Page 90 of All Saints Day
It doesn't take a genius to guess that it’s the Windmill’s augmented version of the Zeitnot virus.
“Hey Walt, not to tell you how to do your job or nothin’, but you know if you infect Louise before you use her to find a cure, your bosses might be a little pissed off at you?” I growl, not understanding what Compton is playing at.
“You were always dumb muscle, Lowry's Mad Dog—but even you should be able to do the math.” Compton sneers. “Susan and I spent almost our entire lives in middle management for the psychos who run this shithole. For decades, we've waited our turn. We've done everything that was asked of us. Susan delivered time and again with me by her side.” Compton sniffles back his tears before continuing his monologue. “The Windmill lost their ability to form a cogent plan, a solid direction to move toward besides a blind need for wealth. The old Windmill understood money can make many things happen—but it isn't the same as real, raw power. They can look the same much of the time, yes, but they're still entirely different animals,” e blusters on.
“So what? The organization becomes toothless and prioritizes making a dime over making a fist. Why do you care, so long as you stay a comfortable, Lapdog?” I challenge.
“But that's just the thing, isn't it, Frankie? It takes a certain detachment from reality—a certain hubris to believe that you can stay a comfortable lapdog while you ‘contain’ something like the Zeitnot virus,” Compton sputters, waving his hands as he rants and raves. “In a small sample exposure like back in 1993, it was still difficult, but we managed—with enough money, enough resources, and most importantly, enough control. What the Windmill wants to do right now? I'm not sure that even the highest echelons of the organization are actually as safe as they think they are.”
“So, now that you're finally worried about how it affects you, you're ready to turn this ship around? You fucking hypocrite,” I laugh in his face, but I am silenced by another fist knocking me across my left cheekbone.
Compton sucks air through his teeth and shakes out his hand as my eyes dazzle from the blow, my left eye already swelling shut.
“You know how the higher-ups feel about failure. The only reason they haven't gotten rid of me already is because that little bitch was still out there. Once they have Louise back in custody and they clean up this entire mess with the virus, they'll wipe you and I from the slate, as if we never existed. So, why not go out with a bang if I can? Why not throw a wrench in all of their plans and get my own revenge before I go?” Compton swells with pride.
The muffled sounds of gunshots, the deep, rumbling booms of explosions, and even more faintly—the high, thin sounds of voices—reach us as Louise and the others draw nearer.
“You're a brave man to offer yourself up to Louise and her Saints, Compton. I'll give you that,” I bluff in a last-ditch effort to try to entice Compton to save his own skin—but given his most recent confession, we seem far past the point of no return.
The sounds build in volume and verve until the doors swing wide open, revealing Louise and the others.
“Go ahead and take another few steps, McBride.” Compton presses his gun to my temple. “See what happens to your boy.”
“What do you want, Compton?” Louise, like the radiant White Queen from my dream—with a handgun in place of her gleaming sword—stands in challenge.
“I want you to drop that gun and come up here,” Compton calls as I writhe against the leather belts that strap me to the inversion table.
“And what do I get for giving you what you want?” Louise volleys back, the Saints’ faces showing their apprehension.
“I won’t kill you where you stand.”
Like the chittering of a swarm of mechanical insects, a buzzing fills the room. Tiny green laser dots zoom here and there until they all fix solidly on Louise and the Saints.
“Sniper bots—fully automated crowd control for when test subjects get restless during group activities.”
Louise and the others' expressions expand with new horror.
“Test subjects?” Quentin parrots, his disgust for the Windmill and their cruelty palpable in his words.
“Viruses and bio weapons research aren’t the only things that go on here, kids.” Compton snorts a derisive laugh. “You are way above your pay grade.”
I hold my breath as the green pinpricks of light dance over the Kevlar vest protecting Louise’s heart.
“Fine, you win—you get me—and you don’t kill them.” She makes her offer, stepping into the spotlight on the raised auditorium stage; prepared to take her part.
“You’re not in a position to make any deals.” Compton holds his ground, but this close I can smell the sour tang of fear wafting off him in waves.
He’s damn right to be scared.
“Maybe not with you, but the Windmill will be invested in keeping me alive for their research,” Louise argues, taking another step toward Compton, her hands slowly drifting down from their gesture of surrender.
“See, that’s the funny thing, the Windmill may want you, and in her own fucked up way Susan really did care for you—more than she ever cared about me really—but I’m not stupid enough to think that the Windmill is gonna keep me around long enough to celebrate all my failures once they finally get their little red bird in hand.” My back arcs up off of the table, but the brass and leather keep me from rushing to Louise—from shielding her with my body.
“But all I care about right now—is ending the little bitch that destroyed my life!”
Compton lifts the yellow syringe from the table and lunges forward to drive it into the side of Louise’s neck before I can get the words of warning past my lips.
Her hands move to her throat, fingers closing around the syringe in the side of her neck, pulling it free and tossing it to the floor as her cinnamon eyes spread wide in horror.
