Welcome to Promise City

by Greg Cox

  Damn, Tom thought. He heard Grayson scurry up the stairs behind him. Within minutes, the guilty funeral director would be long gone, but chasing after him was not an option. No way was he leaving Diana alone with this guy. The violent teen obviously meant business.

  Tom didn’t bother trying to fire his gun again. Instead he hurled the useless lump of metal at Braces’s head. The teen ducked to avoid the missile and Tom took the opportunity to tackle him head-on. He knocked his opponent backward into the embalming table, jarring the defenseless corpse behind them. His fingers clamped around Braces’s wrist to keep the business end of the trocar away from him. Years of FBI training kicked in as he twisted Braces’s wrist savagely. The razor-sharp surgical instrument flew from the kid’s fingers. It skittered across the floor on the other side of the table.

  “Give it up!” Tom snarled through clenched teeth. Even if they had lost Grayson, maybe they could still get answers from this creep. He felt like an idiot for not checking for other employees; they should have guessed Grayson wasn’t working alone. “You’re coming with us!”

  “That’s what you think!” Braces spit in Tom’s face, momentarily blinding him, then butted his head into Tom’s forehead. Starbursts exploded inside Tom’s skull and he staggered backward. Braces tore himself loose from Tom’s grip and scrambled over the embalming table, knocking the elderly corpse onto the floor. Lifeless flesh hit the tiles like the proverbial bag of potatoes. A plastic screw in the cadaver’s abdomen popped open. Embalming fluid squirted from the uncapped puncture wound.

  Tom wiped the spit from his eyes and vaulted over the table after his opponent. Braces dived for the trocar, but Tom piled into him first. They tumbled through an open doorway into the cremation chamber. The lab worker fought viciously, biting down hard on Tom’s ear, as they grappled on the floor, but the seasoned NTAC agent soon got the upper hand. A kidney jab caused Braces to gasp out loud, releasing Tom’s ear, and he clambered on top of the thrashing teenager, pinning him to the ground. He drew back his fist to deliver a knockout punch.

  “Wait,” Braces squealed. He threw up his hands in surrender. “Give me a second!”

  “For what?” Tom demanded. He didn’t have time to waste on this punk. I need to check on Diana.

  “To concentrate, you dope!”

  The kid grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut. His bruised forehead furrowed in thought … and a sudden wave of weakness washed over Tom. All at once, his fist felt as heavy as a bowling ball. His limbs felt like rubber.

  Oh crap, Tom thought. What’s he doing to me?

  He tried to follow through with his punch, but the lackluster blow landed with all the impact of a casually lobbed Nerf ball. His knuckles glanced harmlessly off the teen’s chin. Tom’s head bobbed limply atop his shoulders. He felt groggy, light-headed.

  Braces shoved Tom off him and clambered to his feet. Tom knelt unsteadily on the floor. It was all he could do to stay sitting up. He had never felt so exhausted in his entire life. “Wha … what’s happening to me?”

  “Having a little energy crisis?” Braces mocked him. “That’s me shutting down your metabolism. The catabolic reactions that power your muscles are slowing to a crawl. Like the world’s worst sugar crash.” He sneered at the stricken agent. “It takes a bit of focus, but it sure took the wind out of your sails. Let’s hear it for high school biology.”

  Tom tried to come up with a snappy comeback, but his brain refused to cooperate. He could barely string two thoughts together. He propped both arms against the floor to keep from sliding down onto the cold tiles. Bleary eyes watched as Braces fired up the cremator. Propane ignited inside the fireproof retort. The battered embalmer tugged open a top-loading door to reveal the bright orange inferno inside. Refractory bricks lined the interior of the oven. The heat of the blaze hit Tom like a blast furnace. Braces clicked on the motorized trolley. A spinning conveyor belt waited to propel a load straight into the mouth of the oven.

  “No,” Tom gasped. Despite the heat, a chill ran down his spine as he guessed what the teenager had in mind. “You can’t …”

  “Sorry, man, but you brought this on yourself.” He came up behind Tom and grabbed him beneath the shoulders. The depleted agent was too weak to fight back. Grunting in exertion, Braces hauled Tom up onto his feet and started dragging him toward the whirring trolley. “You should have left well enough alone.”

  Tom’s heels scraped against the floor. Flames crackled above the steady purr of the motor. The heat from the oven grew more intense with every step. “Wait,” he panted. “You don’t have to do this. Just leave us here.”

  “No can do,” Braces said. “You’ve seen too much already. I need to relocate all this gear before any other government goons come looking for you.” He swung Tom around so that the agent was facing the trolley. The beckoning inferno scorched Tom’s face. The edge of the trolley dug into his waist. He dug in his heels with what was left of his energy.

  “Please,” Tom pleaded. “Don’t … this is insane …”

  “You and your cronies are insane if you think you can stop the future.” Braces kept on talking, perhaps to distract himself from what he was about to do. “Ordinarily, I’d load you into a cardboard box first, and make sure to remove all your jewelry and personal effects, but I’m afraid this is going to have to be a rush job.” He tried to shove Tom onto the conveyor belt, while talking up a storm. His hands pressed against Tom’s back. “Sorry you’re going to miss out on Heaven on Earth, dude. But think of this as a preview of Hell …”

  Tom grabbed limply on to the sides of the trolley. He felt his feet losing traction with the floor. This is it, he feared. Maybe I should have taken that damn shot after all …

  Just when he though it was all over for him, however, Braces shrieked in pain. Letting go of Tom, he staggered backward, swearing obscenely. The discarded trocar had been driven deep into his shoulder by Diana, who stood behind Tom’s would-be murderer with a determined expression on her face. Intent on avoiding cremation, Tom hadn’t even heard her enter the crematorium.

  Apparently neither had Braces.

  Blood streamed down the lab worker’s back. His concentration lapsed and Tom felt his own energy returning. Both relief and adrenaline flooded his veins. His woozy brain started working again. He stumbled away from the trolley and waiting oven. “Diana,” he gasped. “That was a close one.”

  “Tell me about it.” She kept her steely gaze fixed on Braces, who found himself backed into a corner by the two agents. He wobbled atop shaky legs. “You okay, Tom?”

  “I think so.” He was glad to see his partner back in action. “Thanks for the save. You?”

  She massaged her battered skull. “Nothing a little Tylenol can’t cure.” She fished her cell phone from her pocket and called for backup. “That’s right. Get Garrity here—both of them, ASAP, and somebody round up Marco, too.” She put away the phone and nodded at Tom. “Help’s on the way.”

  “You hear that, punk.” Tom balled up his fists as he blocked the exit. He felt like he could devour a steak in a second flat, but his vigor was definitely coming back as his body worked overtime to recharge his batteries. “If I were you, I’d start talking now.”

  Braces gulped. His pimply face contorted in pain as he reached around and yanked the trocar from his shoulders. A crimson flood spurted from the open wound. He looked back and forth between the agents as though weighing his chances against the both of them. Blood dripped from the tip of the weapon. His arm shook like a loose car antenna on the highway. The bruise on his forehead was an ugly shade of purple.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Tom warned him. “Look at yourself. You’re losing blood fast. No way you’re getting past the two of us.”

  The kid nervously licked his lips. His trembling arm started to dip.

  “You just tried to incinerate a federal agent,” Diana reminded him. “Not even Jordan Collier can get you out of that.”

  Wild, bloodshot eyes reminded Tom
of a cornered animal. “I’ll never betray the Movement,” the teen vowed. “You can’t make me talk.”

  “That’s what you think,” Tom said darkly.

  “No, no …” The kid’s gaze darted toward the cremator. He took a deep breath. An eerie sense of calm came over him. “I won’t give you a chance to break me.”

  Too late Tom realized what the besieged embalmer had in mind. “No!” he shouted, lunging forward, but Braces had already thrown himself facedown onto the trolley. The conveyor belt sped the suicidal youth straight into the open mouth of the cremator. A fresh burst of heat spilled from the oven as flames engulfed the teenager’s flailing body. Flesh and clothing blackened and burned. Skin sizzled and popped. His dying screams were mercifully brief.

  “Oh my God!” Diana exclaimed. She placed her hand over her mouth in horror. “What kind of fanaticism inspires a sacrifice like that?”

  “Ask Jordan Collier,” Tom answered bitterly. Gagging on the stench of burning human flesh, he slammed down the door of the oven to spare them from seeing or smelling any more. The teenager’s self-inflicted cremation shook him to his core. Would Kyle do the same to protect his beloved Movement? Tom didn’t want to think about that.

  Turning their backs on the cremator, they wandered numbly back into the prep room. The sight of Danny’s body on the slab hit Tom like a blow to the gut. He stepped over the leaking corpse on the floor. The cool air reeked of chemicals and blood. Death seemed to be closing in on him from all sides.

  Diana walked over to the vaults. “Well, we found Danny at least.”

  “A.k.a. Specimen number eleven,” Tom said harshly.

  Diana gave the other cabinets a quizzical look. “Wonder who the other specimens are.” Curious, she opened the vault directly above Danny and pulled out the drawer. Another sheeted body greeted their eyes. “Let’s see who we have here.”

  She drew back the sheet, then jumped backward in surprise. Tom gasped out loud.

  The second body was also that of Danny Farrell.

  SEVEN

  IT WAS SAID that when Rome fell, the world would end.

  Cardinal Emanuel Calabria knew for a fact that this simply wasn’t so. In the distant future he hailed from, Rome was naught but a crumbling ruin, and yet civilization had endured, even after the Catastrophe had reduced most of the planet to rubble. Only one great city remained, walled off from the appalling chaos outside. It was his mission in this benighted era to make sure that mankind’s last city—his city—came to pass.

  Despite the infernal meddling of the enemy.

  The so-called Eternal City was spread out before him as he dined at an outdoor ristorante on the Vialle Trinita dei Monti, overlooking the famed Spanish Steps. Twilight painted purple shadows atop the rose-colored roofs of the sprawling metropolis below. Jaywalkers darted across the street, deftly dodging scooters and taxis. The cardinal’s table occupied a narrow sidewalk in the shadow of a looming sixteenth-century church. The grandest and widest staircase on the Continent, the Spanish Steps were flanked by shuttered mansions and palaces. Terraced gardens and flower pots adorned the steps. Throngs of tourists, dating couples, and would-be artists and photographers crowded the piazza at the top of the steps, enjoying a warm January evening. Palm trees swayed the breeze.

  A somber black cassock, with scarlet piping and buttons, denoted the cardinal’s elevated rank within the Church. A pectoral cross hung on a chain atop his chest. A scarlet sash girded his rotund torso. A red cap covered silvery tresses. A jowly face, with a pronounced double chin, testified to his healthy appetite.

  Calabria washed down a bite of spaghetti alla pescatore with a sip of white wine. The Frascati was a good vintage that complemented the pasta divinely. He savored another morsel of sauce-drenched calamari. At moments like this, he was thankful to have been assigned this particular identity. Despite the tiresome burdens imposed on him as a high priest of this primitive religion, there were undeniable advantages to being stationed in Rome. For one thing, it was almost impossible to get a bad meal.

  A shame the city was destined to be destroyed many generations from now, but so it went. History demanded its sacrifices, at least if his own future was to be preserved. The cardinal, or rather the time-traveling intelligence that had made itself at home in Calabria’s squat, middle-aged form, pined briefly for the shining city he and his fellow Marked had left behind, which they would sadly never see again. Alas, their pilgrimage to the twenty-first century had been a one-way trip. They were stuck in this volatile era for the rest of their natural lives.

  But at least the food was good.

  “Excuse me, Your Eminence?” A pretty young waitress approached his table. Her nubile charms made him regret that, at least in public, he was constrained by an oath of celibacy. The worried look on her face suggested that she had more on her mind than simply refilling his water glass. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but might I ask you for some spiritual guidance?”

  Two tables over, his bodyguards sat up at attention. Members of the Vatican’s elite Swiss Guard, they wore civilian garb to better blend into the background. They eyed the impertinent waitress suspiciously. These were dangerous times, and the cardinal was not without enemies. Indeed, as prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, formerly known as the Holy Office of the Inquisition, Calabria was the Vatican’s most outspoken critic of the “false religion” of Jordan Collier. The congregation’s recent pronouncement that promicin use could be considered a mortal sin had spawned headlines, and controversy, throughout the entire world. Small wonder his guards were so jumpy. Calabria had received numerous death threats from Collier’s outraged acolytes.

  Still, he discreetly waved the overeager guardsmen back. He had lived as Cardinal Calabria long enough to recognize a devout Catholic when he saw one; the only threat the girl posed was to his pretense of chastity. He snuck a peek down her generous cleavage. “How may I help you, child?”

  “My friends and I have been talking, about the news from America. The whole world seems to be changing, in a very scary way, and I can’t help wondering …” She took a deep breath before getting to the heart of the matter. “Do you think that Jordan Collier might be the Antichrist?”

  Calabria repressed a smile at the girl’s obvious anxiety. Clearly, his labors in the fields of the faithful were bearing fruit. Concealing his glee, he responded to her superstitious query with feigned gravity. “The Holy See has yet to render a final verdict on this vexing issue, but I fear that your suspicions may be well-founded. There is something truly disturbing about this man’s rise to power, and his blasphemous promise to personally usher in the Kingdom of God. If not the Beast himself, he is surely a false prophet, and the unnatural gifts of his followers may well have demonic origins.”

  The girl’s face grew pale as she hung on his every word. Watching her trembling grip on the water pitcher, Calabria began to fear for the safety of his spaghetti.

  “But do not despair, my child. This evil cannot triumph, not if we strengthen our souls against the godless temptations of promicin. As long as the Church can rely on the prayers and actions of good people like you, this profane movement shall not lure God’s children away from salvation.”

  His words seemed to comfort the waitress. She nodded eagerly, and bent to kiss his ring. “Thank you, Your Eminence. I know I’ll sleep better now.”

  He rose clumsily from his seat and bestowed a blessing upon her. “Now then, perhaps I can see a dessert menu?”

  “Yes, Father, of course!”

  Covertly admiring the girl’s backside as she scurried away, he returned to his meal with a definite sense of accomplishment. His encounter with the credulous waitress encouraged him to think that, despite their recent reverses, he and his fellow operatives still had a chance to turn back the tide and prevent Jordan Collier from changing the future. His elevated position at the Vatican gave him influence over literally millions of gullible twenty-first-century primitives, and he aspired to even
greater power. Cardinal Emanuel Calabria had come in third in the last papal election, after all, and the current pontiff would not be around forever. If all went according to plan, Jordan Collier’s dangerous ambitions might well disappear in a puff of white smoke …

  In the meantime, though, best to be on guard. He nodded at his attentive bodyguards, grateful to have them watching over him. Promise City was many thousands of miles away, but he could not afford to get overconfident. Three of his fellow operatives had already been exterminated, and Collier’s reach was growing by the day. Glancing around the teeming piazza, he suddenly felt uncomfortably exposed. Perhaps he should not have left the tight security of the Vatican?

  His guards had actually argued against this outing, in light of the recent threats, but Calabria had overruled their caution. Sometimes he just had to escape the suffocating sanctimony of Vatican City and breathe a little fresh air. Besides, this particular ristorante was one of his favorites.

  The enticing aroma of the spaghetti reminded him of his appetite. Stabbing a fat piece of mussel with his fork, he lifted it to his lips. As he started to bite down on it, however, his eyes widened at the sight of a tall black man emerging from the Metro station across the street. Something about the man’s brooding features jogged his memory, but it took him a second to put a name to the face. I know that man. He’s …

  Richard Tyler!

  His heart skipped a beat. Tyler’s daughter, Isabelle, had been intended to be the Marked’s ultimate weapon against the 4400, before that operation went badly awry. His contacts in the States had informed Calabria of Tyler’s recent escape from prison, but Rome was the last place he had expected the fugitive American to show up. The cardinal realized at once that this could not be a coincidence.

  Their eyes met across the busy street. Tyler’s face was grim and unforgiving. Calabria opened his mouth to alert the guardsmen, but, before he could get a word out, the greasy mussel leapt from his fork and, like a thing alive, jammed itself into his windpipe. Choking, he coughed and clutched his throat, but his convulsive efforts failed to dislodge the meaty obstruction, which seemed to be held in place by an invisible force. Tyler’s doing this, the cardinal realized. He’s out to avenge his daughter’s death!