The Project Eden Thrillers Box Set 2: Books 4 - 6 (Ashes, Eden Rising, & Dream Sky)

by Brett Battles

  “Sure,” Ash said absently.

  “Come on, Dad,” Josie said. “I’ll help you out.”

  PIZZA HUT TURNED out to be a bust. All the food was gone. Brandon was bummed, but not as much as he would have been in the past. It was the way things were, and like it or not, he was getting used to it. So, dinner was the usual selection of canned food that all tasted pretty much the same as far as Brandon was concerned.

  He let his father and sister take the two beds, and stretched out on the floor using a few extra blankets from the maid’s closet as his mattress. He could feel his eyes wanting to close, but he forced them to remain open as he waited until he heard deep, even breaths from the two beds. His dad knocked off first, but Josie wasn’t far behind.

  When he was sure they were out, Brandon picked up the small package he’d put aside and rose quietly to his feet. Slowly and silently, he donned his jacket and boots, eased the door open, and quickly slipped outside.

  Through the still falling snow, he could see a light on in the cab of one of the Humvees, where the two men on watch would be, but he felt confident their attention was on the road, not the building, so he didn’t think he’d be seen. He glanced toward the rear portion of the motel and saw light shining from only one of the windows. He was pretty sure it was Mr. Hamilton’s room, and could picture the Resistance’s leader hunched over a map as he tried to figure out the best route for the next day.

  As light-footed as possible, he hurried to the busted office door, stepped inside, and crossed the small lobby. Pausing in front of the door to the back apartment, he opened the package he’d brought with him. It wasn’t much, just a stack of cheese crackers he’d picked up at a convenience store during one of the caravan’s stops earlier in the day. He pulled the wrapper all the way apart until it was a flat sheet and set it on the floor, spreading the crackers on top of it. He listened at the door. All was quiet on the other side.

  “All right, cat,” he said. “I’ve got something for you, but don’t you come running out at me. You got that?”

  Whether the cat got it or not, it made no response.

  “I’m opening the door now,” he said.

  He turned the knob and inched the door open a crack. No cat, though it could have been hiding behind the door. He opened the door a little more, and scooted the cellophane wrapper into the room.

  “There you go,” he said. “I know it’s not a lot, but it’s got to be better than nothing.”

  As he eased the door closed, he thought he heard movement. Once the door was latched, he leaned in close, putting his ear against the wood.

  Several scratches were followed by the distinct sound of a cracker breaking. Smiling, he stood up again and headed out, almost making it back to his room before the gunfire began.

  Seven

  PROJECT EDEN FACILITY NB219

  LAS CRUCES, NEW MEXICO

  8:10 PM MST

  PRINCIPAL DIRECTOR PEREZ watched as the ten monitors mounted on the wall across from his desk began filling with the faces of the next batch of Project Eden personnel. After the final screen came on, Claudia, the director’s senior assistant, said, “The time is 8:10 p.m. Mountain Standard. Group fourteen’s representatives are all present. Director Perez?”

  Perez stared blankly at the camera for another few beats, before he asked the same question with which he began each of the previous thirteen conference calls. “We are now nine days past Implementation Day. Assessments?”

  No one said anything, each looking as if he or she hoped someone else would reply.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d received the response, and he was well aware of the reason for the hesitation. Until the release of the KV-27a virus, the principal director of Project Eden had been someone else entirely. Perez’s ascent into the position was a total surprise. He was not known in the traditional power circles of the project, and most had thought one of the senior Project members who had been passed over would be given the job. Perez was still an enigma, and he was happy to remain one.

  “When I ask a question, I expect answers,” he said.

  The man in monitor number seven, Jumoke el-Masri, an Egyptian by birth who was stationed at NB014 outside Rome, overseeing the Project’s operations in the Mediterranean, cleared his throat and said, “I, of course, can only speak for my region. Our analysis shows a current penetration rate of 89.76%, topping out at a projected 98.12% in the next seven days. This will put us 1.71% short of the Project’s goal. Closing that gap will take time, and will depend on how many of the current survivors we are able to reach. Best estimate, another month to month and a half should put us within a few hundredths of the 99.83% mark.”

  “We are seeing a similar result here,” Ingrid Klausner, the woman in charge of Scandinavia and northwestern Russia, said from monitor number three. “Our percentages are a bit better than Mr. el-Masri’s, but that has been helped, in part, by the military actions we’ve seen.” In the wake of the outbreak, fighting had broken out along the borders between Russia and the former Soviet republics in the Baltic.

  “Are you still seeing any fighting?” Perez asked. He’d read the reports and knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from her.

  “Only along a small stretch of the Russian-Estonian border. Last night, two of our aircraft sprayed the area with KV-27a. The last of the fighting should cease in the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”

  Others began chiming in. All were seeing the same results, give or take a few tenths of a percent—numbers that were within the expected range at this point of the operation. While it would have been nice to reach the Project’s ultimate goal solely from the release of the virus on Implementation Day, to believe that would happen would have been grossly naïve. Hence the UN message to trick people into revealing their locations, and lure as many as possible to survival stations. A few lucky ones with desired qualities such as a needed skill set would be spared. The rest, while told they were receiving a vaccine, would actually be infected with a live version of the virus.

  There were a couple trouble locations, also not surprises. One was the vast group of islands that stretched from eastern Malaysia through Indonesia and Papua New Guinea, and finally up into the southern portion of the Philippines. It was a difficult area to cover, lots of people scattered on thousands of islands—logistically impossible to cover with the shipping containers that had delivered the bulk of the virus to the world.

  The second problem zone was a similar group of islands, though fewer in number. These were located in the eastern Caribbean Sea, starting with the British Virgin Islands and moving southeast all the way to Trinidad and Tobago. Most of the islands had been exposed to the virus like the rest of the world, but a few had been missed, and were now home to large groups of survivors. These two geographically broad areas, as well as a few smaller pockets elsewhere, were in the process of being sprayed from the sky like the Russian war zone had been. It would take a little time to see results, but they would come.

  “Mr. Muramoto,” Perez said, zeroing in on monitor number nine. “The latest report I have indicates the survival station outside Seoul and the station in Shanghai have yet to open. Is this still the case?”

  “Unfortunately, that is correct, sir. We have had—”

  “I’m not interested in what you’ve had. I’m interested in how soon they will be operational.”

  “Of course.” Muramoto glanced down, presumably looking at some notes. “Seoul should be open by four p.m. local time.”

  A little less than four hours.

  “And Shanghai?”

  More hesitation. “There have been some problems. Rioting and fires destroyed the facility we had planned on using. A backup was immediately identified, but it is taking longer than anticipated to get it into working order.”

  “How. Long.”

  “Another day. Maybe day and a half.”

  “So the location has not been broadcast yet?”

  Muramoto licked his lips. “No.
”

  “Broadcast it now.”

  “But some will arrive before they can go inside.”

  Perez leaned toward the camera. “And that’s a problem? Station some of your people in the streets to meet whoever comes, and have them point people to surrounding buildings where they can camp until the station is ready. Get the survivors there! That is your priority now.” He kept his gaze fixed on the camera. “That is the priority for all of you. Please tell me you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  Perez let a few seconds pass, then said, “We are at a critical juncture in the plan. It is up to you to see that it goes smoothly. If you are not up to the task, you will be replaced.” From the looks in their eyes, he didn’t need to ask this time if they understood. “If there’s nothing else…?” He waited, but no one said anything. “Very well. Back to work.”

  Claudia punched the button cutting off the monitors. She glanced at the clock on her computer screen and smiled. “You’re getting better at this. Still have six minutes before group fifteen.”

  “What areas are in that one?”

  She turned back to her screen, but didn’t answer right away.

  “Claudia?” he asked.

  She looked up. “Sorry. We received a call from Sims a few minutes ago. If you’d like, I could get him on the line.”

  “Yes, do it.”

  Sims and his associates had become Perez’s special projects team, handling the delicate matters the majority of Project Eden’s membership didn’t need to know about. Sims’s latest task was one Perez had been putting off for over a week. It was a simple reconnaissance job, one he was sure would turn out to be a complete waste of time. Still, he couldn’t afford to leave it unchecked, so he had finally sent out Sims.

  Several seconds passed before the bottom center monitor filled with Sims’s hard-edged face, surrounded by dancing snowflakes.

  “Principal Director,” Sims said.

  “Report, Mr. Sims.”

  “Yes, sir. We arrived at the Montana location about two hours ago.”

  “Was there anyone left alive?”

  “Sir, we didn’t find anyone. Dead or alive.”

  That was definitely not what Perez had expected. “No one?”

  The camera twisted away from Sims, but other than snow and darkness, Perez could make out nothing.

  “The main building, the one that burned down during our attack, is that direction,” Sims said. The camera swung a few degrees to the left. “The smaller building was over there.”

  “I’m familiar with the layout, Mr. Sims. I assume there is something new you’re trying to tell me?”

  “Sir, we made a thorough search of the wreckage. No one was in either building when they burned down.”

  “So they were already gone when you attacked? Didn’t your team kill one of their men then?”

  “Yes, sir. About a half mile from here. He was the only one seen that day. But, to answer your other question, I don’t think they were gone.” The camera swung in a one-eighty before tilting down. A pile of dirt and snow and pine needles sat next to a hole in the ground, and propped open in the hole was a hatch. “They had an underground facility. Pretty damn extensive, too. Lots of offices, storerooms, barracks.” He paused. “It’s also equipped with an indoor shooting range and medical facilities. Both high end.”

  Again, not what Perez expected. Perhaps he’d been underestimating the people who had been there. In his mind, they were no more than a gnat that posed no real threat to the Project. That was undoubtedly still true, but the sophistication of the facility Sims described was troubling. “And you found no one inside, either?”

  The camera turned back to Sims’s face. “No, sir.”

  “What about computers? Anything that might have information on it?”

  “Unfortunately, the few computers left were thoroughly destroyed. If there were any other records, we didn’t locate them.” He looked away from the camera, scanning around. “I can tell you one thing, this place was not cheap.”

  “Any sign of where they went?”

  “The snow didn’t start falling until maybe an hour before we arrived. We found some indentations where tire tracks and boot prints had been, so I don’t think they’ve been gone for long.”

  “They drove out?”

  “I believe so. Yesterday at most.”

  A gnat could be annoying, but ultimately it couldn’t hurt you. Chances were these people knew they were defeated, and were only trying to find someplace to stay safe as the dust settled.

  “You think you can find them?” he asked.

  Sims grimaced. “Possibly, but it won’t be easy. Have to do it by instruments until the storm clears. If you’d like, we can give it a shot.”

  “All right. For a little while, but I don’t want to waste too much effort on this, so if you feel like you’re spinning your wheels, call it off.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll get right on it.”

  “Report in if you find anything,” Perez said, then signaled Claudia that he was finished.

  As she disconnected the call, she said, “Group fifteen is standing by.”

  Perez filled his glass with water from a pitcher, and took a sip. When he set the glass back down, he nodded and said, “Ready.”

  THE RANCH, MONTANA

  8:18 PM MST

  SIMS CLIMBED ABOARD the helicopter and pulled the door shut.

  “Treetops,” he said to the pilot. “Follow the road we spotted earlier, out to the highway. The rest of you keep an eye out for tracks. Any questions?”

  “No, sir,” they said in unison.

  A cloud of white swirled up around them as the rotors increased their speed and the aircraft lifted off the ground. When they rose to a point approximately twenty feet higher than the tallest tree, the pilot took them south and then east.

  Whoever had built the road the helicopter was following had been very smart. Only the bare minimum of trees had been cleared to create the path. In many spots, the branches from both sides intertwined with each other for stretches of twenty, thirty—one time over one hundred—feet, making it impossible to see the road at all. The storm wasn’t helping, either, as snow flew past them in waves of near solid sheets, momentarily obscuring the view.

  When they finally reached the strip of open land where the road met highway, Sims keyed his mic and told the pilot, “Set us down near the intersection.”

  “Looks like it might be a little deep,” the pilot replied.

  “I’ve seen you land in worse.”

  “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

  The pilot slowly lowered them over the road. By the time the skids came to rest, the top of the snow was only a few inches below the lip of the door.

  “We won’t be long,” Sims said.

  After exiting the aircraft, he and his men spread out to quickly cover more area.

  “Sir!” Altman, one of Sims’s men, yelled.

  Sims twisted around, and spotted Altman fifty feet down the smaller road that led back into the woods. By the time he reached him, Altman had crouched down and was pointing at the ground.

  “Tire tracks, sir,” Altman said. “At least two sets.”

  Sims moved in low next to him. Running down the road were several wide depressions. They hadn’t filled because of the partial tree cover.

  “How old, do you think?” Sims asked.

  Altman, Sims’s best tracker, studied the marks. “Twelve hours, give or take.”

  Twelve hours. Depending on what the weather had been when the vehicles came through, they could be as much as six or seven hundred miles away. They probably hadn’t made it quite that far, but even three hundred would be a lot.

  Altman rose to his feet, but stayed bent at the waist as he followed the tracks toward the highway. Sims walked right behind him. With each step the depressions became shallower and sh
allower, until Sims could no longer differentiate the tracks from the surrounding ground. Altman, though, was able to follow them nearly all the way to the intersection.

  He finally stopped and straightened up. “It looks like they turned south.”

  “You’re sure?” Sims asked.

  “As sure as I can be.”

  South did make the most sense. A turn to the north would have meant heading into the meat of the storm.

  “Don’t think we’re going to find anything else here,” Sims said loudly enough for the other men to hear. “Everyone back on board.”

  Back in the warmth of the aircraft’s cabin, he pulled up on his tablet a map of the state and studied it for a moment.

  “South toward Butte,” he told the pilot. “Your destination’s the intersection of the I-90 and the I-15 a couple miles west of town. We’ll see if we can pick up another sign of them there.”

  “Yes, sir,” the pilot said.

  Eight

  SHERIDAN, WYOMING

  9:39 PM MST

  CHLOE’S EYES SHOT open at the sound of the gunshot. She rolled off her bed and onto the floor, unsure where it was coming from. Once she realized none of the bullets were flying through her room, she scrambled across the floor and yanked on her boots.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Matt’s voice boomed out of the radio in her jacket pocket.

  As she grabbed the coat and pulled it on, Jared Lawrence, one of the men on watch, answered. “We’ve got at least two shooters. Think they’re on the lot just south of us.”

  That would be the equipment rental place Chloe had seen next door. It was full of tractors and trucks and trailers parked around a large, central building.

  “Do you have an exact position?” Matt asked.

  “No, the snow’s too—” Jared cut himself off as another burst of bullets sailed over the motel.

  “Jesus,” Matt said. “Everyone stay down. Jared, we need to silence those guns.”

  Chloe clicked the talk button. “I’m on it.”