Public Enemy Zero

45

Special Agent Joseph Merritt, the FBI’s designated negotiator, walked toward the man in his underwear with the orange electrical cord around his neck standing in the middle of the bridge. DHS and his district supervisor had given him specific instructions on what to tell Roberts. He was to not contradict Roberts’ claim that he was somehow infected, and he could promise him anything within reason if it could get him clear of the bridge and the noose.

At the outer edge of the perimeter, an FBI SWAT team watched as the negotiator approached Mitchell Roberts. They had been informed by DHS that it was likely a chemical agent that Mitchell had been using. When it was obvious that he wasn’t concealing anything on his body that fit the profile, their commander gave the order for them to use gasmasks instead of the more cumbersome tactical nuclear/biological/chemical suits they had in their truck.

Mitch held up his hand for the agent to stop when he was 15 feet away. Mitch could make out the man’s face through the glass on the helmet. He had a broad grin and thinning red hair.

“Hello, Mitchell,” said the agent. He used the informality as a way to put Mitchell at ease. “I’m not used to talking to people with a spacesuit on. I feel like I should be asking you to take me to your leader.”

Mitch stared at the man for a moment. He was about to ask if the corny jokes were a tactic to wear him down but thought better of it. “I’m not used to negotiating in my underwear.” Mitch paused. “Begging, yes.”

Agent Merritt smiled. Through his earpiece he could hear one of the people listening in on the microphone let out a muffled laugh.

“My name is Special Agent Joseph Merritt. You can call me Joe. My job is to negotiate with you and listen to your demands. I’m empowered to make anything happen that we think is reasonable.”

“Wait a second,” interrupted Mitch. “Demands? Demands are what bank robbers and terrorists have. I don’t want anything. I just want to know that if I surrender I won’t be torn to pieces. And that I’ll be safe from whoever is responsible for this.”

“Who do you think did this to you, Mitchell? I’d like to help.”

The question was posed with the calm sincerity of a parent talking to a child about monsters.

It took every bit of Mitchell’s willpower not to react sarcastically or get angry. Acting defensively in either way would make him look paranoid and unbalanced. “Look, Joe, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I hear all the crazy things that people say on the radio. I see firsthand what happens when people come near me.” Mitch looked down at his body. “Look at me, man! This is real. Those bite marks and scratches happened. I want an explanation for all of this.” Mitch looked at the crowd of law enforcement officials on either side. “We need answers for all of the people who got hurt.”

“Let me help you get some answers. What do you need?”

“I need to know that anyone who comes near me is going to be wearing proper protective equipment.”

“Protective of what?” asked Merritt.

Mitchell blinked. The question came out sounding like a probe. “Protective of me. My scent. Maybe I’ve got some kind of rage virus like they said.”

“Who said?”

“Talk show hosts. People on the radio filling airtime. I don’t know who, man. It’s just one of those things that come up when people are looking for an explanation.”

“What else do you need?” asked Merritt.

“I need to know that you have a safe way to transport me from here.”

“A vehicle to keep you from getting attacked?”

“Yes,” said Mitchell.

Merritt held up a finger as he was getting instructions through his earpiece. He looked at Mitch and nodded. “That’s not going to be a problem.”

“OK…”

“We’re going to transport you in an armored truck. That way nobody can get at you and hurt you. Does that sound good?”

Mitch shook his head. “No, it does not. Ask the people on the other end of your radio how an armored truck is supposed to keep people from smelling me or getting wind of whatever makes them attack.”

Merritt held up his finger again as he got more instructions. “They’re designed to withstand tear gas attacks and are sealed tight.”

Mitchell felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He realized that it wasn’t just the negotiator acting in a patronizing way, the people he was dealing with really didn’t think there was anything wrong with him. They had bought into some other theory about a weapon. Mitchell had to call the bluff. He leaned back on the railing and looked over the edge of the bridge for a moment.

“Joe. Special Agent Merritt,” said Mitch. “I’m sure the people you’re talking to will promise me the world if you think it will get me away from the edge of the bridge and this stupid thing off my neck while a thousand cameras are on us. The one thing I am asking for right now is the truth. An armored truck is designed to keep things on the outside from getting in like people and tear gas. Air may be filtered on its way in but not on its way out.

“Either the people you are talking to know that and are just trying to bullshit me because they’re under some false pretense that I’m up to something or they’re incompetent and can’t be trusted with my life.” Mitch waved his arm at the buildings and pointed at the Channel 8 camera. “Or the lives of everyone else around me. A truck that’s not airtight is a menace to everyone we drive past.”

“Mitchell, we’re being totally straight with you,” Merritt said in his most sincere voice.

“If you want to believe I’m acting under some kind of delusion or have some kind of sinister plan, for the sake of everyone, have the courtesy to treat my delusion with some kind of consistency.”

Agent Merritt listened for instructions. He nodded. “All right, Mitchell, here’s the deal. You’ve got a lot of people scared right now. Traffic is shut down on highways. People are afraid to go into public spaces. There’s a lot of families upset with you.

“I’ve been doing this for twenty years and I’ve met a lot of different personality types. I had you figured out the moment I saw you standing here with the silly cord around your neck. If you were serious, you’d have a gun to your head or you’d be up someplace high. You’re just a guy that wants attention and to pretend he’s a victim in all this. Obviously it’s not on you. We’ll find it though.”

“What?!” asked Mitchell.

Merritt reached down and turned off a knob at his waist. The suit began to deflate as the pressurized air coming from his backpack came to a stop. He reached to undo the seal under his helmet.

“Please stop!” shouted Mitchell.

“You can stop this any time, Mitchell. Tell us where we can find the other canisters.”

Mitchell heard a hiss as the latch opened. He looked at the rows of people on either side of the bridge. “For god’s sake! Somebody stop him!” he shouted. He looked up at the Channel 8 building, his eyes filled with desperation.

Merritt tossed the helmet aside and held open his arms. “Don’t feel like jumping, do you, Mitch?” Merritt took in a large nose full of air.

Mitchell backed toward the railing. He could feel the metal against his back.

“I’m not going to miss that…” Merritt’s voice turned to a snarl as he bared his teeth and ran toward Mitchell with his fingers curled into claws.

Vulnerable, naked, with nothing to use to defend himself, Mitchell held his hands in front of his face and knelt down. As Merritt closed in on him, Mitch grabbed him by the legs and picked him up in the air. Mitch threw his body to the left as hard as he could.

Merritt fell on his side. The air tank on his back slowed him down as he tried to get up. He rolled over on his stomach and came at Mitchell in a four-legged crawl. Mitch’s foot hit the helmet on the ground. He picked it up and swung it at Merritt’s head so hard the glass cracked. Blood drops splattered from his broken nose.

The SWAT team got orders on their earpieces to take Mitchell down. They swarmed past the barrier with their guns drawn. The .3 micron filters on their gasmasks provided no stopgap for the air around Mitchell. Once they passed the barrier Mitch had set up, their posture began to change.

Millions of people watched on television as cops with gasmasks turned from highly disciplined law enforcement officers into a pack of rabid dogs. Several of them dropped their guns as they clawed out at the air when they ran toward Mitch. Two of them reflexively pulled their triggers, sending a wild barrage of gunfire that ricocheted off the bridge and hit nearby buildings and the vehicles on the other side of the bridge.

The Channel 8 camera zoomed into the terror in Mitch’s eyes as they came at him ready to rip out his throat and tear him to pieces in a violent slaughter. The world watched as Mad Mitch pulled the noose tight over his neck and jumped over the edge of the bridge.