The Price Of Hatred

Chapter 15 - The Lazarus Protocol

​“Show me,” James said, taking a deliberate step forward until he was mere inches from his cellmate.

​The man didn't flinch. “Once the morning bell rings, you will be served a special meal. And it is going to be your last meal,” the inmate replied, his voice dropping to a low, clinical murmur. “Make sure you eat well. And then, you die.”

​James’s eyes narrowed, his gaze boring into the man’s unmarked face. “And what about you?”

​“You don't have to worry about me. I will be right next to you,” the man said, a faint, dangerous shadow of a smile playing on his lips. “And once we are dead, they will transport us out of here as corpses. Within twenty minutes, we will rise again.”

​James stared at him, his mind calculating the immense, lethal risk of the gamble. “Is that all?”

​“No. It’s just the beginning,” the man said flatly. “You will understand everything once you wake up.”

​Before James could press for more answers, the heavy mechanical morning bell tore through the cellblock. The echoing clang signaled the morning release, a summons for the prisoners to gather in the central dining hall.

​“Prepare yourself,” the man said, adjusting his posture.

​James’s face hardened into a stone mask. “Same as you.”

​A moment later, a heavy ring of keys rattled outside. The steel door of Cell 214 swung open, revealing a stern-faced tier guard holding a security baton.

​“Move,” the guard barked.

​James and his cellmate stepped out into the narrow, suffocating corridor. In the hallway, the sea of orange fabric was already forming a synchronized line, shuffling tightly toward the right wing of the block. James and the man fell into step, blending into the grim parade.

​When they entered the dining hall, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of grease, damp concrete, and unwashed bodies. Inmates funneled into the long rows of heavy metal tables, seating themselves in tightly packed clusters of fives and sixes.

​But James and the man sat alone at their table, a deliberate pocket of isolation.

​A single row away, sitting slightly further down the line, were the other three massive, tattooed inmates who had arrived on the same transport the previous day. They sat in perfect silence, their cold, predatory eyes fixed rigidly on James and his bunkmate, tracking every micro-movement.

​Within a few minutes, a guard approached their table, carrying a heavy metal tray loaded with two identical plates of food. He placed the rations down in front of James and the man with a cold, unblinking stare.

​“Eat well. And rest in peace,” the guard muttered under his breath before turning on his heel and walking away.

​James and the man didn't touch the utensils. They stared at each other for a long, agonizing beat across the metal table. The ambient shouting and clanking of the cafeteria faded into a dull background static. Finally, James broke the silence.

​“What's your name?” James asked.

​“You don't need to know,” the man replied flatly.

​“At least let me know your name before we die,” James pressed, his voice a low vibration.

​“I don't have one. I only do my job,” the man said, his eyes devoid of emotion. “I go by Code 202.”

​James leaned in slightly. “How about I give you one?”

​“Enough,” 202 cut in instantly, his tone sharpening. “I don't need one.”

​Before James could utter another word, 202 picked up his fork and began to eat the food with a terrifying, mechanical indifference. James paused for a fraction of a second, his chest tightening. Then, accepting the finality of the trap, he reached down and began to eat his own portion.

​The reaction was instantaneous.

​Suddenly, Code 202’s chest convulsed violently. His face contorted, gasping and puffing for air as a sickening rattle erupted from his throat. Before the surrounding inmates could even register the shift, 202 collapsed entirely off the bench, his body hitting the hard concrete floor with a heavy, limp thud.

​Instantly, a sharp, white-hot agony flared in James's gut. He doubled over, his massive hands gripping his stomach as his lungs starved for oxygen. He began puffing and choking, his vision fracturing into a violent blur of gray spots before his knees buckled. He slammed heavily onto the floor right next to 202, his limbs locking in rigid paralysis.

​“Hey! We got a situation! Down on the floor!” a guard screamed, his voice bursting with sudden panic.

​The dining hall erupted into a chaotic frenzy of shouting voices. The guards rushed forward, their batons drawn, pushing back the surging crowd of prisoners. The lead guard knelt down over the two motionless bodies, his trembling fingers pressing firmly against the pulse points on their necks. He waited, his face turning pale.

​He stood up, looking back at the kitchen staff. “They’re dead. Both of them. They’re not breathing anymore.”

​A row away, one of the three massive, tattooed operatives who had been watching them slowly lowered his head. A dark, wicked smile spread across his face.

​Twenty minutes later, the sterile, blinding fluorescent lights of the prison’s forensic examination lab cast a harsh glow over two steel gurney tables. James and Code 202 lay side by side, their bodies stripped of their orange jumpsuits.

​The prison doctor stepped back from the tables, pulling off his latex gloves as he turned to face the prison Captain.

​“They’re both dead, Captain. And they didn't just die—they were poisoned,” the doctor stated, his voice flat and clinical. “But it wasn't a sudden dose. They have both been systematically poisoned little by little over time. When it reached the final stage this morning, the toxicity level was fatal. There are many specific types of chemical agents that work like this—some take three days, others a week to fully gestate before the organs fail. They were poisoned through their daily food or water. Especially something that goes directly inside them.”

​The Captain’s jaw tightened, his face twisting into an expression of intense bureaucratic fury. He turned toward the two guards standing rigidly at the doorway.

​“Who served both of them this morning?” the Captain demanded.

​“They haven't found out yet, sir,” the guard replied nervously, shifting his weight. “The kitchen logs are being verified now.”

​“Fine. Get the emergency transport truck,” the Captain ordered sharply, waving his hand dismissively. “Discharge their bodies and transfer them to the jurisdiction’s medical examiner in the city immediately. Be fast about it—I have to make some high-level calls to the ministry now. And doctor, you’re free to go. Your job here is done. Move.”

​Within minutes, the two guards zipped the heavy, black canvas body bags shut over James and 202. They loaded the gurneys into the back of a secure, white ambulance transport truck. The heavy rear doors slammed shut, the latches clicking into place with definitive finality, and the truck sped out through the primary security gates, its tires kicking up gravel as it left the fortress behind.

​The transport truck navigated the desolate, winding mountain roads, distancing itself from the prison sector. The steady hum of the diesel engine filled the cabin as the sun began to bake the asphalt.

​Suddenly, the driver slammed his foot onto the brakes. The tires let out a sharp screech as the heavy vehicle pitched forward, coming to a violent, abrupt halt in the middle of the empty lane.

​“Why the hell did you stop?” the guard in the passenger seat barked angrily, his body throwing against his seatbelt. “Keep driving!”

​“Don’t you see that car on the road?” the driver countered, pointing a shaking finger through the windshield.

​The guard leaned forward, squinting through the glass. A massive, obsidian-black luxury car was parked horizontally directly across the narrow road a few hundred yards ahead, completely blocking the path.

​“Stay here. I’ll go check it out,” the guard muttered, his hand dropping toward his sidearm.

​“No, wait!” the driver urged instantly, his voice cracking with a sudden instinctual dread. “Don't you see that could be a trap? We should put it in reverse and take the secondary dirt road!”

​“I said stay here! I’ll be right back,” the guard snapped emotionally. He threw his door open and stepped down onto the hot asphalt, his boots crunching softly as he walked toward the rear of the truck to assess the perimeter.

​As his feet hit the gravel behind the bumper, a low, smooth voice cut through the quiet air from the blind spot behind him.

​“Dog.”

​“What—?”

​The guard spun around, but before the word could fully leave his mouth, a figure clad in an immaculate, pristine black suit materialized from the shadows. With blinding speed, the man drove a high-voltage electronic stun-cord directly into the side of the guard’s neck.

​Buzz.

​The electrical current surged through the guard’s nervous system. His eyes rolled back, and his entire body collapsed instantly onto the asphalt like a sack of stones.

​The man in the suit stepped over the unconscious guard, his expression completely unreadable. “You should have listened to your friend when he told you to take the other way,” he murmured softly.

​Up front, the driver’s window was open. The driver caught sight of the black suit in his side mirror and panicked, his hands flying into the air as he trembled violently against the steering wheel.

​“Please! Please don't kill me!” the driver screamed loudly, his voice cracking with pure terror. “I'm a father! I have two young boys at home! They have nobody else except me!”

​The operative walked up to the driver's side door, his demeanor entirely calm, his voice dropping into a reassuring but deadly register. “I didn't come here to kill anyone. I'm just here to wake some people up. Open the back door.”

​“There's... there’s nothing back there,” the driver stammered, his hands shaking so hard he could barely locate the electronic release switch. “They’re both dead. They died in the prison.”

​Despite his terror, the driver scrambled out of the cab, rushing to the rear of the vehicle to unlock the heavy ambulance doors. He threw them wide open and stepped back, his chest heaving.

​The operative stepped into the dark, clinical interior of the truck. Two heavy shapes rested on the gurneys—one on the left inside a black body bag, and the second on the right inside an identical container.

​The man reached down, smoothly unzipping the bag on the left. The pale, unmarked face of Code 202 emerged. The operative reached into the interior pocket of his tailored suit jacket, withdrawing a sleek, silver pneumatic syringe loaded with a clear fluid. He pressed the tip gently against the side of 202’s neck and engaged the trigger.

​Pffft.

​For three long seconds, the body remained completely still. Then, suddenly, 202’s eyes snapped wide open. He sucked in a massive, ragged lungful of air, his spine arching off the gurney as his chest heaved violently, his heart restarting with a sudden, concussive force.

​“Breathe down. Breathe out,” the operative instructed calmly, stabilizing 202’s shoulder with one hand.

​The operative turned, reaching back into his jacket to pull out a second silver syringe. He moved toward the right gurney, his fingers gripping the zipper of the second body bag, preparing to expose James’s neck to administer the counter-agent.

​“Don't,” Code 202 whispered hoarsely, his breathing slowly stabilizing as he raised a trembling, tattooed hand to stop his partner.

​The operative paused, his hand hovering over the zipper, looking back at 202 through the dim light of the transport bay.

​“Don't wake him up yet,” 202 murmured, his cold eyes fixed on the silhouette of the sovereign shadow beside him. “Take him straight to Father.”