Surge- The Story

Here is a story I have written. Not completed yet, though!







James fought to keep one foot in front of the other, groaning loudly. The wind blasted at him from all directions, making it difficult to walk, even move. The snow was as much as furious as the wind, blinding James for a few seconds. He groaned again, wrestling to slowly make his way to the cabin. Suddenly he collapsed on the snow, unable to make it any farther, as the snow whirled around him.





FBI agent Phil Davis walked briskly down the hall, annoyed by the questions from the reporters, mostly from the FOX reporters. Phil had just finished cracking a big case, which had stumped the FBI for years, causing most of the media to leech on him. A reporter, a young woman about 23 years old, jogged to keep up with him. From FOX. “Sir, how did you come to realize that it was the plumber who was the murder?” Phil continued to walk, looking every few moments at the reporter. “Nancy, right?” he asked. The reporter nodded, a bit out of breath. “That’s right, sir.” Phil suddenly stopped and turned. He grinned. “Well, you know, I’m not exactly an expert on this type of stuff. Why don’t you go to Agent Peterson? She knows most of the stuff around here.” Nancy, the reporter, brightened considerably. “Where would she be?” She asked eagerly as Phil continued down the hall. Phil turned toward her. “In the cafeteria,” he replied, then whipped back around and walked down the hall, not waiting for an answer. Suddenly at his side appeared Agent Calsi. “Sir,” he said, “We’ve got something.” Phil glanced at Matt for only a fraction of a second, then started walking again. “Calsi, you know the last time you told me that it turned out to be a case of a stolen balloon.” Phil glared at Matt. “Stolen by a clown.” Matt Calsi nodded. “But, Sir, this is actually a case,” he protested. “Kurt Williams thinks so, at least.” Phil stopped his fast pacing, and stared at Matt. Kurt Williams was the President of the FBI. If he said it was important, then it was. Matt grinned. “Of course that would get you awake,” he joked.

James woke up with a start. He sat up quickly, a little too quickly, in fact. He raised a hand to his head, dizzy. James took a look at his surroundings. He was in a hospital bed. In a hospital, then. But then why was there a man in front of him, wearing glasses, with a collar shirt and jeans on? The man, seeing that James was unprepared, put out his hand. “Whoa there, buddy,” he said. “People don’t jump out of bed after being buried in snow in the middle of the Artic.” James stared at him as if he was speaking French. The man stared back, then suddenly grinned. “Sorry.” He held out a hand, this time, in friendliness. “I’m Pat Micas.” James stared at the hand. The man named Pat withdrew it suddenly. “And you must be James.” Pat’s friendly smile turned into a serious frown. “James who?” Silence. Pat peered at James over his round glasses. “Do you know your last name?” James stared at him. Finally he spoke. “I don’t remember anything.”



Phil reached the end of the hall. Matt pointed toward the door on the right. “He’s in there,” Matt told Phil. He grinned. “Good luck.” Phil nodded. He watched Matt go down the hall, then disappear into a room. Phil sighed and opened the door. The room was dim. Inside was Pat Micas, a friendly doctor, and the patient. Pat saw Phil and smiled. “Thanks for coming in, sir.” Phil smiled back. He then turned to the patient, smile disappearing in a flash. “What’s the patient’s name?” he asked. Pat glanced at him, gathering his tools. “His name is James. That much we know.” Pat continued to clean up. Phil stared at him. “What about a last name?” Pat looked at him. “We don’t know his last name,” he said matter-of-factly. Phil rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you ask him?” Pat, obvisously frustrated, opened the door, and turned. “He didn’t know,” Pat replied. Shut the door behind him.

For the next hour, Phil tried to trigger James mind to find out his last name. His house address. His phone number. Anything useful. Despite the hard working, the only fact Phil found out was that James was 23 years old, and that he worked for some organization called APATHA. Phil sighed as he glanced at his clipboard. James was tired out, that was for sure. The door opened behind him. It was Pat Micas. “We’ve got some info on the group called APATHA, sir,” Pat informed. Finally some information, Phil thought impatiently. “Well?” Pat nodded. “It’s a group of assassins that aim for leaders, particularly the President.”



Neither Phil nor Pat noticed a man standing outside the open door. With a gun at his side. Ready to aim.



Phil grew pale as Pat continued to talk. “Apparently James had just finished murdering the Vice-President,” he said sadly. Pat reached for the TV remote. Turned it on. It was set for FOX. “…And we just got news that the Vice-President has been shot and killed.” Pat pushed the power button, and the TV turned off with a hiss. He turned back to Phil, who moaned softly. “So,” Pat said softly, “We have a murderer as a patient.” Pat grabbed his clipboard, and exited the room.





The assassin slowly lifted the gun and loaded it with a click. He grinned wickedly.



Phil sighed again. He turned to James, who had taken all the info in. “Is this true?” He asked. James eyes brightened with understanding. He nodded. “Now that he says it,” James replied eagerly, “I actually do remember shooting the Vice-President.” He grinned. “You should’ve been there.”

The assassin knew he didn’t have that much time. He breathed in slowly, breathed out.





Phil stared at James, feeling very uncomfortable. He was in the same room with an assassin who could very well grab anything and make use of it to kill. Phil gulped, and threw a glance at the phone. If anything happened….Suddenly Phil noticed a man by the door. Holding a gun. Phil fell to the floor as the man fired the gun. BAM!Noise filled the room, as did smoke. Phil coughed. “James?” With a struggle, Phil rose from the floor. He stared at the patient. Dead.



The assassin ran with all his strength. A smile grew on his face, replaced by a grimace as he managed to sprint down the hall, breathing violently. He stopped as he approached a information desk. Dressed in a doctor’s outfit, he fitted in with the FBI hospital section perfectly. There was a doctor at the desk. “Excuse me,” she said, “But I need to see your pass if you wish to go to the main section.” The man stopped. Sighed. He didn’t want to give his identity away; however, since FBI agents already had guns, he supposed it was alright. The man held out his badge. “Pat Micas. FBI agent, part-time doctor.”