The scream still echoed faintly by the ti people started moving.
"Shit! Get him out, get him out!" one of the crew yelled, fumbling at the side of the rope rig.
**Clank** **Whirr—clack** The winch activated with a chanical groan, yanking the rope upward in rapid spurts.
Charles turned slightly, glancing at Don from the corner of his eye. Don wasn't reacting. Not even flinching.
Seeing that, Charles decided not to react either. He simply stood there, arms still loose at his sides, gaze fixed on the rig.
The rope spun up fast.
Seconds later, the man ca into view.
He looked worse than panicked—he looked peeled back. His jumpsuit was soaked, patches of it stained dark with thick greenish mucus. His face was splattered with the sa goop, hair matted down like he'd bathed in a swamp.
Strands of sothing vine-like clung to his arms and shoulders. Worse still, there were bits of red tangled in it—shredded tissue or blood, it wasn't clear.
"Hurry! Get up! Get up!" the man cried, voice cracking as he tried to scramble further upward, even as the pulley did the work for him.
One of the other n reached out instinctively—then recoiled. "Ah! What the fuck is on you?" he snapped, wiping his palm against his jumpsuit. "What happened?"
The man barely took a breath before he answered. "It's a tunnel," he gasped. "Covered in—guts—and that sli. Just—get out!"
Fear had a sll. And it was starting to spread.
The team working the rig hesitated now. Eyes darted to Charles. No one moved without his say-so. It wasn't just about rank anymore—it was the fear. Of infection. Of parasites. Of turning.
It was becoming the new town paranoia: Anyone could be a Green Thorn.
Charles didn't look at them. He turned to Don instead.
"Could he be infected?" he asked. His voice was low, level. "By… whatever it is that causes people to turn?"
Don didn't give a straight yes or no. He offered a slight shrug. "I don't know. But I don't think so," he said. "Still, best you get him checked."
Charles gave a slight nod, mulling that over, before Don followed up with a question of his own.
"Are you planning on exploring those tunnels?"
The way he said it made it unclear—was it curiosity, or a warning?
Charles considered the wording carefully. "I was considering it," he said. "Shouldn't I? Maybe… with a better team."
Don gave another shrug. "Up to you. Personally, I'd say you're better off informing the FBI. Or even the agency."
He didn't blink as he added, "The church incident had one of those. A hole. Sa kind of tunnel. Organ-lined walls."
Charles went quiet at that.
After a mont, he turned toward the rig crew and waved them forward. "Get him up," he said. "Pack up the gear."
The n didn't argue.
Charles then turned toward the other group—those in white lab coats. "Gather what samples you can," he ordered. "Then clear the area."
They moved fast. Gloves on. Kits out. Silence returning.
Charles crossed his arms and stepped closer to the edge again, peering into the darkness below. The air coming from the hole felt colder now. Still. Not inviting.
"You don't think we should get involved?" he asked. "Finding the one responsible for yesterday's attack… it could be incredibly beneficial."
Don didn't argue that. He gave a small nod. "It could," he agreed. "But without knowing for sure that the thing even responsible is down there, it's not worth the risk. Not with other major players already looking into it."
Charles exhaled slowly. Then, after a mont, he smiled.
"You're right," he said. "Even if we don't go in ourselves… if we present what we find, we still stand to benefit."
Then, quieter he added, "Image-wise, however."
Don raised a brow. "However?"
But Charles didn't answer.
Not yet.
He glanced around at the others, as if reminding himself of who was listening.
And who shouldn't be.
Roughly ten minutes had passed and the last of the workers—jumpsuits and lab coats alike—were making their retreat toward the nearby ATVs.
No one looked back at the hole. Especially the crew that had nearly gone down it.
Their steps were stiff. Eyes fixed forward. One of them—gloves still glistening faintly from contact with the sli—walked faster than the others, like distance might scrub away the mory.
That left only two people standing near the pit's edge.
Don. And Charles.
Don's hands remained in his pockets, body relaxed but gaze sharp.
"You were saying," he prompted, not looking away from the hole.
Charles didn't answer imdiately. His eyes trailed the last departing figure, then shifted toward the trees. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. Less for secrecy—more because the weight of it didn't need volu.
"However," Charles said, "if what my source at the departnt tells is true… then we won't have the pleasure of worrying about our image."
Don's eyes narrowed faintly.
"What do you an?"
Charles exhaled. "My source says managent plans to use us as scapegoats for the whole incident."
He didn't sound bitter about it. Just tired.
His brows furrowed as he continued. "Now that the network's up again, they've seen the scale of it. The footage. The death toll. People are furious—demanding to know why their loved ones were killed instead of arrested or restrained. They don't believe the victims turned. They think it was a cover-up. And they want justice."
Don didn't flinch.
He just turned his head slightly, eyes scanning the periter again before responding.
"I'm not surprised by the public's reaction," he said flatly. "Just the departnt's decision. If your source is telling the truth."
"Oh, they are," Charles said. "Trust on that."
There was a pause.
"Frankly," Charles added, "I have a good idea who's behind this push. Otherwise Barclay wouldn't dare move against so boldly."
That made Don pause.
He frowned, subtle but clear.
If Barclay was behind the push, then wasn't Don the reason this was happening in the first place?
Barclay had every reason to target Don. But Charles, with his connections and image, made for the perfect high-profile target that Barclay likely wouldn't go after for the simple petty reason of getting to Don.
This made it sound like this wasn't about Don. Not directly.
He was a bonus. Collateral. A two-for-one deal so to speak.
Don's gaze shifted downward, thoughts threading behind his eyes. 'So this wasn't Barclay's idea.' he thought. 'But he's jumping on it. Hard.'
It made more sense now. Charles wasn't the kind of man people crossed lightly. Not unless they were acting on soone else's orders. Soone with more pull than pride.
Still, Don was sure of one thing—Barclay would love nothing more than to see him fall.
Charles looked at him now. The faintest creases around his eyes.
"I think it would be best if we get our story straight," he said.
Don looked up.
"If you don't want to go down with ," Charles continued, "then I suggest you claim this whole thing was my idea."
That actually caught Don off guard.
Not that Charles would have a strategy—that was expected.
But that he'd offer himself up first?
'Strange,' Don thought. 'He doesn't seem the type to shield anyone.'
But appearances were what Charles did best.
So maybe this was genuine. Or maybe it was leverage.
Don kept his voice neutral. "Don't sell short," he said. "Barclay would still do this to , with or without you involved."
He paused, then added, "I'm not worried about the consequences."
Charles smiled.
It wasn't a full smile. Just the corner of his mouth tilting upward.
He turned, eyes finally eting Don's fully.
"Even if they affect the lives of those closest to you… forever?"
User Comments
0 comments from readers