The Black Halo

9781483521282

Prologue

Dr. Thomas Farrington was an ambitious, arrogant man whose abrasive ways were tolerated out of begrudging respect for his brilliance. He graduated college at sixteen, was first published at nineteen, and was running a large and complex research laboratory by the age of twenty-four. Other scientists from across the country, many his senior by several years, relocated to Cambridge, Massachusetts to work through fellowships and internships in his lab. He enjoyed a healthy portfolio of federal funding that supported the study of his ideas. The university provided him with the latest and most posh infrastructure, and why not? He was bringing in serious money (eighty cents on the dollar in overhead, after all) through his research grants, and every time he had a spasm of insight, the pages of Popular Science and the Boston Globe were there to soak it up and spray it across their pages. The future looked very bright indeed for Dr. Farrington.

However, a few years later, with the lab running at full capacity and several compelling new ideas tied up in grant proposals, the world’s economy took a nosedive. The federal coffers dried up, and research funding suffered draconian cuts. At the same time, the ongoing public debate on health care was becoming white hot, and not a single politician in Washington was spared from the heat. What little federal research monies that were available became earmarked for the health sciences, clinical research and randomized trials of new medications, studies that promised to deliver direct impact to the bedside.

Unfortunately for Farrington, clinical work was not his world. His research was focused on the untapped potential of the human mind. Now, there is a potpourri of wanna-be philosophers, pop culture doctors, self-help books and snake oil salesmen who will promise (for a price of course) to expand the capabilities of your mind. But Farrington was the real deal. Enhanced memory capacity, accelerated processing speed and a digital platform for a neuro-mechanical interface were just some of the science fiction fantasies Farrington was making reality. While this work had clear applications to business, engineering and perhaps even education, it was a stretch to convince a politician of their medicinal value. Thomas soon found his research operation on the brink of insolvency. And even worse, his career, and by default, his life, was staring down the barrel of irrelevancy.

He began scouring the Internet and academic journals, searching for alternate funding sources. He found that there were few whose funding priorities overlapped with his work, and those that did offered awards that were a fraction of what his lab needed to survive. Still, he refused to accept his professional demise. One Friday afternoon, after a long week featuring two more grant application rejections, another round of support staff lay-offs, and the resignation of one of his brightest research fellows, Thomas was in his office, planning to work well into the night.

His secretary, a mousy fifty-one year old named Shirley, knocked on the door, bracing herself for the verbal lashing she expected to receive. She had learned to hate interrupting him. Dr. Farrington? Sorry to bother you, but there’s a man here to see y-

What man? he snapped, not bothering to look up from his computer screen.

Well, she thought with a measure of resentment, if you would let me finish a sentence, you would know. Just like my ex, two peas in a pod. She cleared her throat and continued. A man in a uniform, and he says it’s very important.

Thomas snorted and continued to pound on his keyboard. Oh, he does, does he? What is he, a cop or something? Because they can take those parking tickets and shove them up their collective, fascist ass.

No, not...um, a policeman, she replied. She didn’t like the word ‘cop,’ it just seemed disrespectful. He’s wearing an army uniform. He has lots of stars on his shoulders.

Chapter 1

-Six months later-

Pete Dubois read a paperback while his commuter train rumbled down the tracks on its way to Boston. He shifted his weight in his seat, trying to carve out a bit more elbowroom from the fellow passengers sitting on either side of him. Pete had been working in the city for six years as an actuary for a consulting company. It wasn’t terribly exciting work, but it was a good fit for him. He liked working with numbers and spreadsheets, crafting neat microcosms where rows and columns added up. It also paid well, and in this economy, Pete was grateful for it.

He was having a hard time losing himself in the book, his mind finding its way back to Sarah, and what she had said the night before. They were on their way home from the movies, Pete driving and Sarah staring out the window, together enduring an awkward silence. The movie was your standard romantic comedy, complete with all the usual clichés and tired plot devices. The theater was filled with couples, all seeming to enjoy themselves and each other’s company. Pete began to feel that something was wrong during the movie, and Sarah’s silence on the ride home confirmed his suspicions. Finally, after four blocks of listening to nothing but his car’s engine, he bit the bullet.

Is something wrong? he asked.

Sarah sighed, not turning away from the window. Pete, we need to talk.

Oh shit, here we go, he thought. Did you see all those couples in the theater? she asked. We don’t hold hands like they do. You don’t look at me the way those guys look at those women.

And on she went, building her case to buttress the damning conclusion that they lacked chemistry, as well as a real connection. The rest of her diatribe was academic, of course. This relationship was over.

Pete stared at the page, not actually seeing the words, but instead seeing Sarah’s face. He knew she was right, of course. They didn’t have a whole lot in common. He would rather visit a museum or tour Boston’s historic Freedom Trail than utilize Sarah’s season passes to the ski lodge or accompany her to that raucous hip-hop bar that she and her friends frequented. Still, he was attracted to her and was hoping the relationship would last, at least longer than most of his others did. He sighed and tried to refocus on the words before him.

As he resumed reading, a cell phone began ringing behind him. Before the first ring was finished, another phone began chirping. Then another, this time a musical ringtone. Soon, a chorus of rings filled the train car. Pete looked around and saw the bewildered faces of people with phones to their ears. Others were staring at their phones’ screens, again with that same dumbfounded look. A man behind him said, Jesus fucking Christ! while a woman across the aisle gasped, covering her mouth with a trembling hand. Pete stuffed his book into his backpack and pulled his own phone out his pocket. With trepidation he opened his web browser and navigated to the website of a cable news outlet, bracing himself for the red breaking news! headline of another terrorist attack. Instead, the words that appeared on the screen shocked his mind into a standstill.

The headline read, Psychosis Outbreaks Across the U.S., Canada – Thousands Dead.

He looked up and realized the train was crawling to a halt into North Station. Some people scampered off train like frightened mice deserting a sinking ship while others, who had not been checking their phones, meandered along as usual. Pete grabbed his backpack and entered the river of people heading for the door of the car. He thought, this must be some kind of hoax, maybe something like that War of the Worlds radio gag from the 1930’s that scared the shit out of half the country. He decided to get to the office and check several other websites, talk to some people, and figure out what was happening, if anything. As he stepped onto the platform, he was beginning to feel more confident in his War of Worlds theory, reassuring himself that he and many other folks had just been taken for fools.

A group of men wearing black police uniforms were running down the platform toward him and his fellow passengers. Pete thought they must be chasing a suspect, some fugitive at the end of the platform. He had seen cops like these many times before on his morning commute, those with the black uniforms with Department of Homeland Security patches. There was a federal office building adjacent to North Station, and they had been patrolling the Station regularly since 9/11. But these guys were looked different, Pete noticed, staring at them as they barreled down the platform. No head covers, the uniforms were dirty, one of them was even barefoot.

As they reached the group of passengers, they converged on a man and woman at the head of the crowd. The first cop tackled the man, a portly, balding fellow in his forties wearing a cheap grey suit, driving him hard into the concrete platform. Seconds later the others were on top of him, like a pack of rabid dogs, pounding and kicking. The woman, his companion, screamed. One of the cops straddled his shoulders, grabbed his coat lapels and banged his head off the platform, again and again, dark red blood spreading out in a pool around him. Someone shouted, Stop it! Get offa him! but nobody moved to intervene. The man stopped struggling.

Seconds later, as if on cue, they leaped up. Two of them grabbed the woman, frozen in horrified shock, while another slammed open the closest train door and the other two stood between their compatriots and the rest of the commuters. Pete, mouth agape, stared at their faces. They looked frenzied, wild, with wide eyes, muscles tensed and mouths open to snarls. One was tall, 6’2", with salt and pepper hair. The other was younger and shorter, but very muscular with a neatly trimmed moustache, which was partially covered by blood that was spattered over the left side of his face. These two cops backed up slowly as the others dragged the woman, screaming, into the train. Then, they entered the car as well, never taking their eyes off the crowd. As the last one entered, the train door slammed shut. The woman’s screams, now muffled by the metal train door, could still be heard.

Pete was frozen, at a loss for what to do. Something inside compelled him to help the woman, while his survival instinct screamed at him to go. He took a few tentative steps toward the train when several loud pops ripped through the air. Pete snapped his head around and saw a young man at the end of the platform wearing a blue jogging suit, his arms held straight out in front of him, holding a gun. Four more of the federal police officers were slowing fanning out before him. On the ground behind them, another officer was lying on the ground. The man was backing up, panning the gun back and forth across his field of vision, pointing the gun at one officer, then another. They crept toward him, eyes bulging and fists clenched. In unison, they all bolted toward him. Running Suit Man started firing with abandon, managing to clip one officer in the shoulder and missing twice before they overcame him.

Pete decided he had seen enough and set out to put some distance between himself and the federal building, before any more of these rogue cops appeared. He started moving towards the east exit, away from the fallen Running Suit man. People were scurrying in different directions, some scrambling into trains heading outbound, others towards the exits of the station, but others just stood, tote bags and brief cases still in hand, unable to process what they were seeing.

Pete exited the station onto Causeway Street. As he reached the sidewalk he looked to his right and froze, his backpack slipping off his shoulder and falling to the ground. Two dozen of the black uniformed police officers were advancing down the street, walking in a triangle-shaped formation. They all had the same unbridled, frenzied look as the ones in the Station. Pete slowly turned his head to his left, following the cops’ gaze. About 50 yards away, two Boston PD cruisers were parked in the middle of the street, forming a V-shaped roadblock. Four of Boston’s finest were behind the cruisers, guns drawn and aimed at the Feds. They began shouting commands to the approaching mob to halt, or they would open fire. The Feds continued on, as if nothing had been said.

As the Feds approached, they began making guttural, incoherent noises. Jesus, Pete thought, are they growling? The noises seemed to be synchronized, with the men changing tone and pausing for breath at the same time, in a disturbing symphony of barks and grunts. Pete wondered if the Feds in the Station had made the same noises; he couldn’t remember.

As they marched by Pete in a neat formation, snarling and growling with their bulging eyes and tensed postures, the sight triggered a bizarre association with his memories of the Columbus Day parades he had watched as a kid. He would sit on his father’s shoulders and watch as local police, fire fighters and Knights of Columbus marched down the street, smiling and tossing candy to the children. The high school marching band would trudge along, always slightly off tune. His Dad used to gently squeeze his hand as the VFW contingent passed by, as if to emphasize their worth as municipal heroes. Pete would examine them closely, looking for signs of their wartime exploits - scars, limps, medals, weapons, some vestige of the hard-fought battles overseas. Now, he stared just as intently at these perverse, prowling cops in the street before him, as if some explanation for this unreal chaos might be found in their cadence.

As they closed the gap to ten yards, the leading Fed at the tip of the triangle stopped moving. The others fanned out to his left and right, forming a semicircle around the cruisers. The BPD cops were yelling louder and with fierce urgency in their voices, hoping to avoid gunning down their federal counterparts. The Feds spread out, completing their circle around the back of the cruisers, not a one taking his eyes off the BPD cops, who now formed a rough circle of their own, backs to one another and guns facing outward.

Pete watched as the Feds began closing their circle, slowly taking steps forward in perfect unison. Fire, Goddamn it! Pete thought, urging the BPD to defend themselves, but also to regain control of the street, to reclaim normalcy. Instead, they slowly lowered their guns, which then slipped from the their hands and fell to the pavement. The Feds rushed, swarming onto the BPD, ferocious, beating, pulling and biting. Then, just as suddenly, they stopped. The Feds stood and backed up, allowing the BPD to stand. What the fuck? Pete thought. He noticed with horror the extent of damage the Feds caused in such a short time. All four were bleeding from the face and head, their uniforms covered in foot prints, some ripped in places. One of the BPD crew had a broken arm; it looked as if he had an extra elbow in the center of his forearm, his hand dangling motionless at its end.

Each of the Feds and BPD crew began looking around, scanning their surroundings slowly and deliberately. There were other people scattered up and down the street, as always on a busy weekday in Boston. But they weren’t scurrying about with urgent purpose like they did on every other morning; some were still, staring at the surreal confrontation in the street, like Pete. Others were vanishing into doorways, storefronts, and dark side streets or alleyways, looking for a place to hide.

A few seconds later, the cops turned their heads towards a large Dunkin Donuts on the corner of Causeway and Canal streets, twenty yards away. In unison, they marched toward it. As Pete watched in horror, the cops filed into the restaurant and began to rip it apart. A young woman named Britney, wearing the familiar pink and purple uniform, crashed through the window and landed on the sidewalk, sliding to a stop on the edge of the curb. Large pieces of glass were jutting out her face, neck and arms, which were covered in blood. Inside, a group of Feds grabbed the manager, a forty-year old man named Julio Hernandez, who up until 90 seconds ago was on the phone with his wife, telling her how well his night school MBA class was going. Now, he was lying on the floor with the corner of a coffee maker embedded in his skull, the cell phone on the ground a few feet from his face.

Six other cops beat to death the two customers who were also caught in the restaurant. Only one of these men was actually a customer; the other man, a bicycle courier named Trent with long blonde dreadlocks, had ducked into the D-n-D to hide once the BPD set up the roadblock. Now, Trent was curled up in the corner of the service area, sans his left arm, with blood still squirting out of the raw stump of his shoulder. The skin of his face was melting off his skull, his head having been driven into a full pot of boiling coffee.

Meanwhile, the other cops began devouring the donuts, muffins and bagels right off the shelves behind the counter and drinking the beverages out of the cooler. Once they all had something to eat in their hands, two of them went outside and grabbed Britney, who had just managed to rise to her hands and knees. They dragged her back into the restaurant and shoved her into a table, leaving her face down with her arms splayed out in front of her. One cop pulled her pants down while another began raping her. The others stood around eating and drinking, staring blanking into nothingness. After he climaxed, he walked awkwardly away with his pants still around his knees, picked a half-eaten corn muffin off the floor and took a bite. Another took his place behind Britney, dropped his trousers and began thrusting, a chocolate cruller still in his hand. Others, who had finished eating, formed a calm queue behind him.

The sight of Britney’s face bouncing off the table in a steady rhythm, drops of blood splattering the Formica with every thrust, finally jarred Pete from his stupor. He reached down with a shaking hand and picked up his backpack. It felt much heavier than it had earlier that morning when he left his house for work. He looked up and down the street, as if some explanation for the madness would be posted on a road sign. Then, he heard a grunting coming from behind him. As he recognized the sound, a wave of terror washed over him. His knees began to quiver as he turned and saw the crew of Feds from the train platform, their wild eyes boring into him. As Pete tried to get his legs to move, he noticed someone behind them. It was the woman from the platform that they had dragged into the train. She was naked from the waist down and had blood covering her nose, mouth and chin. She had the same frenzied look in her eyes as the cops, and was adding her voice to the chorus of guttural growling.

They prowled forward, closing the distance. Something in Pete finally reached through the fear and ordered his legs to move. He turned and started running, up the street from where the large group of Feds had come. As he realized he was running toward the Federal building, he banked a hard left turn and headed up a side street. A siren began to blare in the distance. There were a few people standing in the street, who became alarmed at the sight of Pete running, knowing whatever was chasing him would be along in short order. They scattered as Pete reached a parked delivery truck and scooted behind it, breathing heavily. His lungs burned as he gasped for breath and peeked around the edge of the truck’s taillights. The Fed crew (plus their half-naked friend) was slowly making their way down the street, scanning each storefront and doorway, looking behind mailboxes and newspaper dispensers. As he watched he realized, they were hunting him, and were only 30 yards away.

Pete felt the blaze of panic beginning to overtake him as they approached. Knowing he didn’t have the wind to outrun them, he struggled to maintain control and moved as quietly as he could around the other side of the truck, putting himself on the sidewalk. He considered whether they had the wherewithal to look under the vehicles they couldn’t see over and check for his feet. He stood motionless, his heart pounding in his chest so hard he was sure they would be able to hear it. They did not, although he could here their low grunts as they passed by the truck and continued down the street.

Pete continued around to the front of the truck, keeping it between himself and the Fed crew. He peeked around the truck’s grill and saw that they had redirected their attention to a convenience store. They began pounding on its door.

The store’s owner, Jackie O’Sullivan, opened this morning at 5:30am, and quickly locked up again as the news reports began to come in. Over the years, he had seen it all (or so he thought, until this morning) as the proprietor of Sully’s Convenience: the punks with the purple hair, the skinheads, the gang kids with their pants hanging half way off their ass and the hats on sideways. He had been robbed a few times, and even laid one would-be robber on his arse with a nice right hook. But that was back in the early nineties, when his right hook still has some salt on it. Now at 62 years of age, Jackie, if he was honest with himself, was not certain he could still hold his own if he fell into a scuffle down at the Town Tavern. And he sure as shit couldn’t fight off three crazy cops (and a bare-assed lady?!), banging on the window of his store. What the world was coming to, he certainly did not know. The pretty oriental girl on the news called it a psychosis outbreak, but that smelled like horseshit to Jackie. Insanity didn’t just jump from person to person like the flu or measles.

The Feds gave up trying to break the thick double-paned windows with their fists. Instead, they picked up a newspaper machine, and with frightening strength, hurled it through the window with a tremendous crash. Jackie, who had been crouching behind the counter, scooted through the door behind him and into the back room of the store. It was filled with boxes of merchandise, a backup cooler, and random junk. It also had a door that lead to the back alley, from which deliveries were made. But Jackie wasn’t interested in leaving. This was his store, goddamn it. And while he couldn’t lay a fellow out with his fists anymore (but there had been plenty of those unfortunate souls over the years, hadn’t there?), he sure as shit could defend his livelihood with the twelve-gauge he kept hidden behind the cooler.

Meanwhile, as the cops filed into the store, Pete watched as the half-naked woman sliced open her left buttock on a sharp shard of glass climbing through the opening in the window. He watched the blood slowly drip down the back of her thigh as she moved into the store and began ravenously devouring candy bars from in front of the cash register. The one I could have helped, a voice in his mind said with regret. He was overcome with a wave of guilt for having abandoned her on the train platform. Wasn’t there something he could have done? The rationalization that the Feds would have killed him did little to assuage his remorse. Now, as they ravaged the convenience store, what would happen to its workers? The same fate as the Dunkin Donuts girl? He couldn’t let himself stand by and do nothing, not again. There had to be something he could do to help. A distraction, or maybe some kind of a warning? He tried to catch a glimpse of anyone in the store. All he could see were the Fed crew, stuffing their faces with candy and potato chips.

As he thought about what to do without making himself the sole focus of their attention, a loud blast suddenly erupted from inside the store, as one of the cops violently fell backwards, as if hit by an invisible car. That’s when Pete first saw an old man, emerging from the doorway behind the counter, pumping the action of his shotgun. He was stocky, with a barrel chest and broad shoulders, despite his age. He had the unmistakable complexion of an Irishman, with fair skin and thinning red hair.

The rest of the Fed crew seemed stunned for a moment, not moving, just staring at their fallen comrade. Jackie took aim and fired again, slamming another cop into the beverage cooler, smashing the glass. The remaining cop and their female companion rushed him. He managed to pump the action again, but could not get off another shot before they were on him. The three of them disappeared into the doorway behind the counter.

Pete ran towards the store and jumped through the window, landing in a pile of half-eaten snack foods, skidding to a stop, almost falling. He ran around the counter and through the door, finding the last remaining cop on top of Jackie, about to wrestle the shotgun away from him. The woman was crouching beside them, savagely pounding on Jackie’s face and head with her fists. Pete lowered his shoulder and barreled into the woman, knocking her hard into the cement floor. She immediately rolled toward him and reached for his throat, her lips curled back, revealing her blood stained teeth. Pete slammed a forearm into her jaw, feeling her grip loosen. He reached across the floor with his other hand and grabbed hold of an empty soda bottle lying on the floor. He smashed it into her head, shattering the glass. Blood poured down her face as her arms became limp. Pete scurried away from her, getting to his feet.

Behind Pete, the shotgun discharged again, the sound magnified by the small confines of the supply room. It was followed an instant later by the sound of the pump action clicking home and the spent shell casing falling to the floor. Pete stood frozen, a new wave of fear creeping up his spine. He was sure the cop had just killed the old man, and he was next. He slowly raised his arms and squinted, bracing himself for the oncoming buckshot. Instead, he heard a raspy voice in a thick Boston accent say, Step aside, young man. Pete turned as he stepped away, seeing the old man kneeling with the shotgun in his hands, the cop lying dead beside him. Another shot rang out, and the woman was gone, too. The old man turned to Pete and said between heavy breaths, My friends call me Sully.

Chapter 2

Victor Romano played Grand Theft Auto in his mother’s living room while he waited for his dope guy to show up. He wanted to get high before heading out to pick up his buddies, Roul Alonzo and Eddie Burke. Then, the three of them would head downtown and go drinking. Victor thought Roul was a dickhead, but he usually bought rounds for the three of them, so he was worth bringing. Besides, if Roul came along they would crash at his house after the bars close, and Victor was pretty sure that if he slipped Roul’s kid sister some ecstasy he could get in her pants again.

He looked up from the game and eyed the clock, becoming agitated. Where the fuck was Miguel? That was the trouble with Spics, in Victor’s opinion; they’re always late, no work ethic. Victor needed to get his supply and get going before his mother woke up. She would bitch if he tried to take her car while high, and the last thing he needed was to listen to her stupid shit; as if she didn’t bust the rear left fender of the Lebaron on the night of her most recent DUI when she introduced that shitbox to a tree.

He grew tired of the game and began channel surfing instead. He was limited to basic cable since his mother was too cheap to spring for the pay channels. She always whined that her disability check wouldn’t cover it, but Victor knew she worked under the table at the package store on the corner (where she procured her steady supply of peppermint Shnapps). She had been on his ass lately to get steady work, start contributing to the rent, food bill, something. And he did indeed want to start making some serious scratch. But after they kicked him out of high school and locked him up for a fight (that he didn’t even start), he knew they wouldn’t give him the decent job he deserved. And he sure as shit wasn’t going for some loser gig, pumping gas or clearing tables.

It was then that he stumbled across the news, the bright red BREAKING STORY banner catching his eye. His jaw fell as the anchor delivered the story with calm detachment, the chaos, the carnage, and the violent, uncontrolled rages that were overtaking people across the country. A smile spread across Victor’s face. Oh, yes, he and his crew were going out tonight, but not bar-hopping. There were many more interesting ways to spend your time when the police were among the newly minted psychos. He grabbed the car keys (and a few extra bucks) from his mother’s purse and stormed out of the house. He didn’t know how worthless paper money was about to become.

Chapter 3

Pete helped Sully to his feet, realizing for the first time that there was a slash in his hand from the glass of the soda bottle. Sully, standing but unsteady, held a hand to his head and said, Jesus H. Christ, my head feels like it’s in a vice. He meandered to a nearby shelf and grabbed a towel that he tossed to Pete. Here, wrap this around your hand.

Thanks, Pete said.

No, thank you, answered Sully. "I would have been a goner if you hadn’t showed up. These sonsabitches are