The English boy was a junior enforcer in the local English gang named the Lions after their mutual love of their homelands football mascot. He went by the nick name ‘Cleaver’. Connor assumed he had been beaten with the blunt end of one at a young age repeatedly, as his face was an ugly collection of scars and welts. The Lions patrolled a small wedge of land protruding from this commercial area into the residential towers. Cleaver took them to a safe-house deep inside the network of alleyways. It was little more than a basement tucked beneath the loading bay of a restaurant. Cleaver flicked on a loosely mounted light switch, powering up old LED tube lights which gave off worn artificial light. Posters of English footballers and Union Jacks lined the walls, lending colour to the drab concrete walls and floor. It had a set of bunk beds, a small kitchenette with folding chairs, a separate bathroom and an ancient computer desk. Everything was old, yet serviceable and clean. Even the kitchen bench was spotless, a miracle if this room was indeed usually habituated with young boys.

“You’ll be safe here until the morning,” explained the youth. “Pigs won’t stray off the beaten path unless they have backup. If they do bring the heat, we’ll warn yah. Best to stick to the alleys when you bounce. Computer works. Just don’t do anything stupid with it, alright?”

“Thanks, Cleaver,” said Allan, shaking his hand.

“Yeah… Whatever, guv. Just don’t forget who you owe those favours to. You ever tell anyone about this place or come uninvited…” Cleaver made a throat slitting gesture. “Nick anything and I’ll have your guts for garters…” he said, pointing at Connor.

“Understood,” said Allan, smiling through his teeth.

Cleaver and his buddy left after giving Connor another withering look, slamming the heavy door closed on their way out.

Connor helped Bill lay down on the bottom bunk bed. Sweat beaded the heavyset man’s forehead and his breathing was laboured. Dark bags hung under his bloodshot eyes, their colour in stark contrast to his pale green-tinged skin.

“How long has he been like this?” asked Connor.

“Since the beginning of Fall,” replied Lisa, taking a seat by the kitchenette. “He caught something going around. Never left.”

Bill rolled onto his side, brushing Connor away. “Rest.”

Connor stood up and backed away. “Cool.”

Allan stood by Lisa, his arms crossed. “You going to heal him or what?”

Connor’s thoughts were focused on food. He could feel himself shaking from the strain of low blood sugar and an itch had appeared in his mind. He had to fill his craving. He had to eat.

“Let him rest for a minute. I need my strength to do my work.”

He approached the kitchenette and started going through the cupboards, pulling out anything which looked edible.

“What are you doing?” asked Lisa, her once friendly demeanour evaporated.

“Hungry,” replied Connor. “Need food.”

“So… you’re just going to help yourself?” she asked with a hint of scorn.

Allan took a seat beside Lisa, slumping into the chair with a groan. “Cleaver can add it to my tab. Just don’t eat them out of house and home, boy.”

Connor had assembled a collection of instant noodles and canned soup. He was looking for something with more substance. He needed protein. He needed fat, bone and gristle to replace what he had lost. He opened the bar fridge. In its small freezer compartment he found a pack of frozen sausages. “This will do…”

He ripped open the packet of sausages, dropping them in a saucepan with some water to simmer gently until defrosted. He didn’t care how it tasted. He just needed sustenance.

“Do you trust those Limey brats?” asked Lisa.

Allan shrugged. “They’re just street kids. They’re more interested in protecting their family’s turf. They don’t deal anything hardcore or resort to murder at every given chance. Compared to others, like those baby Yakuza or The Reyes, they’re tame. I’d say they just want to watch football and get into fistfights. Normal teenage stuff…”

“But would they sell us out to the cops?” urged Lisa.

“I don’t see why they would,” sighed Allan.

Lisa rubbed at her face. “I don’t like this. We should just leave the kid. We’re only going to get into more trouble with the law.”

Connor froze in his process of opening another tinned can. He glanced over his shoulder at Lisa who gave him a withering stare back.

“Did you do anything wrong, boy?” asked Allan.

Connor turned back to his cooking. “No. I just ran away. They want to study me in some facility on the other side of the country.”

“It’s called aiding and abetting, Al. They could have a warrant for his arrest!” snapped Lisa.

Allan stretched. “So, we spend some time in prison. Probably best coming into winter…”

“I am not going to fucking prison for something I didn’t want to do!” hissed Lisa, stabbing a finger at herself.

“Its cool, guys,” said Connor. “I’ll leave you after I’ve had a rest. It’ll be for the best.”

Allan nodded, his body language tired and defeated. “Yep. For the best. After you’ve helped Bill…”

Lisa snorted and turned away.

Connor set the miasma of mixed soup flavours to simmer and the boiled sausages to fry gently in a pan. He went over to the ancient computer and booted it up.

“What are you doing now?” asked Lisa.

Connor rolled his eyes. “I’m contacting my friends. They might be able to help me.”

Lisa gave an exasperated moan.

“Leave him be,” whispered Allan.

Connor logged on as a guest and fired up the browser after waiting an age of literal seconds. How did they get anything done with a computer this old? It was so frustrating having to wait for programs to open or websites to buffer.

Connor went to a third-party site and sent messages to both Henk and Joshua. If the C.D.C or police had his phone they’d see he’d messaged someone. He’d have to be circumspect.

I need your help. Find me at the last place we met in the morning. Don’t tell anyone.

There… cryptic as fuck.

He left the screen open, hoping either one would reply.

“You guys hungry?” he asked, stirring the food.

“I can’t eat,” said Lisa, her voice still cut with anger.

“I’m paying for it, so I might as well enjoy it,” said Allan.

Connor turned off the stove top. “Serve yourself then.”

He helped himself to a large bowl of the soup and several of the sausages. Allan gave the soup a miss after a hesitant sniff, stabbing a lone sausage on the end of a fork to nibble on as he thought.

Lisa stood up. “I’m going to sleep,” she announced as she walked to the bunk.

Allan grunted and Connor ate in reply.

“What will you do?” asked Allan in a low voice.

Connor shovelled another mouthful of sausage into his maw. “I’m not sure,” he said over the hot food. “Find my friends. They could probably take me in for a while until the heat goes down. Get hold of my mom. Make sure she’s okay…”

“And the Feds?” asked Allan. “You know they’ll never give up. You’ll always be on some list. You’ll be hiding forever. Do you think you can live like that? Like this?” he added gesturing to the room. “It’s not a glamorous life. It is a free life. It is not a fun life.”

Connor didn’t know. How could he answer that? He hadn’t had a chance to think on it.

“I don’t know,” he replied, speaking each word slowly as the thoughts came to him. “I could risk turning myself in. Maybe they’ll figure out what’s wrong with me and send me home. Maybe they won’t and I’ll die on an operating table. It’s a gamble. All I know is that I don’t trust their story. There are others. Other what? Patients? Victims?”

Allan shrugged and took a bite of his sausage. “A time will come soon when you will need to make that decision. Otherwise someone may make it for you.”

Connor nodded over a mouthful of insipid mixed soup. “I hear you. But until I know why they are taking people out East, I’m staying here.”

Allan finished his food and dozed off to sleep on the chair. Connor finished every last morsel of food he had cooked, cramming it into his stomach through sheer force of will. Loaded to the gills, he closed his eyes and meditated, turning his mind inward to the machinations of his own body. The masticated food sat in a lump, slowly being digested. Connor tested several different methods of speeding it up. He wanted to absorb as much of the food as quickly as he could, turning it back into muscle and bone mass. He watched, or rather felt how his intestines operated. These little things (he could only describe them as hungry) broke down the food inside the intestine to useful chemicals. His blood absorbed the chemicals and transmitted them throughout his body. Connor poked at the place where the hungry things came from, prompting it to release more, while also increasing the surface area of the loading space where the blood absorbed the chemicals by building a web-way of extra veins. Nutrients began to flow. He waited, watching for how they were delivered. Satisfied with his understanding, he directed the healing process, repairing his frail skeleton, replenishing his taxed organs and building up muscle.

A pain in his bowel warned him. In his rush, he had expended all of the food, leaving his stomach empty once more. He returned everything to its normal speed and crawled out of his meditative state wincing at the hollow in his belly.

Connor flexed his arms and legs. He squeezed his biceps with his hands. He felt stronger. He felt good. If only he could eat some more.

Perhaps he could grow taller - develop rock hard abs and pecs…

Maybe he could change the way he looked…

He raised a hand to his face.

He could be handsome. Pretty. He could look like any girl’s fantasy…

That raised a moral quandary.

Perhaps he was asking the wrong question. Should he?

“If it keeps me out of a lab…”

Bill gave a long wheezing sigh, breaking Connor from his train of thought, his lungs rattling like a spray-can before going deathly quiet.

“You okay, Bill?” asked Connor.

Nothing from the vet.

Connor crept closer. “Bill?”

Zip.

Connor laid a hand on Bill’s shoulder and gently shook. “Bill…”

The vet didn’t respond. Connor placed a hand by his mouth, searching for signs of life. He could feel the faintest warmth against the back of his hand. Did that mean he was dead or just dying?

“Oh fuck…” exclaimed Connor.

He placed a hand on Bill’s sweaty neck.

No pulse that he could find.

“Oh shit.”

Connor heaved and rolled the large man onto his back. Lacing his fingers together he pumped on Bills left chest, starting CPR. After ten or so pumps he stopped to check if Bill was breathing. Still no sign. Connor continued to compress Bill’s chest, throwing as much weight behind each push as he could. After another set of uncounted pumps he paused and checked his breathing. Bill’s mouth stunk like something small had died in there. No matter what, he wasn’t prepared to wrap his own lips around that.

“What the fuck are you doing?” growled Allan, his chair sliding loudly against the concrete floor as he stood.

“He’s not breathing,” blurted Connor.

Allan was at his friend’s side in a blur of motion, pushing Connor out of the way.

“Billy? Billy?” shouted Allan, his voice breaking.

He ran his hands over his friend’s face, trembling with nervousness and concern. “Bill?”

Allan turned to Connor. “You have to do something.”

Connor stepped back. “Like what? I’m not a doctor.”

Allan beat Connor’s chest with his large fists. “Did you lie to me? You said you could heal him!”

It seemed like his promises would be proven to be empty. Connor didn’t know what to do. “I did…”

“You said you healed yourself. Heal him!” growled Allan, grabbing Connor by the shirt and throwing him towards Bill.

“How? I don’t know if it works like that,” said Connor. He stood over Bill, his hands hovering over the dying man’s body.

“Just try something. Anything,” pleaded Allan. “He can’t go like this… The old bastard survived way worse in the trenches.” He clutched Connors arm, squeezing it tightly. “Please?”

Connor sighed, his mind going over his options. He could try a blood transfusion. Perhaps that would heal Bill. But would it be enough? Would he have to programme it to fix him? What else?

He looked at hands. A thought entered his mind.

The tendrils.

What if he connected himself to the other man and took control of his body. Could he?

“I’ve got an idea.”

“Yes?” asked Allan, his voice tight.

“Give me some room,” replied Connor.

Lisa had climbed down from the top bunk and stood watching from a safe distance away. “I don’t like this, Al…”

Connor removed the heavy jacket and held his right arm above Bill. He closed his eyes and focused. The tendril in his arm was essentially just a long sponge with nerves running down it. Perhaps he could connect himself to the other man’s nervous system and take control. It was worth a shot. Bill was dying.

He pushed the tendril out. It hung limply from his arm, wiggling slightly as it descended slowly toward Bill’s neck. Connor felt the tendril touch Bill’s clammy skin, pooling in a spiral as it continued to flow from his arm. Without spending time to develop a means of controlling the tendril, he was going nowhere.

“I need a knife.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Lisa, her voice dripping with suspicion.

“I’m going to make a small incision in his skin so I connect with him,” replied Connor.

Lisa shook her head. “No way.”

Allan stepped over to the kitchenette, pulling out drawers and cupboard doors in his search for a suitable tool. He found a serrated steak knife. “Will this do?”

“I guess…” replied Connor.

Allan walked back, knife held before him. Lisa stepped in his path, one hand up to stop her friend.

“Don’t do this Al. We don’t know this kid. He could only make things worse.”

Allan pushed her out of the way. “Worse than death? Come on…”

“You don’t know that!” hissed the pilot.

Connor took the offered knife and placed its tip on Bill’s neck near where his waiting tendril lay. “I’ll do my best. Here goes nothing.” He pushed the tip of the knife in, making a small cut. Blood welled in an instant. Connor dropped the knife and picked up the tip of the tendril with his free hand, guiding it to the wound. The crimson line inched its way inside. Connor closed his eyes once more.

He was blind, relying on the limited sensations he received from the thin tendril. He reached out, searching for something to connect to. At last, after groping around he found something. He latched on and attempted to establish a connection. A new awareness blossomed. He could sense Bill’s degrading nervous system. Connor delved deeper, yearning to feel more. His consciousness spread throughout Bill’s body, merging until they were one and the same. With this strange inner/outer sight Connor could feel the compounding complications allaying the veteran.

He started with the most important features, the heart and lungs, coaxing life back into the organs. Next he searched for the symptoms. There was something in Bill, corrupting his cells. There was also a lifetimes worth of plaque in the arteries. He started a dual offensive, cleaning and eradicating the plaque and fat from the essential organs and arteries while also developing a cure for the virus. He had no idea what he was up against – the flu, a cold, pneumonia, syphilis. All he could do was speed up Bill’s natural immune system, hoping it would eventually find something that worked.

Connor’s sense of time was broken, replaced with a binary switch of nerve pulses and the pumping of blood. Had he been hooked up for minutes or hours? After many failures, Bill’s white blood cells found a cure. Connor withdrew himself from Bill’s body, leaving him in a stable and healthier condition.

He opened his eyes, blinking away the sleep gumming his eyelids. His feet were sore, and his legs trembled.

“What time is it?”

Allan shifted in his chair. “Dunno. Almost the morning. You’ve been doing your thing for a couple of hours.”

Connor nodded and perched himself on the edge of Bill’s bed. He looked over at the resting veteran. Bill was breathing with ease and colour had returned to his face. His belly was also slimmer, and his cheeks weren’t so pronounced. He had burnt off Bill’s excess fat while healing him. “I did it.”

“I know.”

“Where’s Lisa,” asked Connor, searching the room.

“Gone,” replied Allan. “She couldn’t stand watching you. It gave her the creeps, if you know what I mean.”

Connor bowed his head. “I creep myself out. You think I’m happy I’m like this?”

Allan shrugged. “You don’t, no.” He leaned closer. “Happiness aside, you have a gift, son. A genuine miracle sent from above. You can help people. People like us on the street — people who’ve put their physical and mental wellbeing on the line for their country. You can help us all.” Allan stood up. “But you can help more by going to that facility.”

Connor, who had been nodding his head, jolted upright at Allan’s last words. “You think I should hand myself over to the C.D.C?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll never go,” replied Connor. “I’m no lab rat.”

“I understand,” said Allan. “But for all the people you could help, one at a time, town by town, think of the millions you could save in one grand gesture.”

“No way,” said Connor getting up. He threw on his jacket. “No way.”

“I don’t blame you, kid. Just my opinion is all,” sighed Allan.

“I‘ll be going,” said Connor, as he walked to the door. “I appreciate all of your help but I think it is best if I left.”

“Sure thing. You take care of yourself, alright?”

Connor swung the door open, his boiling emotions eager to put distance between himself and the veteran.