Disclaimer: see first chapter.
Non-sharp objects for kas7, Kiddo, Helen88126, Karel, sara, Alexis Rose, dolphinology, Diena, pari106 and KatKnits00.
Well, I got really excited about this story, and since lots of people seemed keen for me to hurry up I finished this chapter a lot sooner than expected – hopefully that doesn't mean a drop in quality, though ;). I can't promise another chapter by Thursday, but you never know...
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Cabin Fever
Chapter 8
When he looked back on it later, Bridger would never be able to remember how he got to Lucas' doorway. All he remembered was the gunshot, followed by two more, and then somehow he was standing there, staring in horror at the scene within.
Hoyle lay spread-eagled face down on the floor, his head a bloody mess, his left arm flung out over Lucas' chest. The teenager was on his back, eyes wide and blank, staring at the ceiling, his face and shirtfront drenched in dark-red blood. For a moment, Bridger found himself unable to move, unable even to breathe; he felt as though something was choking him, squeezing his throat shut. And one thought kept repeating itself in his head: Not again. Not again.
Then he heard a tiny noise and saw Lucas' hand move slightly, where it was visible under Hoyle's ribcage. Strength flooded back into his body, and he leaped forward, hurling Hoyle's body aside as if it weighed nothing at all. "Lucas," he gasped, lifting the boy by his shoulders. "Lucas, speak to me."
Lucas just stared right through him, his eyes empty and lifeless. Then he blinked, and focussed on Bridger's face. "Captain?" he said, sounding confused.
Relief coursed through Bridger's body like cool water, and he closed his eyes, tears running down his cheeks, and hugged the boy tightly to his chest. "Oh, thank God," he whispered, feeling Lucas' hair, stiff with drying blood, brush roughly against his cheek. He didn't know how long they sat there, but finally he pushed the boy away, examining him more closely. "Are you hurt?"
Lucas shook his head, rubbing his forehead wearily. He pulled his hand away, then stared at it; viscous liquid dripped from it, and his eyes grew wide, the blue contrasting sharply with his maroon-stained face. "It's not mine," he said quietly. "It's not my blood."
There was a clatter in the corridor outside, and Westphalen appeared suddenly in the doorway, out of breath and gasping. "Nathan, what-- oh my God." She was kneeling beside Lucas in a second. Lucas looked up at her, his face filled with astonishment.
"He shot himself," he said in wonder, almost as if he was talking to himself. "He tried to shoot me, and then he shot himself."
"Just like down at the base," Bridger muttered to himself.
"What?" Westphalen looked round at him, frowning.
"The sixth man at the base. He killed all the others, and then he shot himself," Bridger said, louder this time.
Lucas looked over at Hoyle's mangled body, fluid still leaking from what was left of his head, and swallowed. Then he jumped to his feet and ran out of the room.
Bridger shot a glance at Westphalen, who nodded. "Go," she said. "I'll call the investigators."
Bridger gave her a grateful smile and was on his feet and out of the door almost in the same moment. It didn't take long to find Lucas: as he entered the men's bathroom he heard a retching sound from one of the cubicles. Gently, he knocked on the door. "Lucas? Are you in there?"
There was the sound of a toilet flushing then Lucas appeared in the doorway, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He started to speak, then froze, staring in horror at something behind Bridger. The captain turned, and saw that he was looking at his own blood-drenched face in the mirror.
"Oh Jesus," Lucas whispered.
Bridger put an arm round his shoulders. "Come on," he said firmly. "Let's get you in the shower."
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Lucas' room was a mess. Saarinen, the pale, waif-like investigator, was carefully inspecting the body. Westphalen stood outside in the corridor, her pants legs stained dark brown from kneeling on the bloody floor, looking exhausted. When she saw Bridger approaching, she stood up straight, her face taking on a concerned expression.
"How's Lucas?" she asked.
Bridger sighed. "He's in my quarters," he said. "I guess he's sleeping there tonight."
Westphalen nodded, and the two of them watched for a while as Saarinen went about her work.
"You know, none of this seems real," Westphalen said, breaking the silence. "It feels like years since I woke up this morning. So much has happened."
Bridger nodded, feeling weariness begin to creep into his own bones. It was late, after all, and it had been an unusually stressful day. "We should get some rest."
Westphalen closed her eyes. "I still have so much material to analyse," she said. "More now." She gestured expressively to the scene before them.
"It can wait till the morning," Bridger said. "It's not urgent. Not any more."
"Well." Westphalen hesitated. "I suppose you're right. I'll come and say good night to Lucas, then I'll go to bed."
Bridger nodded. "Let's go," he said, and the two of them turned their back on the carnage and headed back to something more closely approximating sane reality.
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Westphalen sat back and rubbed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. She had been working since the early morning, and the fact that she had hardly slept the night before wasn't helping. But she thought that maybe – just maybe – she was coming close to a solution. So much for all this rubbish about ghosts and supernatural presences, she thought irritably. Funny how the 'hauntings' have conveniently stopped now that Hoyle is dead.
Her thought was interrupted by the appearance of Captain Bridger at the lab doorway. He smiled at her sympathetically. "You look exhausted."
"Yes, well you would be too if you'd spent all day looking at blood samples," she snapped, then instantly regretted it. "I'm sorry," she said, in a gentler tone.
Bridger grinned. "There's no need to apologise. Believe me, you're not the only one who's cranky today."
Westphalen returned the smile. "Did Lucas get off alright?"
Bridger nodded. "I have never seen anyone so glad to be going on shore leave. Not even Krieg." He smiled slightly at the memory. "On the other hand, O'Neill seemed less than happy about his own little break from seaQuest."
"I'm not surprised," Westphalen replied. "I can't say I'd be particularly keen on baby-sitting a couple of teenagers who really don't think they need adult supervision. But I'm glad someone went along. I'm sure Lucas' friend – what was his name again?"
"Nick," Bridger supplied.
"Well, I'm sure he's very nice, but..."
"I know." Bridger sat down on a stool. "With Lucas in the state he's in, I want to be sure someone's keeping an eye on him. To be honest, I wouldn't have let him out of my sight at all, but being on the boat seemed to be making him worse. I had to pack a bag for him – he wouldn't go anywhere near his room."
Westphalen nodded. "I don't blame him," she said, almost to herself.
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O'Neill sighed and tried not to look too disgruntled as he turned the car onto a narrow road that led to the summit of a low hill overlooking the beach. He had a pounding headache – in fact, it was pounding to the exact same rhythm as the ear-bleeding music pumping out of the car's specially rigged sound-system. It seemed that being the designated driver didn't give him any control over the stereo, and as the bass thrummed through O'Neill's bones he decided that if Lucas ever got a car he was never going to get into it. If Nick – who was highly intelligent, but no genius – could do this to a stereo, he hated to think what Lucas would get up to.
Actually, he hated to think what Lucas was getting up to at that very moment. It seemed to involve rolling the top down, whooping and waving his arms in the air while his friend yelled "Go Frankie!" O'Neill wished, not for the first time, that someone else had been assigned this duty. He was torn between his sympathy for his young friend wanting to get it all out of his system after the last few nightmarish days, and his feeling of responsibility and, if he was to be honest with himself, distaste for his behaviour.
At that moment, Lucas stood up in his seat, and O'Neill jammed on the brakes and flicked off the stereo. "Lucas, sit down," he said, more sharply than he'd intended. Lucas, overbalanced by the car's sudden halt, fell forward against the back of the passenger seat, then sat down with a grin.
"What, you don't like the music?" he asked, laughing.
O'Neill closed his eyes, drew a deep breath and counted to ten. As he opened them again, he thought he saw a shadow moving on the dark road outside. Probably just a cat, he thought. "Guys, listen, I know you just want to have some fun, but cut me some slack here, huh?" He had to admit, as admonishments went, it was kind of wimpy.
"Ah, come on Tim, lighten up," Nick was grinning. O'Neill thought that if no-one ever told him to 'lighten up' again, it would be too soon. But he bit back the irritable remark that came to his lips.
"Put your seat-belt on," he said to Lucas as firmly as he could. To his surprise, the boy complied, shooting him a sympathetic glance. Tim nodded, and started the car, glad that there was no traffic on these dirt roads at this time of night. Overhead, the stars gleamed brightly, and the night air was balmy and smelt of tropical flowers. All the same, O'Neill suddenly felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
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Westphalen was bent over the microscope in the Med Bay when Bridger arrived. "You called?" he asked.
Westphalen nodded excitedly. "I think I may have found the key to all this."
Bridger raised his eyebrows, stepping closer. "Go on."
"Well, I analysed a sample of Hoyle's blood and compared it to the blood from the suicide in the base. I found that both had a large quantity of antibodies, more than one would expect in a healthy adult. When I looked closer, I realised that they weren't antibodies at all."
"What were they?" Bridger asked, his interest piqued.
"Viral cells, disguised as antibodies," Westphalen said triumphantly. "That's why I didn't catch them when I first analysed the samples from the bodies on the base."
"A virus?" Bridger stared at her in astonishment. "What kind of virus causes killing sprees and suicide?"
Westphalen shook her head. "I don't know yet. I don't know anything about it, how it's transmitted, how it affects the victim – but none of the other bodies from the base show the virus in their bloodstream, so we can assume it's not highly contagious."
"Well, thank God for that," Bridger said. "All the same, we should screen the crew."
Westphalen nodded. "I agree. Now that I've found it, it should be reasonably easy to concoct a vaccine."
Bridger frowned. "This doesn't explain the... strange incidents that the crew have been reporting."
Westphalen waved a hand dismissively. "Foolish superstition. They hear that something is haunted, and suddenly 'strange' things start happening. This is science, Nathan, not mumbo-jumbo."
Nathan opened his mouth to tell her about the odd feelings he had had in the shuttle bay, and then thought better of it. Luckily, at that moment Ryder walked into the room, carrying a box. Bridger turned to greet him, then frowned at the grim look on his face. "Something wrong?" he asked.
"We found the murder weapon," Ryder said, pulling a plastic bag out of the box. Inside was a long, wicked-looking knife, stained with blood. "The blood is Levin's," he said.
Westphalen shuddered. "Where did you find it?"
Ryder raised one eyebrow. "Wolenczak's room. Under the bed."
Bridger frowned. "Hoyle must have dropped it in the struggle."
Ryder nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought too. But Wolenczak's prints are the only ones on it."
Bridger stared at him. "What are you trying to say?" he asked, carefully.
Ryder didn't answer for a moment. Then he pulled a baseball shirt and a pair of jeans out of the box. "I found these in the garbage compactor." The front of each item was stiff and dark-brown; Bridger had seen that colour often enough to know what it meant.
"Those are the clothes Lucas was wearing when Hoyle shot himself," he said, blankly, wondering what this had to do with anything. He glanced at Westphalen, then did a double take – she was staring at the clothes, her eyes wide.
"No," she whispered, opening a drawer and pulling out a plastic wrapped bundle. "These are the clothes Lucas was wearing when Hoyle shot himself."
For a moment, there was a dead silence in the room. Then Westphalen turned, and called out in a calm, steady voice to an orderly who was working on the other side of the room. "Mr. Waters, could you bring me the blood samples we took from Mr. Wolenczak when he was here the other day?"
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O'Neill stared down at the beach below, sure he had seen somebody moving down there. He screwed up his eyes, wondering if he needed new glasses. Something brushed past his ear and he shivered, his hand moving convulsively to scrub at it. Now he remembered why he hated night-time in the tropics – the insects were as big as your head.
A hand tapped him on the shoulder and he turned. Lucas was grinning at him, thrusting a bottle into his hand. "You gotta try some of this, Tim, it'll take your head off."
O'Neill stared at the bottle suspiciously. "What's in it?"
"No alcohol. Scouts honour," Lucas said with an odd smile. Nick made a disappointed noise. "Go on," Lucas urged, ignoring him. "I made it specially."
Sighing, O'Neill took a gulp, swallowing reflexively, then grimaced. "I thought you said there was no alcohol in this?"
Lucas laughed, and Nick grabbed the bottle off him, taking a big gulp. "Jeez, Lucas, this is disgusting," he said. "What the Hell's in it?"
Lucas regarded him seriously. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."
Nick laughed and took another pull, grimacing. "Strong stuff," he said, handing the bottle back to his friend.
Lucas took a couple of gulps, and grinned. "Well, seeing as how Tim won't let us go to any bars, I thought we might as well have some fun."
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Westphalen sat back from the microscope. "He's got it," she said, uncomprehendingly, then turned to look at Bridger with an expression of pure horror on her face. "It was Lucas," she whispered. "Lucas killed Levin."
Bridger didn't need any more cues; he flipped on his PAL. "Commander, get me O'Neill," he said tensely.
There was a pause, and then Ford's answer came back. "He's not answering his PAL, sir."
Bridger felt a sick feeling wash over him. "How soon can we be at that island?"
"You mean the one where Lucas and O'Neill are on shore leave?" Ford sounded confused. "At full speed, maybe an hour?"
Bridger nodded. "Set a course, put a trace on O'Neill's PAL and keep trying to contact him," he said brusquely, flipping the PAL off without waiting for Ford's reply. Westphalen was still sitting, staring at him in shock. His nightmarish feeling of fear was threatening to overwhelm him, but he fought it back down. Stay focussed, he ordered himself. Stay focussed, and pray we find them in time.
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O'Neill was sure he could see someone standing down on the beach now. Of course, it could just be a local out for a walk, but Nick had said that this end of the island was deserted. He leaned forward, wondering why the night seemed darker than it had before. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with a fumbling movement, but when he put them back on the outlines of things were still blurry. He squinted, then turned to ask Lucas if he was having trouble with his eyes too. He was surprised to see both Lucas and Nick sleeping in the back seat. Oh well, he thought. Guess their youthful exuberance finally caught up with them. To be honest, he was feeling pretty sleepy himself. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Through the dark fog that drifted over his mind he thought he could hear his PAL chirping, and someone calling his name. He struggled briefly to concentrate on it, but soft hands kept pulling him back, and soon he gave up and allowed himself to slip gently into the darkness.