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the last year, Turner started researching things on his own. At first, he hoped he could find evidence on the Internet to prove his father was nuttier than Aunt Linda’s Christmas fruitcake. A few sites he visited confirmed his ideas, yet most supported his father’s. The more news he watched, the more he grew to understand his father’s strange ideas weren’t too far from the mark. Shootings, bombings, diseases, wars, rumors of wars, people being beheaded simply over religion—it was like Turner finally woke up from the dream funk he’d been living in. The truth of the ugliness in the world slapped Turner into reality.
    Those things contributed to Turner’s change of heart, yet what truly swayed his opinion of the world came from Trevor Montgomery. Trevor was the older brother of Seth Montgomery, one of Turner’s closest friends. After graduating high school, Trevor enlisted in the Army and completed two tours in Afghanistan. When Trevor returned home, he was nowhere near the person he’d been before. Seth said his brother suffered from PTSD, which was completely understandable, given where he’d been stationed. Yet it was the horror stories of what he’d witnessed while overseas that made Turner sit up and take notice.
    Trevor didn’t tell the stories directly to Turner. Seth retold the tales from countless nights sitting beside his brother, trying to talk him down as the panic tore through his destroyed mind. The similarities to his father’s sordid stories were astonishing, and Turner became a believer that no one—or government entity—could be trusted.
    Period.
    Glancing at the trail less than ten feet away, Turner’s heart beat faster when he looked at the footprints. Though he wasn’t quite convinced the imprints were made by someone from the government, they still made him feel edgy. Off. Because all the years they’d tromped up and down the path to the cave, they’d never run across any.
    Ever.
    “No, stop it. This is ridiculous. They’re just from another hunter, that’s all. Some other redneck fool. Maybe one got lost after following the barks of a hound on the trail of a deer, pig, or some other kind of hairy critter.”
    The wind picked up, blowing dried leaves across the trail. A strange sense of fear made Turner shudder. The sensation of someone watching him made his skin crawl. Unwilling to be a sitting duck, he stood and pulled out the Bowie knife from its sheath.
    When his father’s voice rang out, calling for him to come to the cave and that all was fine, Turner turned tail and ran as though the devil was right on his heels.

    “How long does it take for the formula to work? And what methods of administration have you tried?”
    Everett was still riding on cloud nine from the discovery two days prior. He decided to ignore the snide tone of Dr. Jason Thomas. The man had descended into the lab with an attitude of arrogance, which rubbed Everett the wrong way. Instead of showing even a modicum of enthusiasm or excitement at the discovery, Dr. Thomas appeared annoyed and full of doubts before anyone on the team even had a chance to show him the results. Everett hoped the man’s negativity would change after the initial meeting and walk-through of the results over thirty-six hours ago, yet so far, Dr. Thomas remained skeptical.
    “Ultima received his dose via intramuscular injection. These two over here,” Everett motioned to the two cages perched on top of Ultima’s, “received theirs via sublingual method. The next trial will be inhalation. Response time for each method so far varies between fifteen minutes and two hours for full effect.”
    “I see,” Dr. Thomas replied. He let his gaze linger on each subject briefly and then focused his attention on Everett. “Are you also going to attempt oral administration or are you worried the chemical makeup of the formula will break down when formatted into capsule or tablet form?”
    “Our plan is to watch and observe the four