Author's note: I know it isn't December yet, but I was tired of reading and rereading this. I hope this interval doesn't disappoint.
Interval 8 – Decline
The clinic's sterilized white façade was illuminated in the combined, disconcertingly bright glow of three spotlights. Quentin's muscles shivered and he moved uncomfortably. He turned his neck to watch the treatment center's glass door, his view half-obscured by the center post of the Acura.
Commissioner Rowdy Betters pushed the door open and stepped outside, striding over to the car. He pulled the door open and slid back into the driver's seat.
"What the hell happened?" were the first words to leave his mouth. When he received no response, he glanced at Quentin. "I leave you and Jin to go back to HQ and the next thing I know, I get called out to the middle of nowhere where my car's been totaled and there's a pile of bodies. Did I mention one of them was missing his face?"
Quentin was aware that his heart rate was rising perceptibly. He looked away.
A tense moment of silence passed. Betters sighed and chuckled, finding the situation unbearably funny and horrible at the same time. "I can tell you… that took a hell of an explanation, and quite a phone call. You can be thankful they weren't civilians."
"Sorry, sir."
Betters glanced up sharply. "Would you mind explaining to me what the hell happened out there, not to mention this morning?"
"Is…" Quentin hesitated, watching one of his clammy hands rub over the corresponding pant leg. "Is Jin going to be alright?"
The F.E.A.R. coordinator let out a sharp breath. "She'll be fine. Tweezer'll take good care of her." He ran a hand tiredly over his face. "This is crazy. I used to have… some idea of what was happening. I thought that it was all over, since Fettel was dead. Now…" he cut off, fruitlessly gathering his thoughts.
Quentin opened the door and lurched out, leaving the door open.
Confused, Betters reluctantly left the vehicle, walking around the car to where Quentin was breathing heavily, doubled over the adjacent parking spot.
"What?" Betters blurted.
"I'm not feeling well, sir," Quentin uttered and doubled over, retching, but nothing came.
"Jeez," Betters muttered. He looked around uncomfortably, then he asked, "You hungry?"
No reply. "When's the last time you ate?"
"I don't know," the answer came, weak.
Betters watched the F.E.A.R. point man. Closing his eyes, he took in the sharp night air and heaved a sigh. "Alright, get in the car."
-
He waited nervously at the patio door of her house, hoping that she had heard his message and knew of his arrival – he had called her from a payphone, but had only gotten her answering machine.
From his position on her patio, he could see her kitchen and the living room beyond it. None of the lights were on. He glanced up, for the second time in as many minutes. The lights were all off upstairs as well. The house was silent; the windows were dead eyes on the dark façade.
Another five minutes passed before the kitchen light suddenly turned on. He looked up, and there she was, arms akimbo, scrutinizing him. She unbolted the door and threw it open.
"Get in, and make it quick," she hissed, staring. He brushed past her and entered the warm confines of her home. The adrenaline that had accumulated at the prospect of spending a night outside began to dissipate.
"Man, I need a beer," he sighed, and walked toward the fridge.
She turned, crossed her arms. "What happened to the target?" He turned and glanced at her. It was late, but she wasn't wearing her bedclothes. Clad in a tweed jacket and sober pants, she surveyed him with the cautious curiosity and condescendence of a cat.
"Don't fucking mention that bastard," he said in a low, dangerous tone. He pulled the refrigerator door open and thrust his disheveled head inside, looking for his quarry.
Her breath caught. "What happened to the others?"
He slammed the door and cracked open the cold beer he was holding.
"He fucking killed them, that's what," he spat bitterly, tilting the can against his mouth. She saw the blood on his hands. Her eyes flicked to the fridge door handle, which bore a bloody handprint.
She walked to the glass patio door and drew the blinds shut. She then strode to the counter, opened a drawer and began feeling around in it.
As she worked, she asked, "Didn't you try to stop him?"
"It was crazy! They couldn't do anything to keep from being killed, so I ran for it! What the fuck did you want me to do?" He set the empty can on the kitchen table and glared at her back.
She slowly screwed the silencer on. "Come again?" she called, glancing over her shoulder.
"Didn't you hear me? He's a-live. He's a fucking maniac! What did you –"
Genevieve Aristide turned, holding the pistol straight in front of her in her right hand. Her finger squeezed the trigger twice, expertly firing at chest-level. He crumpled with a surprised expression on his face, halfway through the archway leading into the living room. A moan escaped his mouth. Genevieve stared down at him.
"Sorry, but you were a liability." She watched the spasms subside.
The phone rang. Genevieve gave a start at the sound. She quickly picked up and was greeted by a low growl,
"You fucked up, Aristide."
"Senator, hello," she said, trying to brighten her voice. She stared wistfully at the blood draining from the lifeless body as it crawled across the floor toward the Persian carpet in the living room. She longed to hang up, to clean up the mess, but she was frozen.
"Don't you hello me. You've made the biggest mistake of your life today."
"Senator, you've reached me at a really bad time. Call back tomorrow and I'll be able to answer any questions you might have." Genevieve unscrewed the silencer and quietly put it and the gun back into the drawer, after having pushed the hammer back into its safe position.
The voice on the other end of the line took on a sharp, threatening edge. "Maybe you could clear something up for me right now. Perhaps you'd care to explain to me why the police are leading a manhunt across the state, looking for a man who is supposed to be dead."
"A manhunt?"
"Your lackeys are dead, Aristide. They're investigating the shootout as we speak. Now, what about my answer?"
For the first time, she couldn't find an answer. Her mind raced against itself in an exhausting marathon, but couldn't form words to justify the obvious problem.
"That's it, Aristide," the Senator said, irritated. "You're fired."
He pressed a firm finger against the telephone's plunger and began dialing a number long imprinted in his mind.
-
Genevieve stared long and hard at the receiver in her hand. Finally, she dropped it and walked to her broom closet. She extracted several rags, a roll of paper towels and a bottle of bleach. She walked to the corpse and set to work.
-
Rowdy Betters pulled into the "drive-thru" lane, stopping at the panel to bark the order to the employee inside the building. He leaned back in the seat, blinking his sore eyes with a little difficulty.
At a crawl pace, he maneuvered the car in front of the window, stomped on the brake pedal and waited for the employee to appear. The window slid open with a grinding hesitation, and a young woman peered out into Betters' car.
"It's 8.95, please," she said, surprised that two men sat inside the vehicle.
Betters forked over the cash, while the woman, bemused, scanned Quentin's face. The woman turned away for a moment, shoving the bill into the drawer, grabbing a few coins and taking the paper bag from the counter. As she reached out to hand the bag and the change to Betters, she asked, "Would you like some ketchup with that?"
Betters grunted. He shot a rapid sideways glance at Quentin, and decided, wryly, that the Point Man had had his fill of ketchup for the night.
"We're good," he mumbled.
"Thank you; have a nice evening." She slid her window shut as Betters moved on, without having bothered reciprocating.
Betters drove silently, watching the darkened road ahead. Quentin felt strangely self-aware as he ate, but was glad the food in his mouth gave him an excuse not to talk. The commissioner glanced at him.
"Hey, buddy – shit!" Betters had barely opened his mouth to speak when something appeared in the glow of the headlights. The front bumper of the sedan ran right through it. The dark form flew back with the impact and crashed into the windshield, causing cracks to smash into existence on its surface, before vaulting over and behind the car.
The car stopped with a squeal, in the middle of the road. Both men sat staring at the bloodied and cracked windshield for a long moment. Then, Betters tugged the seatbelt buckle free and stumbled outside.
"Aw… great," Betters growled, surveying the damage. The impact had left the car smeared with blood and the cracked windshield looked like a frozen river thawing in the spring. Quentin followed Betters to the back of the car, where the man lay in a broken and tangled heap on the ground.
Betters groaned and reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Quentin crouched down beside the body and felt for a pulse. The man's face was turned to the ground and his skin was slick with blood. Quentin put a hand on the cadaver's shoulder and turned him over.
Then, he realized. The lingering aftertaste of the fries turned bitter in his mouth. The uniform. The familiar features.
"Hey, what're you doing?" Betters began, tilting the phone away from his mouth, then muttered under his breath, "What the hell?"
He stared down at the remains of the Replica soldier. At the same moment, Quentin glanced up from the body, somehow expecting, no, knowing that he would see the somber form of Paxton standing in the darkness, eyes vapid, the same sad smile hanging from his lips.
"I will show you," his half-smile seemed to say.
He stood up, keeping his eyes on those of his brother, as though afraid he would vanish, disintegrate into a cloud of blackened shreds, as he had a million times before. Completely ignoring Betters, he began walking towards the shadowy apparition. Then, his pace quickened, turned to a steady lope, then a flat-out run.
Frustrated but not wanting to give chase, Betters was left shouting uselessly as he disappeared into the darkness, "Hey! Hey! Stop! Aw, goddamn it!"