Tainted Cure (The Rememdium Series Book 1) (11 page)

Carlos and Santos screamed at the exact same time.

“Help me, Santos! Get this bitch off me!”

Santos was frozen by paralyzing fear. He couldn’t stop staring, his mind refusing to grasp the unbelievable situation. The thing in front of him continued to tear chunks of flesh from his brother’s body, oblivious to the blows Carlos landed on her torso. They tumbled off the slab onto the floor right next to Santos’ foot. The creature was fast and used the opportunity to rip into Carlos’ belly. Bright, red blood burst from the wound and Carlos shrieked in agony.

Adrenaline kicked in and the will to fight overrode the terror thumping in Santos’ chest. He snatched the scalpel Carlos used less than an hour prior on the bitch from the table. He buried it into her back, pulled it loose, and stabbed again.

Carlos’ screams ceased after being disemboweled. Santos choked back tears at the horrible sight of his brother ripped to shreds. The thing that killed him grumbled again, turning her attention on Santos. Blood covered every inch of her face, strips of his brother’s guts hung from her mouth. Crouching, her flat, dead eyes focused on Santos, she spun around and nipped at his foot, gurgling and growling like a demon from Hell.

Santos scrambled backward but lost his footing on the slick floor. He fell into the tray table, the bowl holding the other implant crashing to the floor. A strange popping sound followed. The scalpel clattered across on the concrete after his hands shot out to catch himself. The blade bounced away out of reach.

The drooling, snarling thing came at him. Santos kicked his feet, landing a solid hit to her cheek, forcing the head to twist at an awkward angle. He could hear bones cracking from the impact, yet the blow didn’t seem to faze the creature. Her right hand caught his other foot, and though he tried to gain traction on the wet floor and move away, it was no use. Clamping her wet mouth around his calf muscle, Santos screamed as she tore off nearly all the muscle in his lower leg.

Footsteps behind him allowed Santos to find his voice, “Help me! Jesus, kill it!”

He heard the gunshot at the same time the bitch’s head exploded in front of him. The wet, sticky gore splashed across his face and body. The top of her head was gone, her mouth frozen wide, his skin and muscle dangling from it.

“What the fuck happened?” Gregory said, his face pale and voice cracking.

Out of breath and heart pounding, Santos shook his head. “Not a fucking clue. The drugs…they leaked into her…so all I can think of is they fried her brain or something. Just…help me, please? I’ve got to stop the…”

Gregory leaned down and grabbed Santos, hefting him upright. After depositing him on the closest slab, he muttered, “Take care of your leg. Stop the bleeding so there’s less for me to clean up. We’ve gotta move fast, in case someone heard the gunshot. No time to waste. Where’s the cleaver?”

Santos tried to remain stoic but failed. He leaned over and threw up so hard he feared his eyeballs would burst. Once finished, he yanked off his shirt and began to wrap his leg. “In the bag next to Carlos. There’s two, so help me get my legged wrapped because I want to be the one to chop that bitch up.”

Gregory nodded, moving across the floor to the bag. Over his shoulder, he said, “Looks like all the coke is wasted. Shit, Roberto said Benito told him this shipment was a new, special blend. Wonder what in the hell he put in there?”

Santos felt his stomach lurch again while staring at what was left of Carlos. A fleeting image of his mother wailing in grief flashed inside his mind. He dreaded breaking the news. Fearing he would puke again, Santos concentrated on his leg. The wound was bad and there was no way he could walk on his own. Burning pain shot up all the way into his chest. Gregory returned and set the cleavers down and helped secure his leg.

Just as Gregory tightened the makeshift tourniquet, the strange gurgling sound from before was back. Santos didn’t have time to say a word. Pushing Gregory out of the way, Santos threw himself across the slab and grabbed a cleaver, ready to defend himself from the bloodied corpse of what used to be Carlos Juan Riviera.

He was too late.

What had formally been his baby brother descended on them. Internal organs hanging out, eyes black as coal, it attacked. The thing fell on top of Gregory, clawing, ripping, and biting his way through Gregory’s exposed back. The shrieks of agony and terror mixed together with the gurgling made Santos’ head spin.

Santos only had a chance to bring the heavy cleaver down once. The thick blade sliced through tendons and muscle, stopping when it embedded in the spinal column. The bones wouldn’t budge and the cleaver was stuck. The blow didn’t slow down the vicious attack. Rather, it gave his brother something else to concentrate on.

Santos.

Unable to run, Santos jumped off the slab and tried to hobble away on one leg. He made it less than five feet before Carlos landed on his back.

Minutes later, the screaming stopped. The only sound inside the warehouse came from teeth grinding on flesh and bone.

BAD BATCH - Friday - December 19
^th
– 1:00 a.m.

Benito sat perched on the red-tiled roof of one of many resort condos he owned in Colonia Escalon, watching the teeming nightlife of San Salvador through binoculars. Almost three hours had passed since he unleashed his men on the streets, and he was eager to watch the reactions of users. On the cusp of making his name famous throughout the world—at least to others like him—Benito’s legs shook with excitement.

All the hard work and tension-filled moments of the last year were over. The scientists had used the base material brought back from the botched incident in Laredo, creating the polar opposite of what the other fools had intended. He’d been furious when his men returned without Dr. Berning. Fury morphed into blinding rage when his men informed Benito his little inside bug, Daryl Riverside, had been killed. Benito spared their lives after they handed him the bag containing vials and all the information needed on a flash drive to recreate Dr. Berning’s work.

After months of failures, the scientists made a breakthrough. The idea seemed simple, yet implementing it proved difficult.

If the chemical formula discovered by the American fools cured addiction, then one to increase the potency and need for more could be made from it as well by basically reversing the process. That was how Mario Alvarado looked at the idea, and Benito concurred, though he added his own personal touch. Originally, Mario only wanted to be informed of the progress, thinking the discovery would never materialize. If it did, Mario’s plan was to simply kill all those involved in the experiment.

Benito had other ideas.

The scientists working to achieve the lofty agenda used all sorts of medical terminology that meant nothing to him. Benito’s plan was to ensure those who ingested any sort of narcotic would become—close to the same timeframe—irrevocably addicted.

In doing so, there would never be a shortage of clientele.

Ever.

Seven months later, they succeeded, and Benito put the next phase of his plan into motion. He sold the formula to over one-hundred cartels around the world for a very hefty sum, each agreeing to deploy the serum at the same time in upcoming shipments across the globe. Drug lords in China, Russia, Afghanistan, Columbia, Brazil, Australia, and even Germany were buyers. As an extra touch, he decided to terminate the annoying relationship with Maria at the same time. He wanted to get a batch to Roberto quickly, so he had his private surgeon use liquid cocaine rather than silicone to pump up her boobs. He made sure Maria wouldn’t get the chance to attend Teresa’s wedding, and the drugs made it through customs undetected.

The last two days had been spent holed up inside the penthouse floor of the condo, going over all the instructions with his team. His personal pilot, Fernando, even flew him deep into the jungle so Benito could oversea the manufacturing process. When Benito poured the concoction into a large vat of freshly made cocaine, the feeling was close to orgasmic.

Now, fifty of his lieutenants hit the packed bars and clubs of Ciudad Merliot, pockets full of the new batch of coke. Another fifty spread out through the shanty towns along the city’s fringes. He didn’t trust the operation to his hundreds of foot soldiers. They were simpletons, unable to grasp the magnitude of the plan. Benito figured he’d hook the rich and the poor at the same time. To ensure his plan worked, and people took the bait, he told the men to actually give away hits for free. Between the hundred men, they would be distributing—free of charge—nearly three kilos of cocaine.

The plan was risky financially up front, yet Benito knew the rewards in the future would outweigh the losses in the present.

Benito’s cell phone vibrated and his heart rate spiked. He hoped it was a text from one of his men, not another pathetic, tear-filled communication from the other Alvarado whore, Teresa. During the last day-and-a-half, she’d called him so many times he’d lost count. At first, he took her calls and tried to act worried as well, assuring Teresa he would do whatever necessary to locate the missing Maria. After about the tenth call, he’d lost his temper and shut the whiny bitch down, telling her he would take the next flight to Phoenix to assist in the search.

Extracting the phone from his pocket, Benito smiled. The call was from Roberto’s private number used only for communication with Benito. Figuring he was calling to report on the results of the experiment in Phoenix, Benito answered. Before he could even finish saying hello, Roberto interrupted, his voice strained and sirens wailing in the background.

“Don’t deploy! Don’t deploy! Something’s wrong!”

Benito’s mouth went dry. Heavy static made hearing Roberto’s word difficult. “Calm down and say again? I can’t understand…”

“People…dying…coming…back…spreading…abort! For…sake…abort!”

The sound of Roberto’s terrified voice was drowned out by screams rising up from the city below. Disconnecting the call, Benito stood and lifted the binoculars to his eyes. As he focused the lenses, the smell of smoke wafted through the tropical night air. The screams were joined by numerous sirens from police cruisers and ambulances, their brightly colored lights flooding the streets. He could see throngs of people running through the crowded streets, trampling each other in a panicked effort to flee.

A sense of foreboding squashed the joy he’d felt seconds ago. His cell phone vibrated in quick succession, an indicator texts were flooding the screen. Benito’s stomach churned. Lowering the binoculars, he glanced at the vibrant screen and saw sixteen texts and counting, all from separate numbers.

Stunned, Benito clicked on one.
“What have you done? This stuff is poison!”

Then another:
“I’m going to hunt you down for this! Slice your fucking balls off!”

And another:
“You said this would guarantee clients for life! Instead, they are dying in droves! AND COMING BACK!”

The screams from below grew louder, drawing his attention away from the phone. The sickening feeling in his gut increased. Benito took one last look at the streets, hoping to find the reason behind the chaos was from a gunman or wild animal.

He knew he wouldn’t.

Gunshots rang throughout the area in quick succession. Automatic weapons—he knew the sound. Zooming in on one spot, Benito followed a stream of citizens running down a small alleyway, hands shaking as he searched for what sent them into hysterics. A policeman dressed in full riot gear made his way through the crowd, crouched, and trained his weapon behind them. Benito watched the flashes of light spray out the end as the cop fired off several rounds into a woman’s body.

The bullets ripped through the young woman’s chest, thigh, and shoulder. She fell onto the brick street, landing in an odd, unnatural angle as the crowd scattered. The policeman stood, gun at the ready, and moved toward her. He only made it three steps before the woman pushed herself up from the ground and jumped, toppling the cop over. Her right leg was bent backward and her arm hung limp at her side, yet she moved at an unbelievable pace.

In a flash, she was on top of the stunned cop. She ripped his throat out with her teeth. Benito didn’t have a chance to see anything else because the lights of San Salvador flickered once then went out.

Controlling his rising fear, Benito secured his gear and scrambled to leave the rooftop. Mindful of his steps on the slick terra cotta, he was only a few feet away from the door leading to the stairs. He fumbled around in his pocket for the keycard to unlock the door, cursing under his breath while trying to extract it. The sounds coming from all around him rivaled a war zone. The gunfire and screams increased, now joined by three explosions strong enough to make the building shake. Benito froze, trying to maintain his balance. For a split second, he did, but when the fourth explosion hit, he lost his footing and fell backward.

He caught himself and remained on the roof.

The keycard didn’t. It flew from his fingers and slid off the edge, disappearing into the night.