The Battle of Who Could Care Less – 36
Georgie Jones' seizures were five hours apart, like clockwork. They had her strapped to the bed and placed a rubber bit in her mouth in anticipation of the next attack. Michael's were almost seven hours apart in frequency but milder in severity than Georgie's. AJ was still unconscious but thankfully had not started to have seizures. Dillon wasn't so lucky; his were six hours apart and fierce. Carly was doing well, which was a relief. The blonde was alert and active, though Sonny wouldn't let her leave the hospital room she shared with her son. Edward's condition was worsening rapidly and Monica's prediction appeared to be correct. The old man wouldn't pass on due to the organ shutdown and cardiac arrest; the fever would get him long before that.
Jason shifted against the doorjamb, as of yet unheard, as he watched his grandmother sit by Edward's bedside. She held his hand, stroking the top around the intravenous needle that had been taped there. Edward slept on, periodically emitting frightened murmurs and small, choked groans. And still Lila sat, talking to him in her gentle, almost musical but very weary voice that offered the same reassurance and comfort as a mother's lullaby.
"There, there, darling," she murmured, her age-worn hands engaging his in as tight a hold as the old woman could manage. Jason frowned, noticing that her normally strong, clear voice was thin and breathless.
"I know you're in pain, Edward," she continued quietly, not knowing that she was being watched. Her back was turned toward Jason, who only received the slightest sliver of her profile, which was why the enforcer didn't see her slightly flushed cheeks and bright, hazy eyes.
If he had seen, he might have guessed that his grandmother was exhibiting early signs of the virus. Her fever had already started and she had been warm for a day or two before it began to climb steadily, dangerously. But the cough hadn't started yet and so her illness went unnoticed which was just fine with Lila, who preferred to sit by her husband's side than lie in her own bed halfway across the room. As always, the old woman knew exactly where and how she was needed most. And Lila never disappointed.
"I know it's hard," she added. "I don't know what you're thinking right now, dearest, but I need you to know what I'm thinking."
An orderly rushed through the hallway behind Jason, more lab results in his hands that needed to be in Dr. Quartermaine's as soon as possible. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear Noah arguing with his son about the virus' effects on the brainstem, neither one prepared to back down one inch from his professional opinion.
But Jason stood still, his eyes focused singularly on his tired grandmother as she continued to hold Edward's hand and offered him her unsurpassable strength the best way she knew how.
"If you need to go, Edward, don't hesitate on my account. For I fear, darling, that I won't be very far behind you."
Jason's heart constricted painfully in his chest and a fresh wave of tears made his eyes sting. But Lila didn't notice, for her attention was occupied first and foremost with her husband.
"Don't you worry about leaving me behind. I always told you that I would follow you wherever you went, however I possibly could…and I meant it. I love you, darling, and I will always remain with you."
It was too much for him and Jason turned on his heel, letting the door click quietly shut behind him, the sound instantly lost in the frenetic hum of the hospital that was poised on the edge of destruction. A chasm was opening at his feet and there was no way to make it across.
Closing a hand over his eyes, Jason slumped against the window and slowly slid to the floor. His grandmother had once told him that she never intended to give up on life, and that she knew where she was needed – with her insufferable, dysfunctional, perfect family - and that kept her going. And as always, Lila knew where she was needed. Edward would have nothing to fear as he lay in that bed: not when his wife held his hand the entire way down.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, not bothering to stem the tears that coursed slick paths down his rough cheeks. At that moment, he would have given anything – anything – to be able to hold Elizabeth's hand and tell her the same thing.
But he couldn't – because she wasn't here, and he didn't want her to be. He was already infected with the virus; according to Lucky, the whole town was. Elizabeth remained safe, untouched, and that was the only thing that made any of this bearable.
He remained seated where he was with no intention to move. The orderlies and nurses paid no attention to him as they raced through the winding corridors of the hospital like ants, relaying messages, conveying results, tending to the sick, and doing their best to keep moving because with stagnancy came hopelessness. They didn't stop to inquire about the young man in the motorcycle boots and the old jeans who sat on the polished tiles directly under the harsh fluorescent lighting.
After all, he was just one of many trying to deal with the ramifications of the deadly scourge the best he knew how.
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Luis Alcazar was a man among men. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and used to nothing but the absolute finest that life had to offer. When there was something he wanted, he didn't waste time asking questions: he simply took it.
It had always been that way, with money, power, territory, and women. Nothing was out of his reach; nothing was ever over the top. If he set his sights on it, it was as good as his. And no one ever stood in his way.
Luis Alcazar was a man that fashioned himself as invincible, and he wore it well. There was a deadly charm in his every measured footfall; the charm and irresistibility of a man who knew nothing of his limits and didn't care to. Life had been very kind to him, but he wasn't about to repay the favor.
Death was a necessary part of life, as far as he knew, just like loss and need. Watching the life slowly fade from the eyes of one of his victims didn't so much as make him flinch; it never did. Death and loss were entirely natural and necessary; if he were to get what he wanted, someone would lose it. If he didn't get what he wanted in an expedient manner, someone would most likely die as a direct result.
And that was why he didn't care much for the fate of Port Charles as it twinkled at him across the harbor. He stood at the starboard of his white yacht, the Sofia Querida, surveying his conquered territory as the boat floated in the inky black waters off the coast of the town. The docks were barely visible in the darkness, but he could clearly make out the outlines of the warehouses formerly owned by the Corinthos-Morgan outfit.
They were the most valuable of his newly acquired assets. And as usual, he had decided that he wanted them and had moved in for the acquisition. Help had been generously provided and Luis was quite pleased with the way the entire ordeal had worked out. It would have been more personally satisfying to him if he had been allowed to kill the Corinthos family, but it was all in good time.
He had been rather skeptical at first when Helena Cassidine had approached him. She was an old, withered woman that carried with her the grace and deadliness of a fallen queen. But her offer had proved irresistible: she would give him the resources to surround the town and control it in any manner he wished while her men rounded up Luke Spencer.
And he didn't care one bit what happened to the citizens of Port Charles. Several vigilantes that had dared to stand up to his men had already been disposed of and as he watched the distant lights twinkle, he knew there would be many more that would follow suit. As soon as Helena had Luke Spencer in her possession, he was fairly confident that she'd allow him to do as he wished with the rest of the hostages. And he had a bloodbath in the works: Corinthos' days were numbered, and he was eagerly counting down.
Taking one last pleased look at the town, Luis turned and strolled across the deck. His meeting had run a little late, but he was finally back aboard the Sofia and it was time to head below for a late dinner.
She'd be waiting for him, as she always was, dressed in a long white embroidered dress that complemented her warm golden skin tones and provided excellent contrast with her dark hair. He'd have his customary whiskey, she'd have white wine, and they would discuss the events of their days. It was one of the few dependable, pleasant moments of his days and he was certain to enjoy it tonight as he always did.
Two of his guards were idly conversing by the staircase as Luis descended and they handed him an additional folder with recently obtained information on both Helena and Corinthos. Luis tucked it under his arm as he always did and ducked into his study as he usually did before dinner, heading straight for the wet bar.
But tonight was special so instead of filling only a shot glass with his liquor of choice, the arms dealer decided to indulge in a glass of scotch. The ice tinkled as he walked out of the study, heading straight for her quarters. She would be ready and expecting him, most likely reading one of her fashion magazines as she waited for him to escort her to dinner.
He stopped when he reached her door and switched his glass to the other hand, lifting his to knock twice. Luis waited, not hearing her rushing toward the door to let him in, then knocked again.
Mildly annoyed, he dropped his hand to the knob, turning it easily since he had long since removed the lock from her door. He opened it slowly in case she was pulling it open herself simultaneously, but it was soon clear that she wasn't.
Her lights were dimmed when he stepped in and looked around, listening to discern whether she was merely in the washroom. But there was no sound in the room except for the waves as they lapped gently against the side of the boat in a reassuring rhythm.
But there was nothing reassuring about the sight that lay before him, and Luis' glass of scotch hit the carpet with a thud, sploshing out its amber contents when he found her sprawled out on the floor, unconscious.
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A small music box played in the background as Helena Cassidine sat on her lush armchair, her eyes slowly swinging back and forth between Luis Alcazar's pitiful little yacht and the weakened town of Port Charles.
The Cassidine Queen folded her fingers over her cane, caressing the large emerald amulet at the top. Port Charles was usually such a sleepy little hamlet, but not so tonight. For even though the lights twinkled lazily as they always did, she knew that not a soul in town was asleep.
No, they were all racing about frantically trying to find relief and respite from the horrible scourge she had unleashed upon them. It was one of her most triumphant moments: to see the normally proud little town sitting so lonely – so like a widow – on the dark, ominous waters of the harbor, poised to teeter into the bottomless abyss.
The streets that had once been filled with people were now empty, bereaved. Not a soul dared to come out, cowering from the nameless destruction that prowled the little alleys and friendly subdivisions with individually painted mailboxes. But despite that, she could sense the underlying frenetic anxiety as the entire town hummed and vibrated, trying furiously to save itself from annihilation.
She chuckled to herself, leaning back in the majestic chair. Try as they might, it would never work. No one would be safe – no one would find solace – until Luke Spencer was delivered to her yacht.
Her message had already been aired throughout the town and there was no mistaking her intention at this point. She had been very clear: Luke Spencer, or their lives. The ultimatum had been cryptic at best at that point, but not so anymore.
For now, she had no reason to believe that there was a single person in town who wasn't aware of the deadly virus that her men had transported along Luis Alcazar's newly acquired shipping routes and spilled into the water supply. They'd be dying by the dozen, and the popularity that the Spencers enjoyed wouldn't last very long.
No, the same town that championed their cause against her darling son Stavros and herself would soon rise, weakened from the illness but nevertheless determined – determined to bargain for their own lives with the lives of the Spencers. And she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
This time, there was no one to get in her way. Alcazar was clueless – a bumbling fop too focused on wealth and land to grasp the bigger picture. He was a petty little child into whose hand she had placed a shiny sixpence, and he'd wandered off to admire it and left her to her work. He was a charming sycophant at best and a nuisance at worst, but she could easily tolerate him – and dispose of him when she couldn't.
Luke and Lucky, her worthy foes, were in hiding. They were most likely holed up in that disgusting bar of theirs or still hiding in full view at Harborview Towers. Try as they would, and surely they made a brave effort always, the Spencer men simply didn't think big enough. They might put up some resistance with Luke's many connections and Lucky's technologically advanced ways, but even they had to know that they were only delaying the inevitable.
She would win, no doubt about that. This time, neither Luke nor Lucky had been able to see ahead and predict her next moves in that annoying way of theirs. They had fared admirably in Aguascalientes, but they had been four steps behind.
Elizabeth was the one she had underestimated. She knew that the girl was stationed in Calvillo but had chosen not to let that insipid Marco in on it. Instead, she was curious to see what the young woman thought she was doing. Elizabeth had proven far more courageous than Helena had ever given the little snip credit for – she had managed to not only find the necklace but smuggle it out of the country. It was the same necklace that Helena now wore around her own neck, and it glistened harshly in the dim golden light.
Little Elizabeth and that tired old Robert Scorpio had been easy enough to thwart. They had made their first mistake: they had underestimated her manpower and her scope. They had assumed that they were safe to conduct their pathetic research when her men were only two steps behind them, and it had proved their undoing.
It had been a shame to kill Elizabeth; after all, it would have been much more fun to watch her trade in her beloved Spencers for the well-being of herself and her slack-jawed, dead-eyed boyfriend, the insufferable Jason Morgan or whatever he was calling himself these days.
But she had to admit that things were neater this way. With the inconsequential but spirited brunette out of the way, blown into the Portuguese sky with her James-Bond-companion, a few messy little loose ends were tied up.
As usual, Sonny and Jason would prove ineffectual and weren't a threat at all. They had paid their price at her hands, and after she had Luke she was sure that Alcazar would get rid of them. Not that it mattered at all to her; Sonny and Jason were unimportant, piddling little men and she wouldn't bat a lash if they were living or deceased.
Her darling Nikolas, misguided young man that he was, would also be unable to put a stop to her plans. The dear boy was being held at Wyndemere, safely out of harm's way. The launch delivered fresh drinking water to him among other supplies every day so that he would remain untouched and the waterlines had been disconnected from those of the town's and attached to a separate supply. Her darling grandson, Stavros' own, would remain untouched by the deadly virus she had unleashed upon his worthless friends in Port Charles.
Andreas moved slowly in the background, brushing dust off the tiny music box on the decorated mantle before once again creeping into the shadows. She did so adore his silent, stealthy ways. In the darkness, she found his glittering black eyes and smiled slowly, wickedly.
It wouldn't be long now. Luke Spencer would soon be delivered to her doorstep. The battle would be over, the war won.
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The inky black water of the Port Charles harbor, contaminated to the last molecule, rose and rippled. But the strange movement was lost in the mass of waves and escaped even the most careful scrutiny. The disruption in wave pattern had not been caused by wind; indeed, it was as dead and breezeless a summer night as they came. Nor was it caused by fish, for those had long since migrated away or died, floating belly-up to the surface.
Still, the watchmen aboard both yachts didn't notice it. The stars twinkled from a distance, casting their pristine light on the jagged waves and reveling in the reflection. Water splashed onto the wood as a figure grasped the edge of the docks, using a foothold underneath the waves to hoist himself up. Another soon followed, but caused a smaller disruption.
The large puddle on the otherwise dry wood was larger now and quite conspicuous, but neither traveler paid that any mind. The first leapt onto the planks once there was no other in sight and nimbly darted into the shadows. The second followed as always, stopping only to drop a trinket into a large knothole in one of the wooden posts.
In one fluid motion the second figure disappeared as well, as if having dematerialized and vanished altogether. Not a sound was heard on the docks other than the quiet chirp of the crickets and cicadas, but something had shifted already that would undoubtedly aid the despairing town in its desperate struggle.
Robert and Elizabeth were back.
« Last Edit: Aug 7, 2006, 11:38am by Huma the Guma »