TWO - RESURRECTION
DOM#67A
LOSTON, COLORADO
AD 1999
8:20 PM MONDAY
John winced as Fran pulled the bandage tighter. The wound on his back had opened at some point, and blood had stained the bottom of his shirt and soaked his underpants. Fran got gauze out of a first aid kit, put anti-bacterial cream on it and rewrapped the wound as he recounted the events of the strange evening. Her movements were sure and precise, and once again John thought what an amazing woman she was. He had seen grown men swoon while preparing a field bandage for less bloody wounds than his, yet she was iron-willed. Mere blood seemed neither to deter nor to frighten her in the least.
When he told her what was happening, he felt rather than saw her shock and disbelief. And he felt something else, too, below the surface of her apparent incredulity. It was as though she didn’t want to believe, but a part of her that she had locked far away couldn’t help but trust his bizarre tale.
When he got to the part where the crazies had mentioned her name, she jerked slightly. She put a final piece of tape on the wrap and John replaced what was left of his shirt.
"What would anyone want from me?" she asked.
"I don’t know. I really hoped you would," John answered. He swiveled. He was sitting on the couch, and had turned to allow her to fix up his back. Now they sat side by side. He looked at her. Her brow furrowed in thought and concern, normally not the face a woman would make if she was trying to look her best. Even so, John felt something in the pit of his stomach, a fierce attraction to her that seemed to belie the doings of this strange and frightening night.
"No," she said at last, "I can’t believe all this." But something in her eyes spoke different words. John thought what she really wanted to say was, "Please don’t let this be true. I can’t handle it." And, perhaps, even lower and more well-hidden, "Again?"
He chose not to speak of what he felt, however, and instead addressed her verbal opposition. "Fran, you saw my back. Do you think I just tripped through a window on my way to bed or something?"
"I know you were hurt, John. But all this about people attacking you for no reason, dead people standing up and walking around...it just doesn’t fly."
"Fran, I’m telling you –"
She stood and backed away from him. "John, we had a really nice date the other night. But that doesn’t mean –"
"Yeah, we did," he said, cutting off the stream of denial that he sensed was about to come from her. He had to convince her. Beyond the matter of survival, which he felt sure would rest on both of them knowing as much as possible of what was going on around them, he couldn’t bear the thought of her being afraid of him or believing he was insane. "We had a great time. And did I do anything crazy?"
She shook her head, slowly. She bit her lower lip, as though she were about to cry, but John knew she wouldn’t. He sensed a strength in her that was beyond anything even the men in his unit had had. She was a survivor.
"No," he continued. "I didn’t do anything strange at all. Fran, I’m scared. Not just for me, but for you. Whatever is going on, it involves you somehow, and when I heard your name, and that those bastards wanted you, the only thing I could think about was getting over here to protect you."
He stood, slowly, stepping toward her, expecting her to dart away from him like a frightened deer faced by a howling pack of starving timber wolves.
But she didn’t. She stayed.
He swallowed and continued inching closer to her. "I’ve never told anyone the things I told you the other night. Not since my wife died. Do you understand what I’m saying?" He wanted to say more. Crazily, he wanted to tell her he loved her. That surprised him, and so he left the question as it was, cutting himself off before he went too far and perhaps caused her to be even more frightened than she already was.
He could see her struggling with all that he had said. "John, I don’t know."
"Please, Fran." He was right in front of her now, standing close enough to touch her, and still he inched forward. "I’m frightened for you." Their breath mingled as he leaned down, eye to eye, nose to nose.
Lips to lips.
"I need more than anything for you to trust me right now," he said.
He kissed her.
For a moment she held still, as though afraid to move. Then she responded, and he felt her lips, soft and cool against his mouth. They kissed, and it lasted an eternity and at the same time was over far too quickly. The feelings John was keeping half-hidden within himself exploded through his being like a life-giving spring, cooling him and buoying him up. He was happy, as he had not been for the first time since his Annie died. In spite of the blood and fear, his heart was light, and he suddenly realized how much he wanted to see Fran again, and to hold her forever. He suddenly felt hope.
Perhaps the night had been worth it after all.
CONTROL HQ - RUSHM
AD 3999/AE 1999
Adam’s guts constricted inside him, a coiled mass of tension tied in a Gordian knot.
What do you do when the fate of the world sits on your shoulders? he thought, and not for the first time in his tenure as a Controller. As always, the only answer that presented itself was that he should keep doing his best. Press forward, he thought. Press forward and do the best you can, Adam. Hopefully God will pick up the slack.
He watched the screens on the wall, each showing a different view of the strangely deserted streets of Loston. Two of the screens held no picture. Only a word: OFFLINE.
Jason watched the screens with him. Slightly behind him and to the right stood Sheila, Jason’s wife. Not many Controllers married, because of the emotional threat involved. But Jason had elected to marry Sheila, and though Adam disapproved of the decision itself, he certainly approved of Jason’s choice in mates.
Light brown hair that held itself in tight curls against her pixie’s face served to emphasize her slight frame, but Sheila was a strong-willed woman. And not just strong, but happy, a characteristic in short supply among the Controllers. Sheila often had the power to light up an entire room with the brightness she exuded, but was still a damn fine Controller when the time came, methodical and efficient.
Tonight she didn’t light up the room. Her expression was dark as a deep midnight sea.
"What are we going to do?" she asked.
That was the very question that had been troubling Adam, and still no answer had emerged from his self-doubt. "If I send in a recovery squad, the entire town will have to be shut down," he mused aloud. "But if not, the Fans might get her before she’s safe."
"We can afford to shut down the town," said Jason. "If it’s a question of her or them, I think you should terminate all of them, go in and wipe out the Fans, then –"
"At least one of the Fans is human, too," said Adam. "Confirmed."
Both Jason and Sheila paled.
"Goddammit," whispered Sheila. Usually the blasphemy would have brought a swift scolding from Adam. Not tonight. "Who?"
"Malachi."
"And he’ll know what we’re going to do, too," said Jason.
"If we stick to procedure," said Adam. He watched the screens intently, along with several dozen other Controllers, awakened in the middle of their sleep-cycles just for this. No one spied any movement. All of Loston was waiting, and that should make it easier to find anything that was out and about in the suddenly silent town. But still there was nothing.
"What else can we do?" asked Jason.
Adam sighed. "We wait. As soon as we can pick her up without anyone in the dome detecting it, we’ll go in. Otherwise we run the risk of a full Activation and a bloodbath. Not to mention the fact that if Malachi somehow sees us go in, that increases the chances of his tracking us here on the return trip." Adam did not have to remind his people what such a discovery would mean. That was one of the ever-present threats that every Controller was aware of.
"I’ll get a crew and a jet ready," said Sheila. She kissed Jason’s cheek and d
isappeared from the control room.
"Jason, I want a story put out on John."
"Where?"
"All media. Tell them he’s a dangerous criminal. That’ll keep him running with Fran. And maybe we can protect the programming of any bits he contacts. If they’re afraid of him maybe they won’t give him a chance to talk." Adam did not know how much of the truth that John may have figured out in the last few days. Probably not much, but even his suspicions might prove deadly to the people of Loston, if he was allowed to share them. So Adam needed a way to keep John isolated; to keep him from talking. The general media alert, sent through the town, seemed the best way to accomplish this, though it was not without its risks.
Jason concurred, nodding his head and gesturing to several other Controllers to begin that process. But he also said, "They might try to kill him, though, if they think he’s crazy."
"Hopefully they won’t succeed."
DOM#67A
LOSTON, COLORADO
AD 1999
8:30 PM MONDAY
Malachi threw the papers down on the sheriff’s desk. Several of them fluttered down to the floor, where the remains of Tal Johnson and of Todd lay. "You two are useless!" he screamed. Spittle flecked his lips, and he felt himself losing control.
This would never have happened when I was a Controller, he thought. Such emotional outbursts were coming more frequently though, and he wondered if he was going mad, even as he struggled to get himself back under control; to rein in his murderous rage. Madness was inevitable, he knew. The barren wastelands of his home were so irradiated that eventually all went insane. But that could not happen to him now. Not now, not with the end so close.
Jenna cowered visibly at his outburst, and even Deirdre, stolid and immovable as flint, seemed to shrink in upon herself. Malachi smiled a bit at the sight. The fear of others had always had a calming effect on him.
"What do you want us to do?" asked Jenna.
Malachi opened his mouth to answer, but suddenly the TV came on. So did the radio. He heard another radio playing in the prison.
"This just in," began the TV reporter.
Malachi watched the newscast and smiled. He knew what the newscasts meant; knew that it would be dangerous to go out now, looking for John and Fran. But he wouldn’t have to go looking. Someone would bring them to him. He knew that Adam and the other Controllers had co-opted the town media to send out a primitive alert, telling everyone in the town that there was a dangerous criminal in their midst. Sooner or later Adam’s plan was sure to bear fruit. Someone would spot John or Fran.
And what would such a concerned citizen do? Call the sheriff, of course.
Malachi smiled, then sat down next to the phone and waited for the call.
***
Gabe lived right down the street, but Fran automatically went to her car. She was from Los Angeles, and no one went anywhere on foot in that city. Whether the travel was six feet or six miles, the car was the preferred – and sometimes it seemed like the only – method of transportation in the city of angels. Like most inhabitants of the metropolitan, Fran had despised the congested traffic of the city. But like most of her fellow Angelinos, she rarely thought to walk, as though entry citizenship in the city came only after a promise to travel exclusively by car.
John stopped her, though.
"No," he said. "Let’s walk."
She looked at him quizzically, then shrugged and nodded. It had been hard enough just getting John to agree to go to her cousin, though she knew he and Gabe were best friends.
When she had broached the subject of going to the coach for help, John shook his head. "I don’t want to," he said.
"We have to let him know what’s going on. Maybe he’s noticed something, too."
"Besides, that way I’ll have another person vouching for your sanity" were the words she didn’t say, but both of them heard them, nonetheless.
Still, John wasn’t going easily. "What if he turns on me, too?"
"He’s my cousin, John. And I didn’t do anything to you. Mental health is a genetic ailment that runs in my family."
So he agreed. But Fran didn't want to push her luck by insisting on driving, so now they were walking behind the four or five houses - spread out liberally across an area that in LA would have held several dozen - that separated her home from Gabe’s. Even in the midst of the dark night, even avoiding lights and sticking to the shadows that draped thickly over the Colorado landscape, Fran still had to marvel at the beauty of this place. Thick foliage sprouted from every available surface, evergreens predominating, sending their needled fingers high into the thin mountain air. They seemed to guard the landscape, subtly imposing yet also somehow comforting, conjuring up childhood images of Yuletide and fireplaces in the snow.
Below the trees, the ground was thick with grass and shrubs. It crackled softly underfoot as Fran moved forward, creating a pleasantly whispering noise that would have soothed her in other circumstances. Unfortunately, however, she was not on a nature hike. She was following a man who clearly feared for his life, though whether he was right to do so she could not yet say. She knew that she had strong feelings for John. They were surprisingly strong, in fact, considering the short amount of time they had spent together. But she had not felt such an instant kinship with anyone before. Perhaps not even Nathan, though she had loved him almost from the first moment they met. Did she love John? That was a question that she dared not answer. Not until she knew what was going on tonight. Not until she understood for herself what was making him so afraid; so furtive as he hugged the shadows and almost disappeared into the night.
That in itself was a skill that surprised her. John seemed to become little more than a shadow himself at times. He moved with a silence and ease that was almost spooky. Where Fran’s footfalls crackled and whispered as she stepped through grass and mulch, John’s movements could be followed only by sight. If she had closed her eyes, she could not have pinpointed his location. Even with her eyes open, she was hard-pressed at times to keep up with him. He was little more than a specter in the night, and as elusive and ethereal as any ghost. Though a city girl, Fran was aware that not everyone from the country could walk so silently through the night. John’s movements spoke of skill and training. She wondered where he had learned to walk like that, and what other secrets this man might hold.
About three-quarters of the way to Gabe’s house, John dropped suddenly to the ground, yanking Fran down with him.
"John, what’s –"
He cut her off with a finger to his lips. His eyes momentarily studied the house nearest them. Then he peered behind him, glancing at the other homes they had passed and the two or three still between them and Gabe’s place.
"See that?" he asked, pointing at the house next to them.
"I don’t see anything. It’s dark."
"Exactly. They’re all dark."
She looked around. He was right. "So, maybe they’re all gone. Or asleep." She knew it sounded weak, and didn’t believe it herself. Everyone on the same street gone? Where? There was no place to go to in Loston. Not at this time of night. Yet it was still too early for bed. Lights should have been on, sounds coming from the homes, perhaps even kids playing in lit yards. Instead, there was nothing. "Maybe just gone," she repeated quietly.
"No," whispered John. "They’re in there."
"Why would they be sitting in dark houses?"
"Because if it’s light inside you can’t see out the windows."
Fran looked at him in disbelief.
John nodded. "They’re looking for us."
He began edging farther away from the houses, staying low, heading for a small copse of trees that ran most of the rest of the way to Gabe’s house.
Fran wanted to laugh. She wanted to laugh and stand up and tell him he was being ridiculous. But she didn’t. Because she knew he was right. Something inside her knew that the silent houses were not empty, but filled with vigilantly attentive people. Watchers. How she kn
ew this she could not say, but she knew. Undeniably and indisputably, she knew. She was being watched. Hunted.
The night, comforting and lovely just a moment ago, turned suddenly dreadful and weird, a lovecraftian landscape of hidden monstrosities. The trees were no longer guardians, but sentries, striving to divine her location and give her away to those who hunted her. The mulch that had whispered below her feet now seemed to shriek in pain, much too loud to be missed. Surely someone must have heard that, she thought with every step. Surely someone will come. Someone will find us.
They stayed in the trees the rest of the way, moving to Gabe’s house furtively, and the urge to laugh suddenly seized Fran, in spite of - or perhaps because of - the fear that still touched her neck with its icy talons. It was all so like a movie, the hero and heroine making their way slowly to the safe house, staying in the trees, hunched over to provide small targets.
The trees, gnarled and bent with the passing centuries, crowded around them. She remembered a movie, a scene from the Disney version of Alice in Wonderland where Alice got lost in a forest and saw strange creatures. To most, she supposed, the movie was meant to be amusing, a playful romp through a child’s imagination. To Fran, however, the whole movie had been an exercise in quiet insanity. And when Alice got lost in that strange, pastel-colored forest, Fran cried until her parents took her from the theater.
The thought was juvenile, and again Fran wanted to laugh, but a part of her also wanted to scream. To shriek until the fear she suddenly felt went away, driven out by sound.
She bit her tongue, though, and also bit down the hysteria that threatened to overtake her. It was all so like a movie. But she knew that this wasn’t mere cinema. John’s story was too much like hers. Too much like what had happened to Nathan, on that frightening evening years ago.
What was happening was real, and to take the night lightly would mean death.
So she played her part, and lamented that in this instance, the hero and the heroine had no guarantee of living through to the opening credits. Indeed, if what John said were true, the chances of survival were slim.
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