Six Months Contract With The Mafia God

He made it back to his quarters without encountering anyone. His heart was racing, but his hands were steady.

One down.

He had two more days to place the rest before his cover was likely to blow.

Two more days to position enough explosives to burn The Covenant to ash.

Dimitri lay in the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling, knowing he wouldn’t sleep.

Tomorrow, the real work would begin.

Tomorrow, he would start documenting the viral progression in detail, which meant he would start understanding exactly how many people were going to die in the next forty-eight hours.

And he would have to watch them die without being able to stop it.

Because The Covenant had to look like it was operating normally until the moment it exploded.

***

Monday morning came gray and cold.

Dimitri had slept approximately ninety minutes, fragmented and restless, his mind cycling through bomb placements and viral progression timelines and the image of those specimens in the basement cells, their bodies already ravaged by something that hadn’t even fully activated yet.

At 5:45 AM, he was in the shower, the hot water running over his skin, and he was thinking about how normal this moment felt. How a man could stand under running water in a facility dedicated to weaponized death and still feel the simple pleasure of warmth and sensation.

It was disorienting.

By 5:55 AM, he was dressed in the plain white lab coat that had been left in his quarters. By 6:00 AM exactly, he was walking down the hallway toward the research wing, where Dr. Elizabeth was waiting with a cup of coffee and an expression that suggested she hadn’t slept either.

”Good morning, Dr. Volkov,” she said, handing him the coffee. ”Sleep well?”

”Adequately,” Dimitri replied. ”I’m eager to begin.”

”Excellent. The morning protocol involves reviewing the vital signs data from overnight and then conducting direct observation of the specimens. We’ll begin with the injection of a new cohort at 7 AM, so you’ll have an opportunity to observe the baseline reactions.”

A new cohort.

New specimens arriving. New people being introduced to the virus.

Dimitri felt something cold settle in his chest, but he simply nodded and followed Chen to the monitoring station.

***

The monitoring station was a revelation.

An entire wall of screens displayed real-time vital sign data from each of the 287 active specimens in the basement. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Oxygen saturation. Temperature. Respiratory rate. The biological markers of human suffering rendered as simple numbers and graphs.

A technician named Derek....mid-twenties, wearing the same white coat, displaying the same clinical detachment that seemed to be a requirement for working here, was already at the console, reviewing overnight changes.

”Overnight we lost six,” Derek said, not looking up. ”Specimens 147, 189, 203, 215, 267, and 281. Respiratory failure in four cases, cardiac arrest in two. Deterioration rates are consistent with projections.”

Consistent with projections.

As if the death of six human beings was merely a data point confirming their hypothesis.

Elizabeth reviewed the screens with apparent satisfaction. ”Excellent. That puts us at 281 remaining specimens, with 42 showing critical status. By tomorrow evening, we should be at 250 or below.”

”The mortality curve is accelerating,” Dimitri observed, moving closer to the display. ”The rate of decline is increasing compared to days 10 and 11.”

”Correct,” Elizabeth said, and she actually smiled, a genuine expression of scientific pleasure. ”The viral load reaches a critical threshold around day 12. Once the virus reaches sufficient concentration in the lungs and bloodstream, the immune system can no longer contain it. Cascade failure begins. By day 14, we see the vast majority of subjects reaching terminal decline.”

Dimitri studied the data more carefully. He could see the pattern clearly now. The first five days showed minimal symptoms, the virus replicating silently while the host had no idea they were already infected. Days 6-10 showed the emergence of fever, fatigue, mild respiratory symptoms....things that looked like a common cold. Days 11-12 showed rapid acceleration....temperature spiking, oxygen saturation dropping, the body’s immune system finally recognizing the threat but by then it was far too late.

By day 13, most subjects showed critical deterioration.

By day 14, they were dying.

By day 15, they were dead.

”The data from our previous trials was consistent?” Dimitri asked.

”Perfectly consistent,” Elizabeth replied. ”We’ve run this exact protocol four times now. The mortality rate remains 90% by day 15. The remaining 10% either develop some form of resistance, which is scientifically fascinating, or they’re outliers in their immune function. We keep those subjects alive for extended study.”

Four times.

Four previous trials with 287 subjects each.

That meant over 1,000 people had died in this facility.

Over 1,000 people had been injected with this virus deliberately and documented as they died.

Dimitri forced himself to continue taking notes, documenting the data, asking intelligent questions about mutation rates and transmission vectors. All while something inside him was beginning to burn.

***

At 6:45 AM, Dr. Elizabeth led Dimitri down to the basement.

The basement had been reorganized overnight. One of the holding cells, previously occupied, was now empty and cleaned. A new section had been cordoned off with portable barriers.

”New cohort arrives at 7 AM,” Elizabeth explained as they descended. ”We maintain staggered injection protocols to allow us to observe baseline reactions in real time. Each cohort is injected over a four-hour period, and we monitor vital signs continuously.”

The basement was colder than it had been yesterday. Or perhaps Dimitri was simply more aware of the chill now that he understood what was happening here.

They arrived at the injection station just as a security guard was escorting six people down the stairs.

They were homeless. Dimitri could see it immediately. Worn clothes. The particular gauntness that came from chronic malnutrition. The look of people who’d been picked up off the streets with no one to miss them, no family to inquire about their disappearance.

Perfect specimens.