He was the hunter. He walked the Washington, D.C. streets. He alone would have to stop them. Suddenly they went from an occasional infectee that he would have to search for to being everywhere. He couldn't kill them all. He would have to go for the most valuable targets first.
It was a cold February night. He wore a full length coat. Nobody suspected he had a pistol underneath it. Nobody expected what else he had hidden under the big coat. His primary weapon was a surgical instrument in the pocket though. Sharp, with weight. He preferred to get in close and make a quick, silent kill.
High ranking government officials. That's what he was after. He went to the Mayflower Hotel. The inauguration ball was held there. Senators, judges, important lobbyists and cabinet secretaries frequented their bar. He went in, but before he could select a target he saw the T.V. in the bar. His driver's license picture was on the screen. He listened with astonishment to the narrator. "Dr. Julian Sloan. Born 11-May-1968, Amesbury, Massachusetts. Height six feet. Weight, 175 lbs. Medium to athletic build. Dark brown hair, blue eyes. Sometimes wears glasses. May have disguised appearance to evade capture. Consider as armed and extremely dangerous. Suspected in the murder of a dozen improved people. He is improved. Repeat, he is improved."
He turned, trying to exit without looking like he was fleeing. He had a good disguise. He had shaved his head and had a long blonde beard and mustache on. He was wearing his thick glasses instead of his contacts. Yet he knew that he had gone from being the hunter to the hunted.
It seemed like there were infected police everyplace. It had to be his imagination. No, it didn't. They had made a broadcast on TV. Of course they would be upping the number of police. He was the target of a massive dragnet.
He passed cafes and restaurants and saw aliens talking on their cell phones with their blue tooth headsets. Were their eyes tracking him? Did they notice his face on the bar T.V.? Were they undercover cops? He didn't know. His face was still on the T.V., only now it had glasses and was bald. Then they added a dark beard. This was getting too close for comfort. He walked quicker, towards his car a few blocks away. He would have to get out of the city and pick a new place to carry on the battle.
He shouldn't have left the Mayflower Hotel bar. Once he saw his face on the TV screen he should have selected the best target and pressed the little switch in his pocket. It would be easy. He had thoroughly prepared with research on the Internet. Ironically, his raw material was aspirin from gallon sized bottles in the hospital that had expired. Throw away aspirin that he turned into picric acid and mixed with wax and Vaseline. A detailed Al Qaeda how to video he found on YouTube – "Explosive vests for martyrdom operations" gave him the rest. Under his coat he carried more than enough to do the job. He hesitated though. It was foolish, but he kept wondering how much it would hurt and for how long.
He quickened his pace and got in his car. He turned the ignition. Nothing happened. A car had pulled up right next to him and stopped so he couldn't get out on the driver's side. He checked the passenger's side but a dozen SWAT team officers in flak jackets with assault rifles were suddenly outside his car. "Dr. Julian Sloan. Exit the car, now."
There was one choice, one ultimate option left for him. He would send them all to Hell. He found the little switch in his pocket and pressed it.