The Devil's Army

by Jeremy Michelson

  His jaw was clenched, the muscles working. Warning bells started going off in her head. What kind of freak show were they headed for?

  “Walt…” she said.

  “You’ll have to trust me, okay,” he said, “I think I’ve earned that much at least.”

  She settled back in the seat, scrunching down.

  Trust.

  Trust got her into bad places.

  Twenty-Eight

  “Father. Where is Carlson?”

  Carlson looked up at the clone standing in the doorway of his office. He had no idea which one this was. It could have been the one from the lab. Or maybe it was one of his generals. Or maybe it was one of the ones doing surveillance on the authorities. They all dressed alike. Jeans and black t-shirts. Where were they getting them all? He had a vague memory of ordering one of them to take the Buick from the farm and go shopping. Maybe he needed to buy a truck. Maybe one with a trailer. They damned clones were eating him out of house and home, too. The little bastards kept finding his supply of special dark chocolate he ordered from Switzerland. Of course they would have his tastes, but, dammit, it was his chocolate, not theirs.

  “Father? Are you all right?” the clone asked.

  Carlson straightened up. His hand dropped down to his lap. One quick movement and the drawer would be open. The gun would be in his hand and fired before the clone took more than a couple steps into the room.

  “I’m fine,” he said, “What do you want?”

  “I asked you where Carlson was,” the clone said.

  “I’m Carlson, you’re Carlson. There are Carlsons all over the place here,” Carlson said, “Which particular one are you looking for?”

  The clone frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. Carlson wondered if parents of identical twins felt this kind of bewilderment and confusion. Maybe he should have given them other names. Bill and Joe and Craig and so on. No, he was a Carlson, other names wouldn't do. Perhaps numbers. Tattoo them on their foreheads.

  It was something to consider.

  “Carlson, one of your five generals. Remember?” Carlson Junior said.

  Carlson made his brow furrow in puzzlement. Of course he knew where that Carlson was. The little bastard had been dissolved in a tub of acid Carlson had set up in another safe house. There was nothing of him left. Not even a ring around the tub.

  He had set up two more separate safe houses after his memories had been copied to DeVol’s device. It seemed only prudent to keep back some information from the clones. After all, master craftsmen often held back certain juicy techniques from their apprentices.

  “He’s on a long term assignment,” Carlson said.

  “But he hasn’t made contact,” Junior said.

  Carlson folded his hands on the desktop and leaned forward. His heart pounded like a victim in the trunk of his Buick. But he kept the fear that prickled his senses off his face.

  “When he makes contact, it will be with me,” he said, “He has a very sensitive mission. Something we will all discuss when he gets back.”

  “When will that be?” Junior asked.

  The clone’s eyes were sharp. Carlson could feel the skepticism dripping from his words.

  “When I tell you, and not a moment sooner,” Carlson said, “Now, don’t you have work to do?”

  “Of course. Father.”

  Before Carlson could dismiss him, the clone spun on his heel and stalked away. Carlon watched until he was out of sight. Then he stood and closed the office door. After a moment, he flicked the lock on. He went back to his desk and dropped heavily into the chair.

  But he hasn’t made contact.

  The clones were communicating. It was to be expected. They had to communicate with each other to get things done. But it was quite clear they were doing more than communicating to further the Great Work. They were forming a network that did not include him. He cursed himself for his shortsightedness. Humans were programmed to create hierarchies and form societies. The clones were putting together their own command structure.

  If he was correct, it was one that did not include him.

  Twenty-Nine

  The imposing gray stone building looked like it could have been a gothic government building from the early twentieth century. Except it was stuck in the rural ass of Atlanta, surrounded by dumpy small houses lining cracked and potholed asphalt streets. The building stretched a long way along the street, its two-story windows blank, covered up with stone in a different era. A cupola at the center had a copper roof, aged to a green patina. The building sat back from the rough two lane street. A low, black iron fence separated the lush green lawn from the cracked sidewalk that ran along the street. Neat rose bushes sat behind the fence, their red blooms fragrant in the stifling evening air. Harley's eye went to the simple sign sitting on the manicured lawn.

  “Are you kidding me?” she asked.

  It was hard to not notice the high concrete wall jutting out from the end of the building. And the guard towers every hundred feet or so.

  U.S. Penitentiary, Atlanta, Georgia, the sign said in crisp, black letters.

  “A Federal Pen? What the hell, Walt? I thought we were going to talk to an agent?” Harley asked.

  Grave’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Kam, you gotta trust me on this. It’s only a medium security facility. It’s not like its a Supermax.”

  “Oh, medium, that makes all the difference. Why that makes it all puppies and rainbows and kittens. Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

  He gave her an exasperated look. She didn’t care. He was lucky she didn’t punch him in the nose. He knew better. One of the things she liked least in the world was surprises. The only thing she liked less was visiting prisons.

  “You do remember the lockdown, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Come on Harley,” he said, “That was years ago, and this is totally different.”

  “I’m still feeling traumatized,” she said.

  “Yeah, sure. I bet those cons you beat the crap out of feel even more traumatized.”

  “Hey, I warned them,” she said, “Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I have to fight like one.”

  “As I recall, three of them sued the city because the doctors weren’t able to reattach their junk,” Graves said.

  Harley slumped down in the seat, hunching her coat up over her neck. “I told them to put it back in their pants,” she said, “Is it my fault they didn’t listen?”

  Graves drove the SUV through one of the blocky stone arches that stood at either end of the prison’s curved driveway. The driveway was as cracked and bumpy as the street. The Feds weren’t putting much money into upkeep on this dump.

  “Listen, I know this is weird, but it’s the only thing I can think of trying,” Graves said, “This guy has information.”

  “Is this guy locked up with the other cons?” Harley asked.

  “Yes, but–”

  “Then he’s a con, right?”

  “Yes, well–”

  “Which means he did something bad, got caught, got convicted by a jury of his peers and got sent to prison, right?”

  “Technically–”

  “And if he’s a con,” Harley said, “Then that means he’s untrustworthy. He’s a lying sack of shit who deserved to be locked up. And to get information out of him, he’ll want to bargain. He’ll want something from us. Which means we’ll be helping out a convict. And I FUCKING HATE CONVICTS!”

  Her voice was a scream by the time she finished. Her hands shook, her whole body trembled. Damn Graves, he knew better. He damned well knew how she felt. Why the hell would he bring her to a place like this?

  Graves stared ahead. He brought the SUV to a stop in front of the columned entrance. He twisted the key and the engine died. They sat in sudden silence, but for the ticking of the cooling engine. His fingers were still white knuckled on the wheel. He didn’t look at her as he spoke.

  “You’ve done a lot of bad things in your life, too, Kam,�
�� he said, “Things that, if you weren’t a cop or protected by law, would have put you in a place worse than this.”

  “I did what I had to,” Harley said, “What needed to be done.”

  Graves gave a slight shake of his head. "Sometimes I wonder which side we're really on," he said, "We're just trying to keep that thin veneer of civilization from slipping off. When you look at it, civilization is an artificial construct. And a very, very fragile one. You and I know as well as anyone what happens when that veneer falls away. We've both seen savage, horrible things. And we've committed a few of those things in the name of keeping civilized society civil. But it makes me wonder. What good is civilization in the long run? Sooner or later it's all going to break down and we'll just be cavemen scraping to survive."

  Harley grabbed his arm. He finally looked at her. She leaned toward him. “We do it because it’s a war and we’re warriors. And right now our side is still winning. And as long as we keep fighting, we’ll keep winning. We won’t win every battle, but we’ll win the god damned war. And we’ll keep fighting because we’re on the side of right. If we keep a perp from stealing a child and doing horrible things that child before he kills her, we win. We won’t get them all, but damnit, we make a difference.”

  Graves’ face was calm. “What if that child grows up to become the next Reaper?” he asked, “What if letting that child die would save thousands?”

  She squeezed his arm so hard she was surprised he didn’t yell. All she got from him was a small wince.

  “We can’t think that way. We don’t have any way of seeing that future. All we can do is what’s right now," she said, "What's gotten into you, Walt?"

  He looked away. Out the window to the imposing prison structure. “I always get a little philosophical when I come here.”

  Something about his voice made her hesitate. Graves was her Gibraltar. The solid rock in the stormy sea of her life. What the hell could put him off kilter?

  “Who is it?” she asked, “Who are we seeing here?”

  Walt sighed and gave her a weak smile. Lines of tension seemed to radiate from his eyes.

  “My father,” he said.

  Thirty

  A guard brought Kelly Graves into the quiet meeting room. This late in the day the room was empty. The dirty tables and benches were barren of cons and their scuzzy visitors. The humid air still stank of sweat and cheap perfume, though. Flies buzzed her head and she waved them away. Harley could hear the faraway shouts and laughter of men–convicts. It made her skin twitch as much as the flies did.

  Kelly Graves looked like an older, gaunter version of his son. The same long face, his gray hair receded to a prominent widows peak above his forehead. He wore a blue denim shirt and pants. The top three buttons of the shirt were open, revealing a white t-shirt. His eyes were sharp, just like Walt’s. As he approached, Harley caught a whiff of musky cologne. An expensive habit in prison. And a vanity. Was Walt supplying it, or did daddy-o have his own cash supply?

  She glanced at Walt. He sat, back straight and shoulders stiff, hands folded on the table in front of him. His face held little expression, except for the thin set of his lips. She had a feeling if she punched his arm right now, he’d come unsprung like a watch spring.

  Graves Sr. moved like his joints hurt. She noticed his knuckles were swollen. Arthritis, maybe. He sat at the bench opposite them.

  “Walter, what a surprise,” he said, “I wasn’t expecting you for another couple months.”

  Graves Sr.’s voice was low and rich, almost the voice of a radio announcer. His face was lined and his hair gray, but his eyes were bright. Harley had a suspicion they didn’t miss a thing.

  “Something came up,” Walt said.

  “Indeed. And who is this lovely young lady you brought with you?” Graves Sr. asked.

  “You know who this is, dad,” Walt said.

  Graves Sr. turned his bright gaze on her, flashing her a charming smile. “Well, by the dashing eyepatch and surly look, I suspect you are the formidable Kam Harley,” he said.

  Harley didn’t return the smile. “What are you in for?” she asked.

  Graves Sr.’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, Walter didn’t tell you?” he asked, “Well, I suppose he doesn’t like to talk much about me, does he?”

  “First I even heard you existed was about twenty minutes ago,” Harley said, “Guess he’s not too proud of you, you being a convict in prison and all.”

  Graves Sr.'s eyes sharpened and the smile faded a little. "Yes, it would appear so, wouldn't it?" he said. He folded his hands in front of him on the scratched and dirty table. Exactly the same way Walt did. Was he deliberately mimicking him? "I was convicted of murder and larceny. I served the majority of my sentence in Colorado and now I'm whiling the hours away here in the deathly humidity of Atlanta. The story of how I came to be incarcerated is a long one, which I doubt we have time for, since somehow dear Walter has managed to arrange an after hours visit. Pulling some strings these days son? Using your position for influence?"

  “Sometimes, dad,” Walt said, “That’s why we’re given authority. To use it in times of need.”

  “And you need it?” Graves Sr. asked. He smiled and leaned back, hooking an arm over the back of the chair. “How refreshing, you needing something from me. I assume it’s the same thing you’ve wanted before?”

  “Of course,” Walt said.

  Harley looked from one to the other. Graves Sr. was pretending to be relaxed, but she sensed a tension, maybe excitement coming from him. From Walt, there seemed to be a barely restrained anger. This felt like a game the two had been playing for a long time. But something was different tonight. Tonight Walt had a need. And that was going to give his father the upper hand.

  “And what are you willing to offer in exchange?” Graves Sr. asked.

  “Nothing, dad,” Walt said.

  Graves’ Sr. frowned and pursed his lips. “Then I see no reason why I should help you.”

  Harley clasped Walt’s wrist. “What does he have?” she asked him.

  Walt’s eyes never left his father. “He knows someone who knows something,” he said.

  “About what?” She asked. Her heart sped up and blood pounded in her ears.

  “The Reaper,” Walt said.

  Heat rushed to her face. She stood, slapping her palms on the table. “This asshole knows something about the Reaper? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I was never sure I believed him,” Walt said, “As you’ve observed, convicts aren’t exactly honest.”

  Graves Sr. clucked and shook his head. “Oh, Walter, that hurts, it really does,” he said, “Why would I lie to you about something so important?”

  “You lied about everything. Including things that are important,” Walt said, “But I’m taking a chance now because the need is great.”

  Graves Sr.’s smile grew broad. His teeth were even and white. Another expensive vanity. Especially for a guy in prison.

  “Then you’re willing to pay my price then?” he asked.

  Walt shook his head. “No, you’re just going to tell us what you know. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  “If I believed in doing the right thing, would I be in this place?” Graves Sr. asked.

  “Now is a good time to start,” Walt said.

  Graves Sr. chuckled and ran his fingers through his graying hair. “You always were funny, Walter,” he said. He moved to stand up, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m missing NCIS. I do love a good crime drama, you know.”

  Harley moved to block him. He stopped, eyes sharp on her. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell us what you know,” she said.

  “Madam, I assure you that I shall not be intimidated,” Graves Sr. said, “You’re in a prison, surrounded by guards. All I have to do is raise my voice and help will come. And if you touch me, I shall have the pleasure of suing you and whatever authority you work for. Once you get out of prison for assault. Now, good day, madam.”

  Walt clear
ed his throat. “Dad, you remember the Braywether Prison lockdown, don’t you?”

  The smile left Graves Sr.’s face. “You wouldn’t.”

  Walt waved his hand in Harley’s general direction. “This is her,” he said, “And the guards are on break. They can’t hear anything that goes on in here. Now, if you cooperate and tell us what you know, then we’ll go peacefully. Otherwise, I’ll leave you alone in the room with her.”

  Graves Sr. went pale. “You wouldn’t. Not to your own father.”

  “Actually, yeah, I would,” Graves said, “You’ve always been a shitty father, so I wouldn’t feel any remorse. None at all.” He stood up. “So, last chance.”

  Graves Sr.’s eyes flicked to Harley. She gave him a sweet smile and cracked her knuckles.

  “I have rights,” he said, “You can’t do this.”

  “You know as well as I do that things happen to guys in prison,” Walt said, “And you don’t have any family who will make a fuss over it. Now, I’m heading for the door, dad.”

  Walt stepped away from the table and moved toward the door.

  “Wait!” Graves Sr. cried. His eyes darted about and he licked his lips. “There is man in the South Burrough. He’s a plumber. He knows a mechanic.”

  Thirty-One

  The five clones seated around the table jerked their heads up as Carlson walked in. Their faces were blank masks, with nothing to be read on them. Or into them. In the center of the table was a bag of his special order Swiss dark chocolate. Each clone had a couple empty wrappers near their hands. He walked over and plucked the bag from the table.

  “Having a party, are we?” Carlson asked.

  “Just a little strategy session, father,” one of the clones said.

  Carlson took a foil wrapped chocolate from the bag–which was almost empty! He unwrapped the morsel and popped it in his mouth. For a moment he let himself relish the creamy, slightly bitter flavor of it. It was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself. And these damned clones were taking it away from him.