Title: Shall We Play A Game?
Author: FraidyCat
Disclaimer: per diem
Invitation: Remember, this is the readers' story. I was truly intrigued by some of the suggestions that came my way after chapter one. It's cute that many of you are guessing at what "I" might have in mind -- as if you don't trust me, or something. "I" have nothing in mind -- you all are to blame for this one! I am tempted to write more than one scenario. In the end, something Ms. Graham Cracker said made the decision: poor Charlie has suffered nearly everything by my keyboard already; therefore, I'm going to have to go with Sarah's suggestion – bioterrorism -- since I have not done that yet. (I actually did the sleep deprivation thing somewhere; nice research effort, though!) The bioterroristic agent I have chosen has cumulative effects, so in a manner of speaking, it is also a "slow poison", which several others suggested.
Please keep playing. You can suggest plot devices or twists; or, perhaps you have a favorite line you've always wanted to see in fanfic. Tell me what it is, and I will try to work it in.
giggle... Are we having fun yet?
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Chapter Two: Sarah's Revenge
The trip to the hospital was interminable.
Charlie had regained consciousness after only a few seconds, but he was slightly confused and lethargic. Still, he protested when Don instructed Colby to call 9-1-1. "I'm all right," he had insisted, now in a sitting position, leaning against the wall of the conference room. "I've been coming down with the flu, or something."
Don, squatting next to him, gratefully accepted a cold bottle of water from David, who had come running when he heard the shouts. Don passed the water on to Charlie and shook his head. "Damn it, Chuck, you could have told me. Anytime I come to you with a job – you have the right to turn me down, you know!" He was working himself into a righteous lather. "I can't believe you stayed up working on this when you were sick – and then came in to brief us, even though I told you on the phone we already closed the case!" Colby cleared his throat and Don stopped ranting abruptly. This was not the time for browbeating Charlie – he could save that for later.
Charlie sipped delicately at the water, almost too weak to lift his arm to his mouth. He grimaced as he let the limb fall heavily to his lap, seemingly unaware of the water that sloshed out of the bottle and onto his jeans. "I couldn't sleep anyway," he rasped, starting to lose his voice. "My back hurt too much to lie down."
"What else?" Don demanded, and Charlie met his eyes with his own briefly before he let his gaze wander to Colby, who had joined them on the floor.
"Maybe a little headache," he finally admitted.
Don's hand shot out and made contact with Charlie's forehead. His brother tried to jerk away, but was stopped by the wall. Don emitted a cluck of disapproval and started to stand. "That's it. You're burning up, sweating like a potbellied pig. You're weak – you just passed the hell out, dammit! You're going to the hospital, Charlie. We can do this the easy way – or we can do this the hard way; either way, we're doing this."
It took all three of the agents to get Charlie on his feet and down to the lobby of the FBI building. Don regretted giving his brother a choice of transport almost immediately – he should have called the ambulance. His worry increased with every stagger of Charlie's step, and his attitude soured proportionately. When they finally exited the elevator in the lobby, Colby helped navigate Charlie toward a small waiting area and then sprinted off toward the parking garage. There was no way they were getting the youngest Eppes all the way there, so they quickly decided to bring the vehicle to him.
Don and David gave Charlie a few minutes to rest. While they were standing over a harshly-breathing mathematician in the waiting area, David thought of the wheelchairs kept in the First Aid Station. There was at least one on hand for in-house emergencies, or visitors to the Bureau who needed to borrow one; the tour was a lot longer than some were expecting. "Be right back," he muttered in Don's direction, and was gone before Don could even ask where he was going.
At the same time, Don's cell chirped. He yanked it off the waistband of his jeans so hard that the clip on the back of the case broke. Pieces clattered across the floor as he jammed the phone to his ear. "Son of a bitch," he growled into the cell. "What the hell do you want?"
There was a moment of silence, and then the decidedly-frosty tones of his superior. "I was rather hoping for a run-down on the Mitchell case," he heard. "I realize your team is short-handed, and just caught the case this morning, but the press is all over this one."
Don sat down heavily next to Charlie on the tasteful leather couch. He closed his eyes. "Assistant Director. My apologies. I'm…my…that is…I have a personal issue," he finally managed.
A.D. Wright's voice didn't thaw any. "Surely your personal issue does not require the attention of Agents Granger and Sinclair?"
Don glanced at Charlie, who was listing dangerously close to the edge of the couch, his own eyes closed. A fine sheen of sweat covered his pale face. "I need one of them to drive," he countered. "Dr. Eppes became ill during a briefing and I'm taking him to the hospital – but I'm not comfortable driving him without…some back-up…."
Wright's voice took on a tad more warmth. "Perhaps you should just summon an ambulance," he suggested.
Don stood again, started pacing. "I probably should have. But this'll be faster, now." He tried to calm himself down. He was an experienced federal agent, for Pete's sake, and here he was letting a case of the flu rattle him worse than a bank robbery. He glanced at Charlie again. "He just doesn't look good," he practically whispered. "I want to get him there as soon as possible."
Wright's tone became clipped and businesslike. "Of course. Have Agent Granger drive; he's like a bat out of hell behind the wheel. If you can spare him, please send Agent Sinclair back to the bullpen."
"Of course," Don agreed. "Thank-you, Assistant Director." He had just disconnected when David jogged into sight, pushing a wheelchair. Don sighed in relief, and hoped again that he was doing the right thing.
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Sarah Sampson picked up another half-gallon carton of milk and poured it down the drain. No doubt the infamous "Bernie", of Bernie's Diner, would be pissed when he opened up in the morning and discovered that there was no milk for the breakfast crowd. He would yell at her for not ordering enough, or letting him know. Not that it was of any concern to her.
She had done her job; performed her task well, and soon she would re-join the others. They would fine-tune their press release, and plan the next strike. When the coalition leadership had agreed unanimously that it was time to get the attention of the masses, she had been thrilled. Joe would be vindicated.
He had given his life for the coalition. He had been one of the original five. They had met during a sit-in at Berkely. Their attempt at peaceful protest had resulted only in suspension, and soon the three men and two women dropped out altogether. They formed their own underground movement. They started slowly, by publishing propaganda. They tried to point out the error of everyone else's ways. They tried to show the selfish, arrogant fools how to live a life more in harmony with the universe.
L.A. was nothing if not the center of self-indulgence, however, and the effect of the group was miniscule. It soon became apparent that more radical means would have to be considered. A research committee was formed. They spent hours reading old newspaper stories and books written about protest groups in the 60s. Then, a membership committee began actively recruiting at several California campuses. Sarah had attended her first meeting as a freshman at UCLA. Within months, she had dropped out of school and was living communally with several other Planet Green members.
It was in that first dingy apartment in East L.A. that she had fallen in love with Joe. Oh, she willingly let herself be passed around in the beginning, to whomever wanted her, but it was Joe who made her feel pleasure. The experience was mutual, and he began to claim her as his territory. Even when he was gone – raiding construction sites for C-4, breaking into homes in search of weapons – the others would leave her alone. They respected Joe, and by extension, they respected her. Sarah and Joe spent two years working side-by-side to insure that the world became a better place. She even began to fantasize that one day, they would win. One day, they could live in the open, like any other couple. They might even have a family.
Then Joe had been killed.
Viciously murdered by the pigs who declared marshall law their right. Joe and two of the others had cased the armory for months. A successful break-in there could set them up for good – no more nickel-and-diming it at personal residences. They had set-up a replica for rehearsals, and even managed to plant a civilian employee inside for a while. Alas, the woman, working as a temporary secretary, was not there long enough to learn of the back-up alarm system. Miguel had efficiently disarmed the main system, and the trio had brazenly entered the armory, taking their time sorting through the weapons and ammo, and carting them out to the van. They never suspected that a second, silent alarm had been sounded. They never saw the pigs surrounding the armory.
Not until a sniper shot Joe in the head as he started to climb into the driver's seat of the van.
Despite "official" reports, Sarah and the rest of the coaliton knew the truth: The FBI hadn't even given them a chance to surrender – not that they would have, she admitted. In vindictive grief and heartbreak, coalition leadership had turned it up a notch. Sarah was planted at Bernie's, Aaron broke into a lab and came out with some Brucella bacteria, and the rest was easy.
Contaminating the milk was simple, albeit carefully done. Sarah's duties at the diner included closing up at night, so she had a key. Therefore, it was nothing to exchange the contaminated milk with the milk already in the cooler. For two weeks, she had fed the tainted product to all customers, regulars and first-timers alike. Today, almost half of the usual crowd didn't show for dinner, and there had been murmurings of an especially virulent flu making the rounds. It was time to dump the milk. In a week, she would quit – if Bernie didn't fire her first, of course.
She almost hoped he would.
She ached to return to them, to her family, to her life.
It was possible the brucellosis would kill some, if it was not discovered in time. There could be severe central nervous system or pericardial infections. Sarah had sat and listened to the research team's reports with the rest of coalition leadership. In the end, though, she found herself unable to care.
As far as she was concerned, they all deserved to die.