AN: Hey, guys! Sorry this chapter is a little late. My Easter weekend was a busier than I thought it was going to be...But on the plus side, I saw Fast and Furious! And it was amazing. Seriously, I recommend it. Awesome! And they're already making a fifth one. *psyched* Which reminds me...I need to get to my Psych fic, Killing Queens and Dancing Bees. Okay, I'm on it, Kats and Kittens. Enjoy!
Chapter Four:
James Hollock frowns when a scrawny, pale young man is roughly ushered into his interrogation room.
"Sir." The soldiers snap a quick salute and exit as they are dismissed, the door shutting with a heavy clang behind them.
Hollock studies John Dorian—the John Dorian—and is distressed to find himself less and less impressed with the man that has led a rebellion against them, the man that has eluded them for so long.
Dorian is tall. His medical scrubs hang on him loosely. His hair is dark and disheveled; it contrasts starkly against his near-translucent skin and his cold, blue eyes. Blue eyes, like Hollock's. Blue eyes that weren't meant to see the things that they have seen. Blue eyes that convey anger and exhaustion.
Weary blue eyes that are sick and tired of this war.
"Have a seat, Mister Dorian," Hollock says gruffly, gesturing to the seat across the metal table from his own.
Dorian, hands bound uncomfortably behind his back, doesn't miss a beat. "Doctor," he corrects blatantly, his tone quiet but firm, "Dorian-Cox."
The general frowns. He hadn't believed the rumor that higher-ups had passed on to several bases. He thought it was a cover-up, a miscommunication. Now, the words that had been passed to him emerge from his memory: My name is Doctor Percival Dorian-Cox.
John Dorian-Cox.
Suddenly, this surrender makes sense.
"Have a seat," Hollock repeats, his words hard and clipped. Dorian moves forward, and the general notes the young man's limp, saying nothing until the other has awkwardly seated himself. Hollock links his fingers, placing his hands on the table in front of him. "You're not what I expected." He watches the other carefully, awaiting a smug look or a smart remark.
But the young man merely nods, the corners of his lips drawing downward and accentuating the hollowness of his cheeks. "I'm not exactly what I expected either." His eyes never waver from Hollock's, their sharp color almost inhuman. "But sometimes people change when circumstances call for it."
The general ignores the statement. He doesn't like being preached to—and if this is the so-called leader of the rebel faction, a man of words, not action, then Hollock pities the enemy. How they have stayed out of their grasp for this long is a miracle.
The older man looks to a place on the table beneath his hands, a place where a folder should be. But the spot is empty, and Hollock is a little unnerved by this. His life as a commanding officer is files. Reading, writing, alphabetizing—three things he hates but three things that give him the comfort of knowledge, of understanding history and strategy and mechanics and people, especially the enemy. The young man sitting before him now is an enigma. There are no files on him, no traceable history, no social security number, not even a photograph. This man does not exist.
Yet here he sits: John Dorian-Cox.
"You shouldn't be here," Hollock murmurs absently, not meaning to let the words from his thoughts form on his tongue.
Dorian must misinterpret the meaning. "You have one of our operatives." He shifts, the chair beneath him squeaking unsteadily. "I'm offering a trade. Me for her."
The general looks up from his hands, his eyebrows furrowing tightly beneath his forehead. "And what makes you think we'll comply now that we have you in custody?" He huffs, sitting back in his chair with arrogance. "What makes you think you can trust us?"
The young man's lips twitch with what can only be amusement. Hollock finds this annoying. "I don't," Dorian admits bluntly, shrugging as best he can with his arms behind his back, "but I know who you are, General Hollock." The general stiffens as the young man leans forward, his next words hushed like he is revealing a secret. "There isn't much I don't know. And you know that Jordan Sullivan has nothing to do with any of this." All amusement fades from his face. "I'm worth more. So you will let her go."
Hollock grinds his teeth. He knows he should say something, deny something, do something. His superiors need to be informed. There is a leak; this man knows more than he should. Or does he? Is he bluffing? He knows Hollock's name, addressed him by the right title—he's only recently been promoted. He could have overheard a soldier say the name. But the soldiers know not to speak around prisoners unless with a commanding officer present. He needs more information.
"What do you know about me?" he demands. The young doctor sits back, a sigh escaping him as he stares back at Hollock tiredly.
0 o 0 o 0
JD can feel his body starting to shut down. He's exhausted. Any longer in this interrogation room and he's not going to be able to keep up his shield. And it would be a shame to break down in front of this man. It really would.
General James Hollock.
JD studies him for a moment. His hair is peppered and cut short against his scalp, the beginnings of a receding hairline apparent. He can't be older than fifty. But he looks much older and gruffer than the last time JD saw him.
Hollock obviously doesn't remember him, but JD never forgets a former patient—or, in this case, a former patient's father.
0 o 0 o 0
//Jeremy Gale Hollock is eleven-years-old when his parents bring him to Sacred Heart. He's been having headaches and random nosebleeds for a couple of weeks. His mother finally decides that something is wrong, and his father is convinced to take him to the hospital.
Jeremy is nervous as he sits on a cold examination table, his feet dangling a good foot-and-a-half above the floor and his hands wringing in his lap. His fears are quelled, however, when he meets Doctor Dorian, who tells him he can just call him JD.
JD is funny and strange. He makes Jeremy laugh with his jokes and his weird mutterings. After a few tests and many boring questions, JD tells the Hollocks that he would like to schedule Jeremy for an MRI. Mrs. Hollock looks worried, but JD assures her that it's just procedure for the symptoms that Jeremy is presenting, though the boy can see something in JD's eyes that tells him differently.
A week later, Jeremy is transferred to the intensive care unit. The doctors don't know what's wrong with him. They've never seen anything like this sickness before. It gets worse. Jeremy coughs up blood. He's kept up all night by tremors and sweats. His body aches—always aches. He's scared.
JD visits him everyday—even on his days off. He tells him funny stories and sneaks him the good pudding from the cafeteria. Sometimes he'll spend the night with Jeremy in the hospital room when his parents have to be away.
One night, Jeremy wakes up to find JD sitting in a chair by his bed, his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking.
"JD?"
The doctor sits up abruptly, the dim light from the lamp overhead reflecting off the tears on his cheeks.
"Jeremy." JD sniffs, wiping at his face and shifting in the chair. "You should be asleep."
Jeremy frowns. His head is swimming, his thoughts fuzzy.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," the doctor says too quickly. "Nothing...Jeremy, please—"
"I'm going to die." The boy's words are just above a whisper.
JD's breath hitches in his throat, and he swallows, looking away as more tears start to fall. "Don't say that."
"It's true," Jeremy states. "I'm tired."
"You just need sleep."
"I need my parents."
"Jeremy, don't...Please, don't." JD shakes his head sadly, his eyes pleading.
"Get my mom and dad, JD," Jeremy commands quietly, firmly. JD studies the boy for a moment longer before standing and leaving the room. A few minutes later, Jeremy's parents are hovering over him, worried, tear-laced faces watching him anxiously.
JD is there when he dies. One week later, the outbreak begins.//
0 o 0 o 0
Jeremy Gale Hollock had carried the virus that had split a country. Blame flew from one region to another, splitting the United States into three outfits: people who blamed the northeast, people who blamed the government, and the government. The government, obviously, tried to keep it contained—quarantine camps sprouted up everywhere. Millions died within the first month. Thousands the next. Only hundreds after that. The disease was slowly dwindling...either that or there just weren't enough people to kill anymore.
JD remembers the day that the military barged through Sacred Heart, forcing all doctors and nurses to their knees as they stormed through hospital rooms shooting patients who presented symptoms of the disease point-blank in the face. One patient fought back. A soldier's handgun slid across the floor, thunking against JD's knee. He'd looked at Perry; the red-headed man had shaken his head, but JD had already made his decision.
0 o 0 o 0
//JD picks up the gun, dodging Perry's lunge, and stands. Shakily pointing it at the soldier wrestling with a patient in a nearby room, he takes a deep breath.
"Let him go!" He yells, hoping his tone isn't as desperate as he thinks it is.
The soldier looks up and sneers, pushing the patient away from him and standing. "You gonna shoot me, kid?" He's older than JD by at least ten years.
"Just...stay there. Don't move." The tremor in JD's hands worsens, and a sweat starts to break out on his forehead.
"JD," Perry hisses behind him.
The soldier lurches forward, grabbing hold of the gun. JD's finger squeezes the trigger. A loud shot echoes down the corridors, then silence. The older man slumps to the ground, wide-eyed and bleeding from his abdomen.
Perry is there in an instant, checking the man's vitals and applying pressure to the wound. "Jesus, JD! What the hell did you—"
"Leave him," JD interrupts quietly, his face rigid and pale. His scrubs are stained with spatters of blood.
"What?" Perry asks incredulously.
The younger doctor's eyes shift swiftly to the other man, his gaze cold. "I said, 'Leave him.' There will be more coming soon. We need to go." He turns from Perry's shocked face to the group still on their knees, stunned into silence. "Let's go." No one moves. "Hey! If you want to die, stay here. Otherwise, move."
The space is empty within moments. Only Perry and JD remain.
"You could have gotten yourself killed," the older doctor whispers, closing the soldiers distant eyes and standing. His jaw clenches as he studies his lover of two years. JD isn't looking at him, his eyes set on the hallway to their right. "What were you thinking?"
"There are more. All over. I'm surprised they're not here by now."
Perry grabs the young man's upper arms, twisting him around and growling into his face. "JD! Wake up! You just killed a man!"
"He was going to kill us," JD states bluntly.
"You don't know that."
"And you do?" The younger doctor tugs away from Perry's grasp, his head shaking slowly. "They're killing people, Per. They're killing innocent people...for being sick. That man"—he gestures towards the dead soldier—"would have killed us. We're doctors. We're not supposed to let this happen."
"We're not the police," Perry points out, his tone getting weaker by the second.
"They're killing them, too." JD's gaze returns down the hallway, where the sound of boots plodding against tile can be heard. "If we don't stop them here, they'll move on to other hospitals, to other innocent people." He turns to Perry with a determined set to his eyes. "We have to make this stop."
Perry looks at him for what seems like hours. Finally leaning down and grabbing the soldier's P-90, he straightens and gives JD a grim look, cocking the gun in an expert way that surprises the young man. "Let's go."//
0 o 0 o 0
"Answer my question!" Hollock barks, bringing JD out of his memory stupor.
The young man takes a moment to recall the questions that the general had asked him to begin with, finally deciding to go with, "Take the deal, and I'll answer any questions you want."
Hollock scowls as he eyes the doctor with scrutiny, slowly nodding. "All right. I'll take you to her."
0 o 0 o 0
Jordan growls as a bright light intrudes on the darkness of her cell.
"Up!" a sharp voice comments, a soldier entering and grabbing her upper arm and half-carrying, half-dragging her to the door. She squints her eyes as they enter the corridor.
"What the hell?" she mutters, struggling against the tight hold.
"Jordan." The soft tone stops her, and she turns to find JD standing beside her, a sharp look on his face.
"DJ? What—"
"She's to be dropped at these coordinates," the young man interrupts, handing a piece of paper to the man standing beside him. Jordan knows this man. He's older, graying hair, annoying interrogation skills. He gives the writing a once-over before nodding curtly and passing the paper to another guard.
"She'll be transported safely, he assures the doctor before ushering him into the recently-vacated prison barrack.
"W-Wait," Jordan slurs drowsily as two officers lead her down one hallway. "What's going on?" She cranes her neck to look behind her. "DJ?...JD? What's happening?"
The slam of her former cell's door is the last thing she hears before being hauled around a corner and towards the surface.
AN: Well, that's it for now. Sorry it's shorter than the last chapter. I'll try to make up for it. Later, Gators! Catch you in the next chapter!
