On the edge of the town of San Carlos, Arizona, was a small clinic whose owner had secretly been researching and treating the epidemic brought on by the cultist’s drugs. Kelly stepped into the only ward where the air was dry and bitter with ethanol. About a dozen beds lined the walls with makeshift curtains hanging around them. Kelly’s intel suggested that the cult were distributing Hex among their own communities. Kelly wanted to know why.
Kelly still found it hard to believe that even out here there were subtle clues to the cult’s influence—that they were everywhere, and nowhere. San Carlos was a town trapped in purgatory, on the fringe of death and desperately trying to cling on. Outside the security of the clinic the littered streets had that rundown look of a place that hadn’t been lived in for maybe a year or so. A car had crashed right into a streetlight and lay abandoned on the road. No one seemed to care.
The first face Kelly came across inside the clinic belonged to a polite-looking woman, late thirties, perhaps, who offered sort of a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Like the citizen’s in Anton’s compound there seemed something off with her, as if the light inside had gone out. Or maybe the opposite — the woman possessed a few cybernetic implants, the chrome pieces and accompanying scars stood out like tattoos. Kelly noticed that the woman’s left pinkie finger had been mutilated.
The woman, noticing Kelly gaze, covered her fingers.
“They’re mighty convincing, those Harrell boys,” she said. “Had me thinking I was changing the world, but the only thing that really changed was me. It was easier back then, looking at everything in binary, just ones and zeros. Thought I could leave if it wasn’t for me. Thought I could give it up.”
Dunstan showed the woman his fingers. The joint had reattached and healed nicely but the scar was prominent, and would likely stay that way forever.
“Was the choice really yours to begin with?” Dunstan asked.
Before the lady could answer, the doctor arrived. He was a stout man with receding grey hair and a dark beard, and his eyes were dark with fatigue. He was the only medical practitioner in the area and since the outbreak this town had become his, a gathering point for those who needed help. Those who had wanted nothing to do with the cult or their problems had left months ago.
“My clinic only had a few rooms,” Doc explained. “I’ve had to improvise, move the patients into this empty building.”
Kelly examined one of the patients, a little boy no older than fifteen. His cheekbones stood out of his pale face like he hadn’t eaten in days, and the purple sweaty rings under his eyes shined in the lamplight. The boy’s breathing was slow and sedated. It was surprising for a boy this age to possess an cybernetic augment as uncommon as a neural implant, but there it was plain as day. The boy showed a few neatly repaired scars and some bruising — obvious trauma.
The next patient, a man in his twenties, looked just the same except he was missing a piece of a toe, as if it had been surgically removed. He too had a neural implant. The patient after that, an older woman, had the same neural implant.
“What going on here, Doc?” Kelly asked, not taking her eyes away from the comatose zombies before her.
“You’ve noticed what all these victims have in common.” The Doc said it like a statement, pure fact, but he elaborated anyway. “This drug, Hex, is actually a virus, although I would classify it as a biological weapon seeing as this is not a natural disease. As you can see, each of these victims have cybernetic implants. The drug doesn’t only effect those with augments however it functions differently between those who do and those who don’t. Those who do not have cybernetic implants simply become sick, it’s not pretty but I’ve been able to manage it to some degree so far.” He coughed into his hand as he said this. “For those who do have the implants it is a little more complicated. The virus-drug disrupts the host’s brainwaves in the area surrounding the implant, or otherwise inhibits neurons from firing correctly down the central nervous system. The result is an altered state of consciousness where the connection between the implant and host isn’t properly maintained, leaving the host’s implant — their consciousness — viable to hacking.”
“You’re telling me Anton Harrell is hacking people’s brains in order to control them?”
The Doc hesitated. “I can’t say for sure, this is all speculation, but from what I’ve seen so far it’s the best explanation.”
“Stopping these drugs from getting out will be a serious blow towards Anton and his organisation,” said Dunstan matter-of-factly.
“Agreed,” said Kelly. “You were looking into this before I was, so what’s our play?”
“I’d suggest looking for the source,” Doc pointed out, “where the drugs are being made. I’ve actually been looking into it myseft, although it’s not really my job. I’ll find you my notes.”
Dunstan nodded. “Once there aren’t any more in production we can focus on tracking down the distributors and seizing whatever drugs are already on the street.”
Kelly’s mind still dwelled heavily on Agent Connors’ last order: kill Anton Harrell. It wouldn’t be easy. Anton had positioned himself perfectly as the most powerful man in the entire demilitarised zone and Kelly figured that two days ago when she attended his sermon was likely the closest she’ll ever have gotten to him. If she tried to approach him now the cult’s armed peacekeepers would put up more of a fight than four operatives could handle. Kelly knew the strategy here: if she wanted Harrell the first step would be dismantling his entire operation, to set fire to the bush and wait for the bird to fly out. But how many lives would that cost? She didn’t entertain the thought for long, because she knew that a number would be irrelevant. If she could just wait for Anton to make a mistake. One mistake was all she needed.
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