A/N1 I found some extra time between bouts of Plato and Sartre. So, we move deeper into our twisty Halloween tale. No more updates until next week.
Thanks for the reviews and PMs. I admit I am unsure about the audience for this tale, so it would be a kindness if you dropped a review in the box as you leave, letting me know your thoughts.
Don't own Chuck.
Too Old For This
CHAPTER FIVE
Post-Modern Prometheus
Sarah tried for the millionth time to relax, just a little, to calm herself. The plane was full of people she loved-Rider, Casey, Carina. Beckman. But the center of it all, the man who had made her new life, a life she prized, possible, who had given her her son, was missing, somewhere deep in the Amazon rainforest.
Sarah looked across the narrow aisle at Rider. He was reading Doc Savage: His Apocalyptic Life. Rider loved that character, The Man of Bronze. The cruel irony of that particular title did not escape Sarah, though.
Rider was always a fully engaged reader, utterly absorbed. But Sarah noticed him looking out the window frequently, and she could see that he was bouncing one leg again, off and on. As in hers, Chuck was foremost in Rider's mind. She could tell he was trying to at least seem engrossed in the book, and that he was trying to keep his leg still. For her. He was worried about her. She wondered again at the way he oscillated between being a boy and being a little man. But then she smiled inwardly. His dad did that too but in the opposite way, between being a man and a little boy. God, Chuck, be ok! Sarah ached for her husband with a marrow-deep ache.
Her boy was worried about her. He was so like Chuck, putting others before himself. Her mind moved of its own accord to Chuck's secret, and to his keeping it from her. She knew that part of the story was just Chuck's story, his difficulty believing that those he loved most would stay. He had made progress with that over the years, but she knew that a splinter of anxiety was still in the flesh of Chuck's heart and had never risen to the surface so that it could be finally removed. And she knew, too, that she was, despite herself, another part of the story. It wasn't so much her stumbling still, once in a while, on The Three Words, it was something about her story.
When she and Chuck had formally dissolved their relationship with the government, CIA, and NSA, she had been picking up a few final things from her small desk in a large room of desks in Langley. She had hardly ever used it, but there were a few things in it she wanted to keep, including the photograph of Chuck that had been paperclipped to the file Graham had handed her when she was sent to Burbank. She had an electronic copy on her phone still, but she wanted the actual physical photograph she had held on that fateful day. Odd: until she'd retrieved the photograph from the desk, she hadn't remembered, but she had held the photograph in her hand that day and felt something stir inside her, shift. Of course, she had ignored it then, as she did so much of her inner life in those days, and she had forgotten it until now. She thrilled anew at Chuck's ability to touch her, at a distance, even before she knew him; it was one of the great and sacred mysteries of her life.
She had been standing, staring at the photo, when someone, a man, cleared his throat. He was behind her a little, off to the side, but he could see the photograph too.
"He was younger then, but he'll always be young; that's just the sort of man he is. It's one reason he is the man for you." Sarah recognized Dr. Leo Dreyfus' distinct voice. She found what he said enigmatic but enticing, and just as she turned to ask Dreyfus to be less oracular, he launched into a bit of a speech. Clearly, he had come prepared to say something to her.
"Sarah, I am glad I caught you before you left the building. I told them to call me when you did the final paperwork." There was a hint of urgency in Dreyfus' voice, but nothing panicky. Whatever he was going to say he considered important, but not an emergency. "I want to tell you something. Since we will are officially no longer doctor and patient, please consider it as offered from friend to friend." Sarah nodded, waiting.
Dreyfus looked around the empty room, nodded as if satisfied, then nonetheless dropped his voice. "Sarah, the CIA goes deep in you. It's not just the life you led as an agent after you were...conscripted," Dreyfus's always badly-hidden dislike of Graham surfaced for a moment in 'conscripted', still intense years later, "it is also the life you led before, the life with your father." He paused to let her consider his words.
"The categories the CIA uses to organize itself, its missions, its understanding of the world, the categories it uses to train its agents, those categories got into your mind at a still-tender age, and they meshed with the categories your father taught you. That's why this whole…" Dreyfus gestured vaguely, not at the room or anything in it but at Langley itself, "...unnatural life became so natural to you. The CIA's categories became the basic categories for you, not just on the job, but in general, in your whole life: friend and foe, threat and non-threat, secrets and lies...handler and asset."
Dreyfus cleared his throat and looked carefully into her eyes. "Chuck has never been your asset and he has always been your asset. I know it's a paradox. I also know you live it daily. You need to remember how easy it is for you now, still, and maybe always, to default to handling him, to making him your asset. Fight that."
Dreyfus had, much to Sarah's shock, then given her a hug. He whispered to her hoarsely, "I want you to know I'm...invested in you two. I have seen so much misery on this job, so much, but I have only this once seen the promise of so much happiness. I want you two to keep that promise, keep it for each other, of course, but a little for me too." With that, Dreyfus had pulled away and, without a backward glance, disappeared into the bowels of Langley.
She never saw Dreyfus again, although Beckman once did let it slip that although he had retired, he sometimes contacted her to find out how Chuck and Sarah were doing.
His words rang in her ears even now, out of memory. "Fight that."
Sarah had fought it. But she also knew that Dreyfus had chosen his words thoughtfully: 'default'. Sometimes still, when Sarah let her guard down or got upset, when she was afraid for Chuck, she became Agent Walker again. It was less frequent these days. Rare. Most of the time, Agent Walker was an increasingly shadowy figure, a distant, insubstantial memory.
But now and then she materialized, and Sarah knew that her reappearance was a stumbling-block to Chuck each time, that it made him question himself. Chuck's secreted Intersect was a response to the shadow of Agent Walker. Maybe that didn't quite make sense, examined cooly and rationally, but it was true, she realized. He had hung onto the Intersect, no doubt because of Ellie's worries about removing it harming him, but Sarah knew it was more because he was worried about it harming them.
ooOoo
Casey sat down in the seat opposite her. He had gripped Rider's shoulder as he went past him, and Sarah was warmed and touched by the look of fondness and respect Rider had sent Casey. She knew how much Casey cared for Rider.
Casey sat down heavily, trying to keep worry off his face since he knew Rider was watching them. "I'm glad you and Beckman reached out. Didn't get a chance to say that earlier, in the press and confusion. We'll get him. Clever boy, putting that tracker on the phone."
Rider, overhearing, joined in. "Yeah, I had no idea what Dad meant when he told me that I could use my phone to find him."
"I think he had in mind the mall or an amusement park, Rider, but still…" Sarah looked from Rider back to Casey. "I just wish the signal had been more exact, and lasted longer."
"Me, too. We know where he is within a ten-mile radius, but ten miles of dank jungle." Sarah's eyes widened a bit and Casey caught himself. "But, no problem, we'll find him, get him out."
But there was a problem and Sarah knew it all too well. The tracker Chuck had used, whatever it was (it seemed to be one he had built himself) was not constructed to provide a location at such a distance, and so the signal was 'diffuse', and there was no way to pinpoint his location. Even worse, the signal had faded and eventually died. No one was sure why. So all they had was a vicinity, a vicinity in some of the most hostile, difficult terrain on the planet.
The one hopeful fact was that Wheelwright had to have a way to reach whatever hole he had crawled into. There had to be some path, trail, or something. Some way to reach Chuck. There had to be. Sarah prayed Wheelwright hadn't moved him.
Beckman had flown them all to LA. They met there, Beckman included. Although this was not officially a government-sanctioned op, Beckman was running it and funding it. She'd made sure that Casey and Carina could help and then brought them in. Sarah was profoundly grateful. She was so distracted by worry she wasn't sure she could have planned it all, overseen it.
Sarah had initially planned to leave Rider with Gina, but then the thought of being without both her husband and her son chilled her heart. She would keep Rider out of harm's way, of course, but she would also keep him near. She felt better, calmer, just being able to see him. Yes, it created complications, but they would just have to deal with those. She needed her boy. He needed her.
Sarah sighed. Chuck had been taken Friday night or Saturday morning. They'd fought the spiders on Saturday. Sunday morning she had discovered Chuck's location on Rider's phone. The day on Sunday had been spent organizing herself and Rider, and coordinating with Beckman. Monday she and Rider had reached LA. They spent the day in planning, waiting for Casey's flight and then for Carina's and Beckman's. Tuesday had been consumed by more planning, and gathering needed supplies. Finally, very early on Wednesday morning, they had taken to the air, heading south, to Brazil, to search for Chuck in a jungle once described by an early explorer as "The Green Hell."
ooOoo
They eventually arrived at Cuiaba, Brazil. They deplaned and climbed into SUVs that met them on the tarmac. Men showed up who moved their supplies into the rear of the vehicles. They left the men on the tarmac and they drove into and through the city. After passing out of the city, they kept driving until the landscape became less and less marked by human habitation. They were headed vaguely toward Bolivia. As the roads became increasingly primitive, the forest around them grew in density. It seemed...it was...a living presence, brooding slow and long and verdantly, beckoning and defying visitation. Dusk was gathering thick and dark.
They stopped finally in a small village. There was a large wooden structure there, a house, and Casey pulled into the dirt yard in front of it. They got out of the cars. Rider was staring wide-eyed all around him. Carina was sniffing in distaste. Beckman simply marched into the house. Sarah and Casey followed her, and Rider and Carina followed them.
When they got inside, Beckman had crossed the room to a table and had taken a map from the briefcase she carried. She unfolded it and smoothed it out.
"We are on one edge of the vicinity of Chuck's signal. This is almost certainly the way that Wheelwright would have entered the jungle. Someone here-we'll start asking tomorrow-will have seen him. It's too late tonight to start that process. The man through whom I secured this house will bring some of the villagers by tomorrow. Tonight, we need to rest. Tomorrow, Casey and Sarah will head into the jungle, assuming we find Wheelwright's trail. Rider, you will stay here to help me and Carina. There's an all-terrain vehicle we can use here, and I have already made it clear that we need it. But eventually, wheels will not work, only feet will. We have to hope that somewhere in the interior, there is a passable route to Wheelwright. There must be. We just have to find it. I have some calls to make. You should get some rest."
ooOoo
Sarah and Rider had a room to themselves with two cots in it. Sarah and he pushed the cots side-by-side, then got ready for bed. The cots had mosquito-netting. They got in and each put the netting over herself or himself. They rested there in the dark and humid heat.
"Mom?"
"Yes, Rider. What is it, sweetie?"
"Tell me again it's going to be alright. Tell me we'll find Dad and go home."
Sarah had tried always to tell Rider the truth (at least, when she thought he was old enough to hear it). She and Chuck had agreed. They had both been raised among lies. But she did not know what to say now. After a moment, she heard her voice, but sounding like Agent Walker, not like Sarah Bartowski. Cool, focused, dangerous.
"I will find him, Rider. I will bring him home."
She could sense that what she said had reassured him, despite the sound. They were quiet again for a moment and then Rider spoke once more.
"You know, Mom, sometimes you are kinda scary." Sarah felt her chest tighten but Rider went on. "I'm glad that you can be scary sometimes. You're never scary to me. And I know you can save Dad."
Sarah blinked as if suddenly blinded, there in the dark. She held herself still and listened as Rider's breathing evened out, and he gave in to exhaustion. Then she did too.
ooOoo
Chuck woke up. Actually, woke up.
But he had no idea where he was. Above him, he could see bars, and beyond them, some kind of see-through plastic. He suddenly thought of spiders, and he sat bolt upright, wiping at his chest with his hands in a panic. But there was nothing there. He looked around. He was in a long, low cage, built out of some kind of wood. Around the cage was what looked like a giant plastic sandwich bag. He could sit up on his cot, but he would not be able to stand. Fresh air, heavy and humid, but not stale, was blowing across his face. Outside the cage and the plastic, although obscured by the plastic, he could see a room. There were several laptops open on a long wooden table, and a large collection of vials and bottles, many containing odd-colored liquids, on the table too. There was a large cylinder near his cage, and there were tubes running from it to the plastic wrapped around him. He was sweaty and he felt...bizarre. He heard birds outside, although he could not quite tell from which direction he heard them.
His head began to ache horribly. He squeezed his eyes shut, but tears escaped because of the pain. But then the ache began to subside. Soon it was just a throbbing, painful background against which everything else of which he was conscious stood.
Chuck had no shoes on. His Chuck's had vanished, along with his socks. He looked at his arms. There were red marks up and down them. Some looked like injection spots, others like...bites.
He let himself fall back onto the cot. Sarah! Rider! What the hell had happened to him. He forced himself to think through the throbbing pain. The last thing he could remember was making love to Sarah after they had gone to bed on...what was it? Friday night. He blushed at the memory and smiled at it too, despite everything. Sarah! What day was it? He had absolutely no idea. He forced himself again to think. What had happened? Slowly, as if rising up from an ancient tar pit, memories began to surface.
Spiders. A page of poetry. A finger writing in the dust. A singsong voice. Horrible dreams. More and more horrible dreams. Spiders again.
He had no memory of being taken and he showed no standard signs of physical violence. How had it happened? But then another memory surfaced from the deeps of the tar pit, temporally discontinuous from the others, but somehow relevant. A memory of shapes and pictures...a memory of the Intersect. But it wasn't the one Bryce sent him. It wasn't any version that he could recall...Unless it was the first one, the one he'd downloaded when he sneaked onto his Dad's computer. The first one. His secret. The one thing he'd kept from Sarah. The big thing.
He'd never remembered it like this before. He remembered that he had watched the screen on his Dad's computer. He remembered feeling odd afterward, and his Dad telling him that he was special. But he'd never been able really to remember what he had seen, not until now. He did not know what it meant. The memory came trailing feelings of guilt. His first thought was that is was guilt he remembered feeling for sneaking onto his Dad's computer, but then he realized that it was not the memory of guilt but a current feeling of it. And he knew it was guilt that he had carried ever since he begged Ellie and Beckman to let him keep this one Intersect secret. It was guilt about keeping it from Sarah. No secrets, no lies: but he had repeated that with his fingers crossed, so to speak. No secrets, no lies: except this one. He should have told her. He should tell her. He would tell her if he ever got out of this Hefty sandwich bag. His head began to throb more insistently, and he lost the ability to direct his own thoughts. He slipped back into a deeply troubled sleep. He dreamt of kaleidoscopic bursts of images...and legions of crawling spiders.
ooOoo
Chuck woke up again. The pain in his head had died away. Thank God, he hadn't. He was alive.
He sat up again. It was dark. His arms itched. He scratched at them absently. He could tell very little about what was around him, although he assumed he was where he had been before. The cot seemed the same. Eventually, he could see that one of the laptops was turned so that its screen faced him. He tried to make out what was on the screen. It took a minute. It was an anatomical drawing of a spider. Chuck shuddered, a memory he couldn't quite make out affecting him nonetheless.
And then he heard them. The light from the screen was just enough, as his eyes adjusted, to make them out. Spiders, many, many spiders, all crawling on the plastic. The other side of the plastic, Chuck realized, and he almost shouted in relief. That's when he realized his throat was raw and burning. On a low table next to his cot, there was a canteen. He opened it and sniffed. Water. He smelled nothing else, although who knew what might be in it? Still, he had to have it. He tilted the canteen up and drank thirstily. When he had slaked his thirst, he put the canteen down. He realized the spiders were watching. Just then, the laptop screen went dark. If the spiders were still watching him, and he could feel them doing so, he couldn't return the favor. He was blind in the dark. After a little while, he fell asleep again.
ooOoo
"Chuuu-uuck! Oh, Chuuu-cky! Time to take your medicine." Chuck willed his eyes open. He could see wisps of vapor or gas all around him. He throat was scorched. He tried not to breathe, succeeded for a bit, then had to gulp air and the gas in. His vision stretched and distorted. He heard himself giggling, then sobbing. Later, a moment, a millennium, he felt something with webs, no, wires, get attached to him. And then he yielded to the pain and blackness, and to dreams again of images and of spiders, of spider images and spidery images and imagistic spiders and….
ooOoo
"So, Dr. Wheelwright, is it working?" Chuck heard the voices like the dialogue in a bad play.
"Yes, it is working. It is slower than I hoped, but we are getting there. The depth at which the Intersect sits in his psyche gives us access to regions below consciousness but which affect consciousness, to parts of his brain so primitive they are shared with...other, lower life forms. His primitive Internet has allowed us to pull up the false bottom of consciousness and to let new things crawl in."
"Like these?" The voice seemed to be pointing.
"Yes, just like these. Slowly, slowly, I am mixing two minds that would have seemed impossible to mix, minds of completely different kinds, even of different orders. One arachnid, the other human. The mind that will result will be arachnoid-humanoid. A new kind of monster, one born from nightmares and fit to create them. Revoltium and the Intersect combined."
"Very good, Dr. Wheelwright, very good. Soon?"
"Yes, soon. He will be the prophet of Arachnophilia: the love of spiders. I am a kind of Prometheus, you see. I am not stealing the fire of the gods and giving it to human beings. I am stealing the fire of human consciousness and giving it to the eight-legged, a new light in their dark. All minds eventually one, all distinctions abolished!"
Silence. The other voice cleared its throat before speaking. "And you will sell him to the highest bidder? To me...I hope? I mean I have funded all of this."
"Of course, of course. To the highest bidder. To you, if it is you. Do you really believe I create monsters for their own sake?"
The other voice seemed to start to say something, then chose not to respond.
A/N2 Tune in next time for Chapter 6, "The Green Hell". Creepers and venomous critters and crazy villains. Adventure, adventure. Creepers, yes, but less creepy, if you know what I mean. Leave a review, please, to help keep the spiders at bay.
