Day 60: 30 Sep 2010
Got an email from Phil this morning. Phil's my handler -- the guy who's responsible for me, I suppose. He got the job because he's not completely terrified of me.
My last handler was better -- a guy named Kevin. Strange person. Missing both of his hands, though he never told me how that happened. He vanished from the Syndicate about a year ago. I liked him. Knew him for a few weeks before the slug took up residence. He didn't seem afraid of me in the least. He was a shit driver, though.
Anyway, the email from Phil. He'd had some of the Syndicate's ghouls out looking for Cassie Chow at my request. He didn't ask why. At 5:22 this morning, his message popped up in my inbox -- they'd tracked her to an auto shop near the Stratosphere, North Strip.
I don't usually drive myself. The bosses like to keep an eye on me -- that's where Phil comes in. They don't trust me on my own. And that's smart, but it's not like I need their permission to do anything -- I just feel compelled to do what they tell me. No one told me not to go out to that garage today, so I did.
The place was locked up tight, but that wasn't a problem for me. A Master Lock and a chain -- I can break those with one hand.
The place looked empty inside, and all the lights were off. I knew it wasn't empty, though. I could hear someone breathing, twenty paces into the darkness. Smell someone sweating.
"Cassie Chow," I said. I did my best to control the screechy-factor of my voice -- it came out sounding merely raspy, like I'd been a smoker for 50 years.
"I know you're here. I'm not here to hurt you," I continued. "I'm Jared Sykes. Travis' brother."
The lights flickered on. Cassie stood in the doorway of a small office, pointing an assault rifle dead-center at my chest -- an M16A4, unless I miss my guess.
"Don't move," she said slowly.
"We both know that won't do much, but keep it pointed at me if it makes you feel better. I'm here to talk about Travis," I said.
"Travis is gone. He's like you now. He can't be saved -- he said so," Cassie told me.
"He is like me -- but there's something we can do about it. If you're willing to help me," I told her. My voice was less raspy now. I've been working on it.
"Bullshit. If it could be reversed, I doubt you'd be like you are."
"Not bullshit. There's a way. I know it's hard to trust me, but if you care about Travis -- and I can tell you do -- you'll have to."
She lowered her weapon.
"Fine. Let's talk. But I'll warn you -- I can blow this entire place up if I need to. Doubt you could walk away from that."
I knew I could walk away from such an explosion, but I didn't feel the need to mention it as I followed her into the office.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Day Fifty-Nine
Day 59: 29 Sep 2010
He's here. I can feel it. But I need more time. I can confuse his ability to sense me, but only to a point.
I have maybe another day to track this girl down -- two at the outside. If I don't find her by tomorrow, I go it alone.
He's here. I can feel it. But I need more time. I can confuse his ability to sense me, but only to a point.
I have maybe another day to track this girl down -- two at the outside. If I don't find her by tomorrow, I go it alone.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Day Fifty-Eight
Day 58: 28 Sep 2010
Made it to Vegas at about two in the morning. Heard that Travis got into it with some Triads south of Seattle. It was a bloodbath, but at least it was contained.
Plans are in motion. I don't expect the Chinese to slow Travis up any more. They lost 28 people in Washington -- they're probably going to cut their losses now.
Lots of work to do. Not much time to talk. If I have any chance of stopping Travis, I need to track down someone named Cassie Chow.
Made it to Vegas at about two in the morning. Heard that Travis got into it with some Triads south of Seattle. It was a bloodbath, but at least it was contained.
Plans are in motion. I don't expect the Chinese to slow Travis up any more. They lost 28 people in Washington -- they're probably going to cut their losses now.
Lots of work to do. Not much time to talk. If I have any chance of stopping Travis, I need to track down someone named Cassie Chow.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Day Fifty-Seven
Day 57: 27 Sep 2010
Whoever said "crime doesn't pay" never took a very close look at the West Coast Syndicate's bank accounts.
When assignments take me out of town, as they often do, my bosses send me in a Gulfstream G550 plane. It's one of four they own. It's a hell of a lot faster than driving, and I wouldn't pass for normal in an airport security line.
The pilot met me at SEATAC. I'd called him from the car (well, I'd had the driver, Phil, call -- my voice tends to freak people out) and told him our destination. We were headed for Las Vegas.
The pilot didn't dare argue my choices. He had once, back when the slug was fully in control. It had cost him a broken hand and a ruptured eardrum, but he never questioned our destinations again. He made the arrangements. We had a man in the FAA, so our flight plan was rubber-stamped immediately.
I guessed Travis would drive to Las Vegas, not fly. His slug would convince him that, until he was at his destination, it would be best to attract as little attention as possible. He had plenty of cash from Mr. William's wallet, plus several credit cards, so gas wouldn't be a problem.
Neither would sleep. He'd be able to drive straight through, stopping only to fill his vehicle's tank. I'd get to Vegas first, but only by a day or so. I knew I would need more time than that.
So, before going to the airport, I set up few roadblocks for my brother and his slug. Some anonymous emails to the Russians and Chinese let them know he was driving from Vancouver to Las Vegas in a black Escalade.
They couldn't stop him, but they'd try -- especially the Chinese. They didn't yet want to believe they'd lost their great prize.
I knew these diversions meant a lot of people would die, and I wasn't happy about that. . . but my slug certainly was.
Whoever said "crime doesn't pay" never took a very close look at the West Coast Syndicate's bank accounts.
When assignments take me out of town, as they often do, my bosses send me in a Gulfstream G550 plane. It's one of four they own. It's a hell of a lot faster than driving, and I wouldn't pass for normal in an airport security line.
The pilot met me at SEATAC. I'd called him from the car (well, I'd had the driver, Phil, call -- my voice tends to freak people out) and told him our destination. We were headed for Las Vegas.
The pilot didn't dare argue my choices. He had once, back when the slug was fully in control. It had cost him a broken hand and a ruptured eardrum, but he never questioned our destinations again. He made the arrangements. We had a man in the FAA, so our flight plan was rubber-stamped immediately.
I guessed Travis would drive to Las Vegas, not fly. His slug would convince him that, until he was at his destination, it would be best to attract as little attention as possible. He had plenty of cash from Mr. William's wallet, plus several credit cards, so gas wouldn't be a problem.
Neither would sleep. He'd be able to drive straight through, stopping only to fill his vehicle's tank. I'd get to Vegas first, but only by a day or so. I knew I would need more time than that.
So, before going to the airport, I set up few roadblocks for my brother and his slug. Some anonymous emails to the Russians and Chinese let them know he was driving from Vancouver to Las Vegas in a black Escalade.
They couldn't stop him, but they'd try -- especially the Chinese. They didn't yet want to believe they'd lost their great prize.
I knew these diversions meant a lot of people would die, and I wasn't happy about that. . . but my slug certainly was.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Day Fifty-Six
Day 56: 26 Sep 2010
My handlers call themselves the West Coast Syndicate, a name that is actually reasonably accurate. They started as a loose amalgamation of criminal enterprises in Los Angeles and San Diego back in the 1940s, and expanded quickly. They moved north as far as Seattle, and east as far as Las Vegas -- they control close to 70% of the criminal action in that area. And, since they found my slug and implanted him into me, they've been very good about keeping other organized criminal elements out.
When they heard that the Chinese had taken the slug to Vancouver, they sent me to obtain it if I could, kill it if I couldn't. Understandably, they don't want another one of me running around, especially not controlled by the Triads -- their main competitor. A combination of brute force and fear of their weapon (me) has kept the Triads from moving into the States until now, but no longer. My bosses think they'll use Travis to hit Seattle first, which is why they sent me. They don't know the Triads don't have Travis now.
No one has him -- he's on his own, taking orders from no one. That makes him even more dangerous, and not just to my bosses. To everyone.
At least with handlers, the damage can be contained, directed -- with a person like Travis off the chain. . .
The destruction could be biblical. Triads, Russians, West Coast Syndicate, Police -- none of them can bring him down, even hurt him. I'm not even sure the Army has a chance. Last year, I was in a car packed with bombs when the fuses got wonky --the whole thing blew. I walked out of that mess with a burned T-shirt and some messed-up shoes. That was it.
The good news is, Travis is on a mission. One of his own choosing, sure, but on a mission nonetheless. My hope is that this means his damage will be focused. Mission-oriented. That he won't simply go off the reservation and start destroying everything between him and me. I can't be sure of this, of course.
But knowing the slugs as I do. . . they're logical. Calculating, almost to a fault. And that kind of random destruction won't fit. It'll be wasted energy -- the slug knows that once he finds me, the two of us can then go rampage and kill everything.
I hope.
My handlers call themselves the West Coast Syndicate, a name that is actually reasonably accurate. They started as a loose amalgamation of criminal enterprises in Los Angeles and San Diego back in the 1940s, and expanded quickly. They moved north as far as Seattle, and east as far as Las Vegas -- they control close to 70% of the criminal action in that area. And, since they found my slug and implanted him into me, they've been very good about keeping other organized criminal elements out.
When they heard that the Chinese had taken the slug to Vancouver, they sent me to obtain it if I could, kill it if I couldn't. Understandably, they don't want another one of me running around, especially not controlled by the Triads -- their main competitor. A combination of brute force and fear of their weapon (me) has kept the Triads from moving into the States until now, but no longer. My bosses think they'll use Travis to hit Seattle first, which is why they sent me. They don't know the Triads don't have Travis now.
No one has him -- he's on his own, taking orders from no one. That makes him even more dangerous, and not just to my bosses. To everyone.
At least with handlers, the damage can be contained, directed -- with a person like Travis off the chain. . .
The destruction could be biblical. Triads, Russians, West Coast Syndicate, Police -- none of them can bring him down, even hurt him. I'm not even sure the Army has a chance. Last year, I was in a car packed with bombs when the fuses got wonky --the whole thing blew. I walked out of that mess with a burned T-shirt and some messed-up shoes. That was it.
The good news is, Travis is on a mission. One of his own choosing, sure, but on a mission nonetheless. My hope is that this means his damage will be focused. Mission-oriented. That he won't simply go off the reservation and start destroying everything between him and me. I can't be sure of this, of course.
But knowing the slugs as I do. . . they're logical. Calculating, almost to a fault. And that kind of random destruction won't fit. It'll be wasted energy -- the slug knows that once he finds me, the two of us can then go rampage and kill everything.
I hope.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Day Fifty-Five
Day 55: 25 Sep 2010
When I was a kid, my brother and I used to play hide and seek. A lot. More, even, than regular kids.
When you grow up in a house without electricity, you take what entertainment you can get. Playstation just wasn't happening for us.
Anyway, he was small for his age, so he was really, really good at the hiding part of the game. Sometimes, I didn't even find him. Once I found him curled up behind the seat in dad's old 1972 Chevy pickup, wedged into the five inches between the seat and the wall.
He was never too good at the "seeking" part, though. Always got frustrated when he couldn't find me right away and gave up.
That's what I'm counting on now -- that his frustration will at least delay him while he makes his way down the coast to find me.
Of course, seeking is easier when you have a telepathic worm jacked into all your systems. Hiding's harder, because I have one, too.
In case you haven't figured it out yet, hi. I'm Jared Sykes. Up until two days ago, I was making my way up to Vancouver, Canada. Now I'm heading back down the coast, and I know Travis is following me, looking for me for what he thinks are the right reasons.
They're not, incidentally. Travis thinks he knows what he's doing, but he doesn't. He has no clue what's really going on. I do.
It started for me about three months ago, when the slug inside me let me know it was in its final stage. In other words, dying.
My slug and I never bonded the way Travis did with his, and that's the only thing that kept me -- Jared -- alive and mostly intact. The slug and I are radically different, mentally -- so much so that our personalities remained entirely separate, single entities. I'm thankful for this, because it means I have a chance to stop Travis.
Travis thinks he and his slug are working together. That he has some control, that he and the slug have become one being. But Travis' logical, ordered mind has become his handicap. It has allowed the slug to pull the wool over his eyes, to make him think he and Travis are working together for a common purpose.
They're not. The slug is firmly in control, so deep inside Travis' mind that he can make Travis believe anything he chooses to. Make him believe that the slug isn't in control, that Travis is making all of the decisions himself. It's a lie, and a dangerous one.
In my case, I've been gaining more and more control over the past three months. Before that, I was a passenger in my own body. I was unable to control much of anything, only able to watch as the slug carried out the orders of his so-called saviors. Now. . .
My slug realizes what's coming. Who's coming. He's been aware of Travis' slug since a Russian fishing boat caught it a month ago. He. . . knows the slug. Can sense its thoughts. And those thoughts. . . well, let's just say they're not philanthropic in nature.
My plan is to get back to Las Vegas. With my slug weakening daily, I'll need help -- and my slug knows where to get it.
So he tells me, anyway.
When I was a kid, my brother and I used to play hide and seek. A lot. More, even, than regular kids.
When you grow up in a house without electricity, you take what entertainment you can get. Playstation just wasn't happening for us.
Anyway, he was small for his age, so he was really, really good at the hiding part of the game. Sometimes, I didn't even find him. Once I found him curled up behind the seat in dad's old 1972 Chevy pickup, wedged into the five inches between the seat and the wall.
He was never too good at the "seeking" part, though. Always got frustrated when he couldn't find me right away and gave up.
That's what I'm counting on now -- that his frustration will at least delay him while he makes his way down the coast to find me.
Of course, seeking is easier when you have a telepathic worm jacked into all your systems. Hiding's harder, because I have one, too.
In case you haven't figured it out yet, hi. I'm Jared Sykes. Up until two days ago, I was making my way up to Vancouver, Canada. Now I'm heading back down the coast, and I know Travis is following me, looking for me for what he thinks are the right reasons.
They're not, incidentally. Travis thinks he knows what he's doing, but he doesn't. He has no clue what's really going on. I do.
It started for me about three months ago, when the slug inside me let me know it was in its final stage. In other words, dying.
My slug and I never bonded the way Travis did with his, and that's the only thing that kept me -- Jared -- alive and mostly intact. The slug and I are radically different, mentally -- so much so that our personalities remained entirely separate, single entities. I'm thankful for this, because it means I have a chance to stop Travis.
Travis thinks he and his slug are working together. That he has some control, that he and the slug have become one being. But Travis' logical, ordered mind has become his handicap. It has allowed the slug to pull the wool over his eyes, to make him think he and Travis are working together for a common purpose.
They're not. The slug is firmly in control, so deep inside Travis' mind that he can make Travis believe anything he chooses to. Make him believe that the slug isn't in control, that Travis is making all of the decisions himself. It's a lie, and a dangerous one.
In my case, I've been gaining more and more control over the past three months. Before that, I was a passenger in my own body. I was unable to control much of anything, only able to watch as the slug carried out the orders of his so-called saviors. Now. . .
My slug realizes what's coming. Who's coming. He's been aware of Travis' slug since a Russian fishing boat caught it a month ago. He. . . knows the slug. Can sense its thoughts. And those thoughts. . . well, let's just say they're not philanthropic in nature.
My plan is to get back to Las Vegas. With my slug weakening daily, I'll need help -- and my slug knows where to get it.
So he tells me, anyway.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Day Fifty-Four
Day 54: 24 Sep 2010
Mr. William didn't come back into the room at all after giving me the sunglasses I asked for yesterday. I think he was afraid to, or he was planning his next move.
I was getting bored and considering leaving when he came back in. His pasted-on smile was back -- he popped two pills in his mouth as he walked in.
"For the aphasia," he said, though I didn't ask.
"We had a misunderstanding yesterday, I think. The fault was mine -- the proper respect I did not use in addressing you," he said.
"That's true."
"I would request that you please undertake a job for us."
"Nah."
Mr. William looked confused, of course. Here he was, expecting zombie-like loyalty. I was not as advertised on the packaging, and I knew it.
"But. . . we saved you."
"Incorrect. You just stole me."
His pasted-on smile fell away completely, and he opened his mouth to say something else.
I didn't give him the chance. He was boring me, and I took one massive swing with my right arm. My fist connected with his temple. To be honest, I wanted to see if I could knock his head off with one blow.
I did.
I stepped over what was left of Mr. William. Time to grab a car and get moving. He hadn't told me where I could find the West Coast people -- Vegas was a good start, I guessed. I'd at least seen some of them while there, and Jared, too.
Of course, figuring out where I was -- first priority right there.
Mr. William's men were. . . ineffectual. Not that they didn't try, but their best guns didn't scratch me. I tore through them. And I do mean that literally -- I ripped them apart with my hands. It was messy, violent -- glorious. But above all, it was easy.
Finding car keys was slightly more dull, but I picked Mr. William's pocket and found a set of Cadillac keys on a plain key ring. There were two Escalades outside -- the first one I tried started up. I was on the move.
Mr. William didn't come back into the room at all after giving me the sunglasses I asked for yesterday. I think he was afraid to, or he was planning his next move.
I was getting bored and considering leaving when he came back in. His pasted-on smile was back -- he popped two pills in his mouth as he walked in.
"For the aphasia," he said, though I didn't ask.
"We had a misunderstanding yesterday, I think. The fault was mine -- the proper respect I did not use in addressing you," he said.
"That's true."
"I would request that you please undertake a job for us."
"Nah."
Mr. William looked confused, of course. Here he was, expecting zombie-like loyalty. I was not as advertised on the packaging, and I knew it.
"But. . . we saved you."
"Incorrect. You just stole me."
His pasted-on smile fell away completely, and he opened his mouth to say something else.
I didn't give him the chance. He was boring me, and I took one massive swing with my right arm. My fist connected with his temple. To be honest, I wanted to see if I could knock his head off with one blow.
I did.
I stepped over what was left of Mr. William. Time to grab a car and get moving. He hadn't told me where I could find the West Coast people -- Vegas was a good start, I guessed. I'd at least seen some of them while there, and Jared, too.
Of course, figuring out where I was -- first priority right there.
Mr. William's men were. . . ineffectual. Not that they didn't try, but their best guns didn't scratch me. I tore through them. And I do mean that literally -- I ripped them apart with my hands. It was messy, violent -- glorious. But above all, it was easy.
Finding car keys was slightly more dull, but I picked Mr. William's pocket and found a set of Cadillac keys on a plain key ring. There were two Escalades outside -- the first one I tried started up. I was on the move.
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