The Variant Effect: PAINKILLER by G. Wells Taylor

CHAPTER 1
     
    Borland cradled a glass as he sprawled on his
swaybacked sofa, a half-bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in
front of him. Too tired to do more than zip open his Variant Squad
jumper for a bit of relief. His belly bulged out and up toward the
cracked ceiling like someone was inflating it.
    Coming out of retirement was thirsty
work .
    He had set himself up under a dim lamp he
kept on the cracked veneer side table in his living room. The
television sat across from him. He’d already turned it on, but only
got a bright blue screen. Since his reinstatement as a Variant
Squad Captain he’d found enough extra money to hook up the
broadband again. The fact that he’d ordered it four weeks ago and
the television was still a blue screen with nothing on it gave him
something to chew about at coffee break if anyone would listen, but
he didn’t really care.
    Borland never watched much broadband anyway.
Getting drunk and arguing with a blue screen made as much sense as
yelling at the news. But hooking it up in the first place seemed
like something that a normal person with responsibilities would
do.
    Stay focused. You rattled some
chains .
    He’d been on his feet all day talking to
recruits so he’d grabbed his bottle when he got in, stuffed a
couple pillows and an old winter coat against the arm of the couch
and propped himself in a drinking position. There was still time to
get a bit of a glow before bed—and he found he slept better with a
few solid slugs in him—at least for the first half of the night.
Also, the triple-meat sub sandwich he’d had for supper would start
to react with the whiskey if he was stupid enough to lie down too
soon. Borland was not a fan of heartburn, especially now that he
was on the road to recovery.
    He’d never be healthy, and he’d never be
young again. But at least he could be watertight.
    He had just finished reading a Team
Omega comic book that he took from Zombie’s locker at the
Stationhouse. Two days after quarantine ended, the other baggies
were cleaning out his personal effects when Borland happened by.
The young man’s involvement was weighing on him. Not so much from
guilt—he’d do it again in a minute, the sacrifice had been worth
it—but he was stricken with an intense curiosity about the young
man who picked the shield-name Zombie. Borland had walked past a
second time as the locker’s contents were being stuffed into a
box.
    Zombie’s parents had been told what happened
to their heroic son, and would be anxious to get their hands on his
possessions: just toiletries and T-shirts, underwear and hairbrush.
But it was Zombie’s stuff, their little boy’s gear.
    The third time Borland walked past the
lockers, the box was sitting there unattended so he reached in and
grabbed the comic.
    He didn’t think mom and dad would miss it.
And if things continued with the new Variant hybrid the way Brass’
scientists were predicting; they’d soon have too much on their
minds to worry about their dead son’s possessions. Hell, they might
even come to envy the boy in time.
    Beachboy had said Zombie read re-issues of
the actual Team Omega comics. The originals were published
decades before, but had been re-released with upgraded artwork and
re-purposed as graphic novels.
    Borland couldn’t have cared less about the
history lesson and he told Beachboy as much, but he could
understand the novelty of a full-color paper version of something,
over the insubstantial virtual incarnations that were flickering on
e-readers and tablets everywhere.
    He left the comic book on the coffee table
for weeks—forgot about it for a time when other things came up.
    Distraction from hell ...
    The comic was ragtag, the paper worn from
many readings. There was a picture of a kid eating radioactive
waste on the cover. But Borland had been pleased to find that the
issue included Zombie’s namesake, Zombie the superhero. He
turned out to be some dreamy character all in white and glowing
green