Parkerson swung open the cabin door and peered into the darkness. “Hello?”
There was no answer, only stillness. The whole house was dark. Parkerson fumbled against the wall for the light switch. Flipped it on and surveyed the small room.
The asset wasn’t inside. The living room was empty. So was the tiny kitchen. Parkerson stepped through the doorway, frustration mixing with the first tinges of fear. It was creepy out here in the quiet. Where the hell was the asset? This was no time for games.
Parkerson checked the bathroom and the two tiny bedrooms. Both were empty. Tried the back door; it was stuck. He tugged it until it opened, sending a winter’s worth of dust billowing into the room. The asset hadn’t used the back door, anyway. Parkerson walked back into the kitchen. The basement door was ajar. There was a dim light from downstairs.
“David?”
Parkerson stood at the top of the stairs and peered down. Listened. Heard nothing. Damn it, now he really was creeped out. All the guns were in the basement. The ammunition. Locked up, but still. He stepped back into the kitchen. There was a hunting knife on the counter. It was crusted with dried blood. Parkerson took it and walked back to the stairs.
“David?” he called. “Soldier?”
Still no answer. Shaking his head, Parkerson gripped the railing and started down. The whole house was silent. Crickets chirped outside. The low buzz of the forest at twilight. And nothing but eerie silence from inside the house.
A stair creaked beneath Parkerson’s feet. He stiffened, half jumped, laughed at himself. Calm the heck down, he thought. Nothing to be afraid of. The asset’s probably bugged out, is all.
Parkerson reached the bottom of the staircase. The basement was lit by a single dim bulb. Shadows everywhere. The door to the asset’s cell was open. The asset wasn’t inside.
He was standing by the projection equipment. He was watching the nightmares on the small TV screen. The sound was muted. The images on-screen sent light flickering up onto the asset’s face. His eyes weren’t empty anymore. They were dark. The asset turned to look at Parkerson. “You did this to me,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “You made me this way.”
Parkerson hid the knife behind him. Held up his free hand. “The war made you this way, David,” he said. “I’m just trying to help.”
The asset raised his own hand. “Shut the fuck up.” His whole body was shaking. Parkerson stared at the kid’s hand. He was holding a pistol, sleek and shiny and black. The pistol was shaking, too. It was shaking bad.