A Long Ways From Home

Chapter Fifteen: Ticking Clock to Rid of Evil

"You're the Secretary of Defense?" Stela asks, surprised by his condition. "What happened to you?"

The old man does nothing but smile initially.

"In fact I am," he replies at last. "Why? Not the man you dreamed of?"

Stela notices both Reynolds and Walker eye each other nervously with a hint of confusion. She does not. She only glances at the man in concern.

"Well, I for one imagined a guy that can at least walk," chimes Jay. "Let alone apply himself to government matters."

"Yeah," AJ agrees. "What happened to you anyway?"

"The Mogs happened," Sanderson answers straightforwardly. "You should be familiar with them, are you not?"

Stela glances around the room, at the Garde and at Reynolds and the FBI woman, the hawk on Cody's shoulder and the reptilian creature poking its head out of Chenoa's shirt pocket.

Reynolds nods; asks, "What did they do?"

"It's not about what they've done. It's about what they haven't done," the old man says, struggling to sit up properly in his bed. When he finds that they are all staring at him, needy for answers, he continues, "They made me into something, something more than I was before. Something better. They made it so my body is absolved to the ageing process and improved my immune system far greater than what the human body is capable of as we know it. It's—" He is interrupted by a fit of ragged coughing. Heavy ragged coughing that sounds as if his throat muscles will give out any minute; simply go mute. Stela cringes, her face recoiling at his body's impulse. Though when it stops, he finishes, "It's a medical advancement."

"It doesn't look that way," Jordan says, walking up to the cart where the needles lie. "This is what they gave you? Do they force you to take this?"

"Not at all," the man answers almost immediately. "I asked for it."

"Who in their right mind asks for something like that?" Cody questions. "A sick sinister... poison."

"Clearly his mind isn't all that 'right'," notes Agent Walker, moving her arms to her hips in a fit of disappointment and authority.

"I admit that it was a bad decision on my part."

"On your part? Like there was anyone else to be blamed," Jay interrupts with a roll of his eyes.

Reynolds holds out his hand, a stopping motion to prevent any further bickering and judgement by the group. "Alright that's enough," he says. "Let the man speak."

The frail man nods at Reynolds, expressing his gratitude. Then resumes, "I thought it would be a big step up for humanity, letting us live longer and without worry of petty diseases. Such forth. However, after they gave me the treatments," he says, gesturing to the cart of the black ooze-like substance. "Once I started taking them, I realized that they are the opposite from what he promises."

"From what who promises?" Reynolds probes.

Bud Sanderson doesn't reply, only points up. His pale weak hand exposes itself from the blanket and points in the direction of the photo frame above his bed frame.

The photo of the two men at a café table, probably somewhere in the city. One of them is Sanderson. Though he looks much younger than he does now, and much healthier. The other, the one on the left with a golden cane, sits across from him. His tanned skin baking under the sunlight and dark eyes smiling back at the Secretary.

"Who is that man?"

"You mean you don't recognize him?" asks Bud. "He's only in command of the most ruthless trained alien army in the galaxy, hell, universe probably. I heard he's been hunting you folks since you kids were young. What exactly did you do to piss him off so bad?"