Page 12 of Wild Thing

I lean closer to the screen. “What’s that?”

Marlow leans closer to the screen, too. “Benzodiazepine, ether, psilocybin, I don’t know, there’s a concoction of them. Ask Archer. I’m not a chemist.”

“How does it work?”

“It’s illegal, I’ll tell you that much. As to what it does, I’m sure we’ll see soon.”

Illegal, but obviously not on Zion. But the fact that Archer chose a more humane way makes me relax just a little.

O’Shea doesn’t struggle when Bishop injects something into his arm, only looks at him with a bloodied smile.

“We are a small tight community here on Zion,” Bishop explains, slowly walking back to the tray to place the empty syringe there, then picks up another and injects O’Shea again.

Raven is still smoking. Now that the beating stopped, the whole thing is like a chat between close friends. Minus the blood.

Bishop casually sticks his hands in his pockets. “We need to know who else Tsariuk sent. What you found out. Who you talk to on Zion.” In a simple t-shirt, army pants, and boots, he reminds me of my dad. Granted, they have a similar past, which is a strange coincidence. “So let’s start with Tsariuk.”

O’Shea laughs. His laughter is relaxed, considering they beat him for an hour. Whatever was in the syringe is working fast.

“Now tell Mr. Crone how many people Tsariuk sent to Zion,” Bishop says, calm like a therapist.

I don’t get it. “Are they recording it for Archer?”

“Archer has the surveillance stream televised to him,” Marlow responds. “Shh.”

Oh.

He’s on the other side of the screen, just like me and Marlow, just like my dad. He has time for this but obviously not for me.

A barely audible sound escapes O’Shea.

“What was that?” Bishop asks.

O’Shea’s head bobs, then he rolls it around as if cracking his neck, but the movement is extremely slow.

Marlow shifts next to me. “Must be working, whatever that shit is. Could be strong, too.”

“Tsariuk,” Bishop repeats louder. “How many people did Tsariuk send?”

“No can tell.” O’Shea’s speech is slow as if he has a hard time moving his tongue. “Haven’t talked to Tsariuk in years.”

“He sent you. I saw your file, O’Shea.”

“He didn’t. He—” O’Shea breaks out into a low continuous chuckle, but Bishop doesn’t interrupt him. “I came by myself. With Cunningham.”

“Okay.” Bishop’s tone changes to that of a teacher talking to a slow child. “Let’s try again.”

“There’s nothing else to say. Tsariuk killed my family.”

Okay.

My mind goes to the info in his file as he recaps it in a slow bitter voice.

“I had an affair with his sister while I worked in Petersburg. Yeah, shoot me. It happened. I’m not a good man, okay? I should’ve known I was signing my death warrant. Tsar tracked my wife and newborn, set my house in England on fire, with my wife and child in it.”

The words are eerie, considering there’s a faint smile on O’Shea’s face.

“I ran. They would’ve killed me too. I could never come back to Russia, never saw my son or his mother. But as soon as the rumor spread around that Tsariuk’s daughter went missing after the Change, the whole fucking world started paying attention.”

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