A/N: I'm back! Sorry for the delay and thanks for waiting. I'm going to try to get back to my usual one a day pace. Here's 28.

See Disclaimer, Chapter 1

Bird Flu - Chapter 28

Don crept to the window of the building next to the house with a quick look behind him. He thought he'd heard something in the brush at the edge of the clearing, but the moonlight illuminated nothing in the area in front of the house – it was vacant and silent except for the generator's hum, and he turned back to the window. The light thrown from it was dim, as if muted by something.

He saw the reason for that as he took a tentative look over the sash. It was almost too high for him to see over, and he boosted himself by stepping on a large rock sitting submerged in the tall grass and brush next to the building. The room he looked into was dark; the light was coming from a doorway on the back wall. Silhouettes of rusting sinks squatted in the dimness, and he got a glimpse of hooks hanging overhead. He didn't have time to process what they were, however; his eyes had found the doorway, and his attention was riveted by the sight of a dark head and part of shoulder, lying on a table, bathed in the bright light that came spilling out of the doorway. Only the top of the head and the shoulder were visible from that angle, but he would know those curls anywhere. He took in his breath sharply, his heart pounding painfully.

According to procedure, he should go back up the road to his SUV and call for help – if he had a working phone from which to call. He knew, though, before his foot even found its way from the rock back to solid ground, that he was going in. Something was going on in that room, something was happening or about to happen to Charlie; and that had settled the question before it was even asked.

In the end, it didn't matter. A mutt, part beagle, made the decision a moot point. As Don stepped down, a bark sounded behind him, sending his already pounding heart into his throat. He spun around, and the dog, which stood stiff-legged a few feet away, growled; then produced a torrent of excited barks. The light behind him went out, and Don ducked instinctively, making sure his head wasn't visible in the window. There was no doubt now – he was going in.

He crouched and crept around to the corner to the entrance, and he paused, doubled over, as he reached it. The door had panes of glass in the upper half, and he eased his way underneath them to the other side, and gripped the doorknob with one hand, his pistol in the other. The dog had backed away, its hackles raised, growling. He took a deep breath, and wrenched the door open, darting inside, still crouched, both hands on the gun extended in front of him.

There was nothing, no sound, except the ceaseless hum of the generator, which was quieter inside. He crept through the sinks and the squares of moonlight coming from the windows, knees bent, head down a little, his service weapon pointing the way, nosing here and there as if it had a mind of its own. As he reached the doorway on the back wall, he dashed across the opening quickly and plastered himself against the wall next to it. He scanned the room he was in quickly from his new angle, looking for a form behind the sinks. Nothing. If there was someone in this building, he very likely was still in the small room with Charlie, unless there was another doorway out. He counted to three under his breath, and went in.

He whirled around the doorjamb and came in gun first. It was completely dark in the small room, like a tomb, and a noise came from the back right corner. He swiveled toward it and suddenly there was motion and sound to his right and behind him – a body moving. He started to spin back towards it, but it struck him before he could get turned around – a full body hit to the shoulder that drove him staggering sideways. At the same time, something hit him on the back of the head, stunning him, as he stumbled sideways into something solid – undoubtedly the table. He felt a searing pain in his left shoulder, and caught a glimpse of a dark form in the doorway, and then the outline of the doorway was gone, turned into blackness with the metallic slam of a door. He squeezed off a shot just as it shut, but there was only the sick sound of a bullet striking metal, and then almost immediately after, a soft thunk, as the bullet buried itself in a wall.

Shaking his head to clear it, he flung himself at the door, scrabbling in the dark for a handle, but when he pulled, the door refused to give. He could feel that it was large and metal, probably insulated, and his gut twisted with new alarm. A door like that generally closed off a vault or a refrigerator, and air sources for those rooms were sometimes optional. The killer had locked them in.

Locked them in – locked them in – he was still assuming Charlie was in here. He turned and felt for the table, and found a metal corner. It felt wet, and he realized the wetness wasn't from the table – it was from him. He lifted his left hand to his nose, and he could smell the blood – it was running down his arm from a gash in his shoulder, which he'd gotten when he was pushed against that same table. He felt along it cautiously and encountered something soft, and instinctively jerked his hand away, before he realized what it was. He reached out again, exploring. There was no doubt, it was the same head; the same curls he'd seen from the window. "Charlie?" he said urgently, in a soft voice, and he switched the gun to his bloody hand, and felt frantically for a pulse with his right. There was a pulse – not strong, but steady, and he exhaled shakily. "Charlie?"

His fingers found a chin, a cheek, unresponsive, motionless. He could feel soft breath on his hand, which seemed oddly controlled – short, very regular. The feel of it suddenly dissolved the hard core of despair that had been building inside of him over the last several days, emotion welled up inside him, and he sagged against the table, his head hanging over his brother's, exhaling, the sound almost a sob. "Charlie," he whispered in a voice thick with feeling, "It's going to be okay, Buddy, I'm here."

His eyes were growing accustomed to the blackness – there must be at least a faint source of light, he reasoned, because no eye could see in total darkness. He felt cool air and looked up behind him. Night sky was visible through a small rectangular opening high in the wall, which had once been a port for some type of vent. He could hear the generator through it, and it answered one question – they would have air, at least. He froze, as the slam of the van's door reached his ears. A short moment later, he heard the sound of the van's engine, revving, and then tires on gravel, the noise receding. The killer had left them alone, in the middle of nowhere.

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Ryan Morgan slammed the door to the walk-in refrigerator, and fumbled with the hasp and padlock on the outside of it, jumping at the gun report on the inside. An obviously trained agent with a gun – it may have been Eppes; he wasn't sure, it was too dark – he could only see a silhouette in the doorway when the agent entered. He must have followed him here, and had probably called it in – there must be more agents, police on the way. As the agent had entered, Ryan had stood in the corner near the doorway, and had thrown his scalpel in the back corner to create a noise. It had distracted the agent for a split second, long enough for Ryan to land a wild punch and to shove him, and then duck out the door.

He made sure the door was locked and dashed outside, stirring up the mutt again, who barked from a shadowy spot at the edge of the yard. The moonlight in the clearing was bright, almost like daylight, and the area under the trees was dark and silent. Morgan hesitated, then decided to take the chance – he ran in and grabbed his few possessions from the house – his precious store of syringes chief among them. He tossed them in the back of the van, and was away, praying to get out on Big Bear Road before they trapped him.

He was well down the gravel road when his heart leapt into his throat – he'd spotted the SUV, parked in a spot a little over half a mile from the main road, but he realized, almost at the same time, that it must be the agent's vehicle. He gunned the gas and tore past it, making a right on Big Bear Road, heading west, into the night.

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Don stood silently for a moment, senses razor sharp; listening for a moment after the sound of the van had faded. Unless the man had an accomplice, which he highly doubted, they were alone. The threat gone, he turned back to Charlie. His brother's lack of responsiveness was causing fear to grow inside him again, and he felt gingerly along the table, looking for the source of the light he had seen earlier. His hand hit wetness, slick and slippery, and he froze for a moment, knowing without seeing that it was blood. His heart was starting to thump painfully now, and he threw caution aside, groping frantically, as he moved to his right, down the table. His foot hit something and he stopped, swinging an arm out to his right, and it contacted a metal pole. It nearly went over, but somehow he grabbed it, and felt around the top of it awkwardly with his right hand. It was a studio work light, and he found the switch and flicked it on, wincing in pain as the bright light hit his eyes. Probably the same light the killer had used to film the videos, he reflected, as he turned…

He took in a breath, and stood motionless, arms half extended in front of him. The gaunt nude figure on the slab barely resembled his brother; barely resembled a live body. He'd seen corpses that looked better. Charlie was covered ugly bruises, both eyes blackened, his lower lip swollen and split. It was the blood, though, that rendered Don motionless, the blood covering his torso and dripping onto the table, the blood, and the six-inch gash in Charlie's abdomen. It was so shocking, it took a moment for him to realize his brother's eyes were open, and his lips were moving soundlessly. For a wild moment, Don had an image of a slash horror film; in which the corpse awoke and rose from the table – the walking dead.

He came to his senses and grabbed a towel – there was a pile of them there, and blotted gently at Charlie's abdomen, and gingerly pulled at an edge to inspect the wound. The cut was deep, through skin, but he could see what looked like muscle underneath. At least the gash hadn't entered the abdominal cavity. He pressed the towel on the wound gently with one hand, undoing the straps that bound Charlie to the table with the other, and looked into his brother's face. "Charlie. Charlie, it's Don. Can you hear me?"

He reached a hand out and gently moved a curl aside, but neither the touch nor the words seemed to have any effect. Charlie's eyes, at least one of them - the other seemed to be swollen shut - were focused on the ceiling. Every now and then, his lips would move but there was no sound, not even a whisper. Don felt a cold tendril of fear creep around his heart. As if in response, Charlie shuddered, and began to tremble. His gaze, though, was still fixed on some unknown point, a place not of this world. 'Broken bird…'

Don looked around wildly for clothing or a blanket. Cool mountain air was seeping in through the hole in the wall, and he feared Charlie might be going into shock. There was nothing but towels, and he eyed them for a moment, then grabbed them and set them on the floor near the wall. He returned to the table and gently worked his arms under Charlie's body, one under his shoulders and one under Charlie's legs, lifting him with a grunt of pain as agony knifed through his upper arm, which was making its own contribution to the pools and droplets of blood on the table and the floor. He backed up against the wall and slid to a sitting position, and then turned Charlie so he was sitting on his lap, his back to Don, his legs resting on Don's legs. Over Charlie's shoulder, he could see blood streaming from the wound in his abdomen, and he grabbed towels, bundling them around Charlie, laying one over his legs, hoping the towels and his body heat would keep Charlie warm enough to fend off shock.

Finally in position, he wrapped his arms around his brother, and pressed a towel to the gash in his stomach. Charlie's head was resting on his shoulder, and he leaned his cheek lightly against it, feeling the curls tickle his face. He knew they were in a bad situation; the other agents wouldn't even realize he was gone until morning, and then it could take a while to find him, and that was only if a signal could be picked up from his phone.

If not… He wouldn't think about that possibility. He'd finally found his brother, alive, and he refused to consider the alternative. "It's going to be okay, Charlie," he said again, firmly, with conviction. His words rang against the cold tile walls, echoing faintly, as if in mockery.

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End Chapter 28