Project Lazarus (17 page)

Everyone in Cotter was finding a new purpose in life, as life had changed so much in the past weeks.  Eric Hill was no different.  A young man, with wavy red hair in his early thirties, he stuck out in the current crowd he was attempting to infiltrate.

A CIA operative, he only had one other major assignment to his list of credits.  He was assigned to Project Lazarus because he was dispensable.  He wasn’t part of the discovery.  He was part of the recovery.  He received only two days of preparation for his current mission.  He was to operate within the group of living dead from hell.

His attire blended with the group.  From head to toe, he wore black, as most were dressed in their burial clothing.  He had on a black suit, an appropriate white shirt and black tie with black shiny shoes to match.  He hung onto a Bible for a while until he realized everyone else had ditched theirs.  They were from hell.  They didn’t require a Bible let alone want one.

It was on days like this, trudging with hundreds of different men and women from all different walks of life, Eric wondered what he was doing with his own life.

He wasted so much time climbing his way up the CIA ladder.  This wasn’t the glamorous James Bond life he dreamt of.  There were no bikini clad stunners.  There were no posh jets and cars.  No dispensable cash.  No lavish settings.

Today, he found himself climbing a treacherous hill in Cotter, following a bunch of strangers from hell.  Trying to blend was a difficult task, even when he didn’t try to think.

But thinking was all Eric could do.  He wiped the sweat off his forehead and the old woman in the floral frock next to him shot him a funny look.  Could she tell?  The manual didn’t say that was a possibility.  This wasn’t some zombie or vampire show where they needed to feed.  They simply were at war.  They wanted to kill the enemy.  They wanted to win so they could be the sole survivors and return to hell.

Eric had a difficult past.  Didn’t everyone?  He thought about that often.  Some people seemed to have all the luck- the perfect family, the perfect upbringing, the perfect education, the perfect spouse, the perfect children, in essence the perfect life.  He had none of it.

His father was a nasty drunk that like to beat up his two sons.  Perhaps that’s where he leaned to keep his mouth shut.  He likely developed his knack for all night reconnaissance by years of avoiding his late night alcohol fueled father.  He fostered a desire for violence only if for self-protection and the ability to keep secrets.  His most treasured arsenal was his uncanny skill of trusting no one.

That was Eric.  He trusted no one and nothing.  He belonged to the CIA but trusted none of their ideology or beliefs.  He would stick out his neck for any CIA partner but his own life.  It was easy for him.  His own life was more of a mystery to the stranger trying to kill him than any mission he was working on.  They called him “Eric the Loner” and set him out on loner missions.

He didn’t mind.  He didn’t like having to trust anyone with his life.  He always felt responsible for how things worked out in his own life.  He was the one that managed to escape his abusive father with good grades and enlisting in the military.  He left his mother and brother behind to fend for themselves. The bastard died ten years later.  A decision he regretted deeply.  Although what he might have done differently, he didn’t know.  How he would have saved them….he only fantasized.

He was recruited right out the military and easily fit the CIA spook profile.  He liked to travel in the military extensively, knew several languages and was one sharp guy.

Eric won many honors and several awards for missions gone right.  Yet, the accolades were unfulfilling.  Like anyone else who feels like damaged goods, nothing ever felt good enough or deserving enough.  He spent a lifetime replaying the past and attempting to correct it with the future.  Nothing worked.

Girlfriends came and went.  No one got close enough.  Everyone sensed he was off limits.  Yet, who he belonged to not even Eric Hill knew.  He didn’t know much about himself.  What he really wanted or needed.

It was a long walk up kill hill, the name he dubbed the tall climbable monster, the occasional screams he had to fake, for wanting to go back to hell, gave him the time he needed to think.

He hated thinking.  It was one of the reasons he worked all the time.  He took any assignment.  Yet, looking around at the dismal faces, he could see himself in them.  He could scream of hell but he couldn’t talk.  These people were focused to get to the top of the hill.  He sensed they were angling to regroup.  They were about ready to make a major move.

He had in his pocket, an emergency cell phone, one he didn’t dare use.  They would know.  And yet, he was dying to call his superiors and tell them what he suspected.  A major development, a coup of sorts was in the winds.

There was one man, leading the pack, who Eric thought might be some kind of leader.  He didn’t get close enough to him.  He hung out safely in the middle of the pack.  In the hustle and bustle, he could keep his ears open for any intelligence he could gather.

It was a dangerous mission and Eric knew it.  There were hundreds of them and only one of him.  He couldn’t imagine any living people caught up in this group unless they were forced to join them to escape lock up. 

Eric was told about prisoners claiming to be real people who accidentally got caught up with the dead.  There was no reason not to believe them.  In fact, most higher-ups knew they were telling the truth.  They couldn’t take the risk.  They couldn’t open most of the cells for fear the ones from hell would gang up fast.

Eric knew about the prison break outs.  It was possible he was walking among the living.  He admired those folks.  They were quick studies of playing a part he studied most of his life.

Danger.  It lurked.  And now he had time to think again.  That was dangerous territory.

Wiping the sweat off his brow, the old woman in the floral frock stared.

“Damn,” she isn’t sweating, Eric thought.  Was it a giveaway?

Finally, she smiled an evil knowing look and tossed him a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt.

The thought of using it made him want to vomit.

He sucked it up.  He took the weathered handkerchief and dabbed his forehead.

She nodded, letting him know it was okay to keep.

Then, before he knew it, she was darting above him toward the top of the pack, with lightning speed. This was a spry 80 year old woman now.  She hadn’t appeared that way before, lagging in the middle of the pack with him.  What was she up to?

Where did she get this sudden energy and where was she going?  Did she know?

The questions drained him.  What was he doing in this mess?  Did he really just think that?  Oh no.

He sighed heavy, disgruntled.  If he died because some living dead woman from hell, 50 years his senior, found him out, he deserved to die.

Thinking time.  Now that she was gone, everyone was gone.  That was all Eric knew.  He didn’t have anyone to talk to, to run home to.  No one would be waiting for him.  No one would care if he was gone.  That idea killed him.  He was CIA.  But he was still human. 

He wondered for a moment what it was like to have someone care about him.  Someone he could call Mrs. Hill.  Children that looked up to him.  A family.  These were things he never had in the past.  It looked like history would repeat himself.  A man denied a family in the past not by choice continued to deny himself a family in the present by his own choice.

He thought about changing that path.  Maybe he could learn to trust.  He would never be like his own father.  He never even drank liquor.  He would protect his family just like he protected his country.

Suddenly, without warning, the group stopped.  All at once, people walking method like, shoved into each other.  No one expected the abrupt halt.

“Everybody stop.” A voice echoed from above.

Eric Hill remained calm, if he remembered one thing from the farm, a CIA training camp, it was to think, even when panic was surrounding your mind.

The group halted now.  He knew what was coming.  Someone for him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pretty brunette in a ponytail and a blue dress motion to him. 

Was that Jenny?

Jenny Walder was a fellow student he met in CIA training over five years ago.  Eric was an expert in facial recognition.  He was frequently used to scout out people wanted by the CIA from large crowds.  No one really got past his unbelievable skill.  He could recognize any face.  It started when he was young.  He could recognize actors from television.  He could age them from young to old.

He made his way over to Jenny.  Was it really her?  Or was his mind playing tricks in the midst of the panic.

“Jenny?” He asked.

“Eric?” She replied.

He couldn’t believe it was her.  He looked at her.  She smiled.  A knowing smile.  A genuine smile.  His heart beamed.  He not only recognized her face but he recognized something he hadn’t known much in his life.  Jenny could be trusted.

He smiled back.  He was unnerved thinking they sent her into this mess.  It was a suicide trip.  Somewhere, in the dark recessed corners of his mind, the ones too warped to acknowledge he pretended they didn’t exist, he knew this wouldn’t end well.  It was the reason he took the mission.  Better him than someone with the perfect life.  Why sacrifice the perfect life?

“What are you doing here Jenny?”

“Same as you,” she replied calmly.

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah,” she paused looking him up and down, “think you’re the only one with the deck stacked against in you in this life?”

“You mean the mission?”

“No,” she smiled, “the reason we both said yes.”

‘What do you mean?”

“I remember you Eric.  We were both a couple of naïve CIA operatives but I always knew you were building the same wall I was.  No trust.  No life.  I knew what I was going to get.”

“Suicide mission?”

She nodded.

“But Jenny why?”

He studied her.  She was beautiful.  She had everything going for her.  He knew her level of intelligence far exceeded most.  Yet, she was willing to be damned just like him.

“Tired of picking up the messes Eric.”

“Wish I could say something.”

“At least we’re on the same page.  We don’t have to put up the pretense of fighting anymore.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing Jenny?  Fighting the world?  Your fate?”

“I’ve been fighting my whole life.  A fight to correct the abusive past, the dismal conditions, the fate we both were handed Eric.  Not fair but we adapted and here we are calling the shots.”