The Variant Effect: PAINKILLER (8 page)

Disappointed
.

Tears welled up in his eyes.

Depressed
.

“Judy,” Borland said, cleared his throat. The
action made him shudder in pain. “She said you lost your baby.”

Judy glared at him. The barrel of the gun
centered on his face. “Don’t listen to them.”

“See, I think you lost your baby,” he said,
“and the operation started something in your head. And now you’re
sick with sadness. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I didn’t lose my baby,” Judy said, tears
shining in her eyes. “What kind of a person, what kind of a mother
would do that? Lose something so precious. I’d go to hell for
that!”

“You’re only human,” Borland wheezed and
dragged a foot up. His guts bulged out of the wound and he grunted.
More blood spilled.

He wasn’t going to make it. A peaceful
resolution to a hostage situation could take hours he didn’t
have
.

...
a finesse he’d never learned
.

“Look, unless...” His eyebrows formed a
thoughtful line. “Wait a minute, go to
hell?
”

“That’s what happens,” Judy explained, “to
bad mothers.”

“It doesn’t Judy,” Borland gasped, the pain
was breaking him. Tears rolled out of his eyes.

“Yes it does!” Judy insisted.

“You must belong to one of those nutty
churches,” Borland said, and a sob shook him. The muscles in his
torso ground against each other. “That send people to hell for
anything.”

Don’t do it
...

“I’m Catholic...” Judy’s eyes softened for a
second.

“Even those bastards won’t send you to hell
for
losing
a baby,” Borland chewed on his lip as a spasm of
pain shook him. More tears fell. “Unless...”

“That’s enough!” She glared at him and held
the pistol at his face.

Oh god, don’t do it
.

“Judy, I thought it was postpartum
depression, but now I think it’s just depression,” Borland said and
shrugged painfully. He was getting dizzier. “Maybe it’s the Variant
Effect too, but I think it’s mostly
guilt
.”

“Quiet!” The gun shook in Judy’s hand.

Do what you have to do
.”

“You didn’t lose your baby, Judy,” Borland
growled.

“Shut up!” she screamed.

“You
aborted
it,” he snarled.

“Shut up!” Judy shouted and slipped another
hand around the gun to steady it. “You don’t know what you’re
talking about!”

Just do it
.

“I don’t care one way or another. But as a
Catholic you’re damned and as a cop you’ll condemn yourself for
being human.” Borland tried to sit forward but was overcome with
nausea. His heart throbbed heavily. “I can’t see a way out for
you.”

“Judy?” Dr. Lemington called through the
door.

Judy looked over, and then back at
Borland.

“See,” she said. “They turned you against
me.”

“Jesus!” he yelled, eyes full of tears. “Judy
either put me out of my misery, murder Mr. Cumberland or do what
you have to do!” He winced rolling to his knees. “You know there’s
only one person in the room that’s got this coming!”

Judy aimed the gun and pulled the
trigger.

CHAPTER 12

That was then. This is now
.

Borland sat on his couch sipping whiskey and
watching the blue screen. Zombie’s comic book lay crumpled on the
couch beside him.

Judy
...

It was easy for Brass’s scientists to biopsy
her brain. She’d conveniently opened her skull for them. They found
the Variant molecule there, but in quantities that suggested it
should be dormant. And there was no sign of the new thirteenth
hybrid molecule they’d found in Parkerville.

She was a kinderkid but had never presented.
A worrier, a bit of a nail-biter, but nothing you could put your
finger on. Nothing outside the norm or dangerous.

Unlikely Variant, so it was guilt that
presented, that drove her to extremes.

Judy was a uniformed Metro cop for eight
years with the dream of finding a nice fellow, settling down and
becoming a mother.

Her dream came true.

But not for her ambitious boyfriend, another
uniformed Metro cop. He had his eyes set on promotions and so he
declared their love-child a little premature—maybe later after the
wedding. They could try again.

Pressure was applied—ultimatums issued. And
dreams collided.

Judy should never have agreed to the
abortion.

The guilt caused her to fight and ruined her
relationship before the marriage. That sent her into a tailspin
that ended with her on indefinite leave from the force riding a
psychiatrist’s couch.

In and out of mental hospitals, some time in
there she developed an inguinal hernia.

Then, something went right. She got the right
mix of meds. Maybe she met a fellow, but things were on the
upswing—she decided to fix the hernia so she could get back to the
gym, lose some weight and feel better about herself. Maybe grow a
new dream.

But something went wrong at the Shomberg
Clinic. Her antidepressant mixed with shame and painkillers, and
she took a guilt trip that almost killed Borland.

When she shot herself, Borland started
calling to the SWAT team. They rammed the lock off the door and
entered, guns on Borland and Mr. Cumberland.

The old bugger finally woke up when they
knocked.

He asked for a drink of water. Cumberland had
his operation while Borland was waiting for his turn downstairs.
The old man’s pain meds had kept him asleep through Judy’s assault
on reality.

That said a lot for Borland. His doctors were
impressed, said it was remarkable that he’d been able to stay
conscious through all that pain, medication and blood loss.

He was weeping like a little girl when they
did come in, but the SWAT guys cut him some slack because he looked
like something that had escaped from a slaughterhouse.

Borland was given transfusions and
stabilized, and at his request; they completed the hernia
procedures over the next couple of days. Another request he made
was to Brass who pulled those strings again and managed to have an
armed guard of baggies stay on site to accompany Borland through
the operations.

The hernias ruled his life for the next three
weeks. During their reign he managed to stay drunk from late
morning until midnight. He knew he’d put most of the weight back
on, but his experience with Judy had reminded him that he wasn’t
going to be around forever.

And he’d been a really good boy.

Well, except for what he’d said to Judy.
What he’d made her do
...

Probably the best way to resolve the
situation. It was the only justice she was going to get from
herself. Society wouldn’t give a damn about it.

Good excuse.

He pondered again whether he would have
waited for the situation to resolve itself if he were the leader of
the SWAT team. The doctors must have told them there was time, that
Borland’s condition; his wound wasn’t going to be
instantly
fatal. He would suffer like hell, but...

They were willing to wait, to make a wager
that Borland would have to pay.

He was never like that in the squads, and he
tried to instill the attitude in new recruits: Gamble with your own
life if you want.

But don’t gamble with mine
!

The television remote controller rang,
snapping Borland from his reverie. He slashed and slapped out at
the coffee table, finally managed to catch the multi-function
device. He picked it up, pressed the ‘talk’ button and held it to
his ear.

“Yeah,” he said, in a voice that was thick
with emotion.

“Captain Borland?” A woman’s voice
chirped.

“Who’s asking?” Borland set his glass down
and refilled it.

“I am Natasha Drummond, secretary to David
White, president of GreenMourning Environmental,” she said. “Are
you familiar with our work?”

“Who isn’t?” Borland grunted.

“Mr. White would like to talk to you,” she
said and went quiet.

“No,” Borland grumbled. “Mr. White knows
that’s a conflict of interest for me or anyone in my place of
employment. GreenMourning and the Variant Squads don’t exactly see
eye to eye.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” she
said.

Borland scowled at the blue screen.

“Mr. White appreciates the sensitivity of the
situation and that is why he wants to meet with you in his car.”
The secretary went quiet again. “Discreetly. Downstairs. We’re
parked out front.”

“What’s this about?” Borland felt a surge of
anger.
More mysteries
. He kicked his legs, stormed up onto
his feet. He moved to the window, glared out...and started zipping
up his jumper.

Three stories down, a woman’s hand waved to
him from the rear window of a long black sedan.

“You come highly recommended by a friend of
Mr. White’s.” There was silence before: “The late Robert Spiko sent
him
your
palm-com.” Borland imagined her smiling, and
then... “Mr. Spiko recorded a message on it for you.”

“I’ll be right down,” Borland growled,
staring blankly at the glass, catching his own vague reflection
there.

****

The story continues in

The Variant Effect

GREENMOURNING

Visit
GreenMourning.com

****

Titles by G. Wells Taylor

The Apocalypse Trilogy

WHEN GRAVEYARDS YAWN – A Wildclown Novel

THE FORSAKEN

THE FIFTH HORSEMAN

Wildclown Mysteries

WHEN GRAVEYARDS YAWN

WILDCLOWN HARD-BOILED

WILDCLOWN HIJACKED

MENAGERIE

THE CORPSE: HARBINGER

Gene Spiral Stories

6 – PORTRAIT OF A 21ST CENTURY SNUFF
FIGHTER

1 – HISTORY OF THE MOONCALF

Horror Fiction

BENT STEEPLE

THE VARIANT EFFECT

The Variant Effect: PAINKILLER

MEMORY LANE

MOTHER’S BOY

THE LAST CAMPING TRIP

Check
GWellsTaylor.com
for
more.

****

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