which there seems to be an endless supply. The government let me stay at home with my sister, but when the person who knew my identity escaped custody, my handlers brought me here." He sighed. "I guess my brain is government property."

Assistant Director Ankulos had listened intently, but didn't share Chuck's disappointment at the end of the story.

"Chuck," he whispered in awe, "this is amazing! You could be of more assistance to us than any of my overpaid PhD researchers. With your help, we could revolutionize how data is handled. And best of all," he added with a smile, "We can set you up somewhere with Ellie close by."

"Really? You could do that?"

"I can and I will. But we've got to move fast, Chuck. I want to get you out of here as quickly as possible—tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, but I'll need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

Things had suddenly sped up to warp ten. Although he didn't know what Ankulos's plans would involve, he was keenly aware of Webb's threat to use deadly force. But did that matter? What would be the point of living, anyway, if he were stuck in some dungeon? He had to take any chance to escape.

Chuck nodded. "I trust you."

Harry grinned. "Good. Now I want you to get some rest because we won't be doing anything for a few hours. When things really quiet down for the night, we'll make our move. We'll leave here, take a private plane to D. C., and keep you in hiding until I can make the transfer unofficially official, if you know what I mean."

Chuck pulled his blanket up around his neck. He had a pretty good idea of what "unofficially official" meant—a clear indication that he'd spent too much time in the espionage business. Even that knowledge, though, couldn't hamper the joyful excitement that coursed through him at the thought of seeing his family again.

Please let this work out, he prayed silently. I don't ask for much—well, I didn't ask for much until this whole brain computer thing happened—but please get me back home. I don't care how. Just get me back to Ellie and Devon. And Morgan. And maybe Anna, since Morgan wouldn't want to be without her. And, if You're feeling especially generous, maybe Lou. Please.

A/N: Fifteen alerts and seven reviews? How can I write better if I don't get input? You are an integral part of the process. I need you guys. —your humble (and a little writer's blocked) author