A continuation post-prologue. Maybe chapter one.
The Colonel’s nephew didn’t know what to make of the information he was just given. People say a lot of crazy shit before they die, and it usually doesn’t make sense. Add the months of chemo, the aggressive spread of cancer throughout the body, eventually reaching the Colonel’s brain, and it was assumed that he died with an empty head. Relatives floated in and out of his hospital room, and there was no telling if he recognized anyone for sure. He had been doing the “give me your hand” bit with everyone, and smiling to engage them, while thanking them for coming. The nephew never got a sense that this was theater for him or that it was genuine, and being one of the last to arrive at the hospital didn’t give him enough information to even guess. At face value it seemed the Colonel was razor sharp with all his faculties, when he wasn’t falling back into a morphine-addled dream state. In fact, just moments before he learned the big secrets, the nephew wasn’t summoned by name. He was motioned towards with a skeletal arm raising one skeletal finger pointing to him, followed by a weak come-hither gesture, so naturally he approached the Colonel after looking left and right to ensure he was the one intentionally chosen.
The colonel gently cleared his throat and whispered into his ear. “Stop Tyrell. Destroy Genesis. It is working on DNA-specific viruses. Entire countries will die”.
The nephew hid his shock, his horror, any external reaction that might tip anyone off. He smiled slowly, wistfully, and stood back up as he watched the Colonel shuffle off this mortal coil. He had to think, then, he had to act. But first, he needed to leave the room as carefully and naturally as possible to give no hint of what he had learned. The minutes to exit the room with the flatline EKG tone in the background passed by for what felt like hours. He hugged everyone and choked back tears and said the things you say in those moments outside the room before heading straight home, locking the doors, turning out the lights, and pouring himself three fingers of whiskey over a giant ice cube as he lit a Cuban cigar. He needed to get his heart rate under 130 beats per minute and come to grips with those dying words. They echoed in his head, begging him to believe or forget. He chose to believe.
Im hooked!