Kill Them If You Can

SYNOPSIS

A group of doctors have been sanctioned by the U.S. Government to conduct experiments on U.S. Citizens with a rare disease. What makes the experiments diabolical is the U.S. Government has treatments and a cure for the disease. After ten years the government, finally ceases the inhuman experiment, but several of the doctors continue with their testing illegally.

The doctors are former special ops decorated soldiers who are well financed and connected both in the public (gov’t) and private sectors. Three agents have been assigned to infiltrate and destroy the labs and kill the doctors if they can.

STORY BEGINS

The last shot they had given him still sang hard in his bloodstream, a heavy siren song that washed the soot-encrusted world in blurry outlines of aquamarine. Trembling fingers gripped the grimy edge of the bus shelter rail, ragged teeth worried the curve of his split lower lip, and everywhere was the sound of the rain: a percussive tattoo that drilled its slick sickness into the aching bones of his very skull. The poisoned drops sizzled against the pockmarked pavement with the same acidic intensity that the poisoned serum still sizzled against his pockmarked veins and every few moments or so he had to repeat the simple chant to himself: I’m free, I’m free, I’m free.

Strangely, though, no matter how many times he confirmed it in his mind, freedom felt an overwhelming lot like captivity.

He jerked his head up as a bus finally rounded the corner â€" iron frame rattling beneath the Gatling gun storm, bald tires squelching in the flooded streets â€" but it was the wrong number; cursing softly beneath his uneven breath he withdrew himself into the sheltering folds of a too-large coat, shrinking away from the bone-pale wash of the buses headlights. The driver briefly slowed his pace but, unable to search out the lone man’s eyes within the shadows of his deep hood, he punched the accelerator and quickly sloshed his way past.

Not good. His bus should have come by now. The longer he stood here waiting, the closer the search lights came. He could feel the dampness of the grey afternoon leeching upward into the cuffs of his torn jeans, barricaded from flesh by his worn-out socks but creeping ever higher towards the skin of his unprotected legs â€" or was that only the drug still? Shuddering, he tightened his grip around the deathly cold rail and wished for a pair of gloves.
His chattering teeth made the vapor of his breath sputter out in the waning light, a ghostly wisp proving as insubstantial as he felt. His ears had grown too cold for sound, but he felt sure he would hear them coming anyway: the braying of dogs, the harsh metallic clang of iron footsteps, the shouts and the curses and the splintering accusations. He splayed his feet wide over the ground in their ancient, fraying trainers, seeking out their vibrations through the floor. Surely even the earth would abhor such evil and whisper a warning to him before they could come …

And then...