“I am glad to hear that, Mr. Sullivan. I thought this was going to be a difficult transaction, so I attempted to acquire Mr. Gold’s son for some leverage. As we know, that did not work out so well for either of us,” Pinskey said with an ominous tone.
Daniel had been briefed about what went down at Ivan’s backup compound at the old school. Two men had tricked their way in, convincing Daniel’s brother Gerald that they were some of Ivan’s followers and that they were supposed to meet him at that location. Once in, they managed to capture Ivan. Ivan’s wife Marifi had gotten hold of one of the abductors and proceeded to brutally torture him until they released Ivan. There was some sort of shootout and in the aftermath, several were killed, including the two men Pinskey had sent and Gerald Sullivan.
“So...this is all about that kid?” Daniel asked angrily. “My brother is dead because I protected your kid?”
“It’s not just about the kid,” 7322 said, letting on he knew who Pinskey was as well.
“Correct, Mr. Two,” Pinskey said with a small mocking bow to 7322. “May I call you by your surname, Two? Or do I call you by the informal Seven? Proper etiquette is difficult to figure out in Gold’s new world of numbers instead of names. He should just tattoo bar codes on your forehead. But I guess tattooing numbers on one’s body is a touchy subject for his kind.”
7322 looked down at the number on his uniform.
“Surely you all realized PCRC had competitors,” Pinskey said. “We are very interested in this MEAT product your employer developed. The Modified Embryonic Animal Tissue. While obviously its initial launch was less than a success,” he waved his hand toward the truckload of mutilated Skells, “we feel that it has great potential. If we could just tweak the formula, we know that this product would be of great benefit. A meat replacement system that is not only delicious, but addicting. It’s like chocolate, cigarettes, and heroin, all mixed up in one tasty filet. We always appreciate addicted consumers, just not as ravenous as your current clientele.” An evil smile took over his face.
Pinskey had been involved with the MEAT research operation as a key supplier for PCRC, providing human stem cells for what the PCRC had said was scientific experimentation. He put all the pieces together when he found out about the plan for MEAT. Realizing that the only way he was going to fully capitalize on this knowledge was to go off on his own, he had coordinated the fake attack in Pakistan himself. The plan was to have Maxwell Gold believe he died, and he needed to leave at least one Sullivan brother alive to report his demise.
“Your employer invented the ultimate American consumable. Eat all you want and skip the gym membership. Easy answers to complex problems. Isn’t that what he always offered? Need to get out of a jam, call Maxwell Gold. Not getting the resources you want from of a foreign country, call Maxwell to send in his dogs to start a civil war. Uh oh, got a dead guy on the floor in the White House, he just shot himself in the Lincoln bedroom. Call Maxwell, he will make it look like a suicide that took place in the park miles away. Easy answers.”
7322 spoke up: “Do you really think this can be controlled, that the cause of this nightmare won’t happen again and again if you keep down this path?”
Pinskey maintained his wretched grin. “Stick to doing what you’re told and let us figure things out. This is a simple matter of formula. Maxwell’s team almost got it right, but they launched too early. A little more research and development time and he would have been given the Nobel Prize. We just need to find the right formula to make it so once weight loss begins, it actually ceases before they become walking skeletons. Oh, and then of course, there was that whole brain melting, flesh-eating thing. But what do they say? If at first you don’t succeed...”
CHAPTER 32
Colonel Tindall was in final preparations to move his soldiers out of the cul-de-sac under cover of darkness. Smoothie came downstairs from a nap and found the soldiers packing their gear. He walked into the dining room to find Colonel Tindall still holding his bible. He was wrestling internally whether to put it back in his pocket or leave it behind.
Tindall decided against taking the book and tossed it onto the table.
“I never understood one thing about church,” Smoothie commented on the conversation that no one was having. “Well, I guess there are lots of things I don’t understand about church. I probably could save time and just list for you the few things I do understand. I mean, you go to church, and you see these people all dressed up and sitting there in the pews on Sunday like that is the only time God sees them. I know a lot of the people that went to my church, and some were real sinners. Like ‘winning the championship of sinning’ sinners.”
“You can forget all that dogma you heard in church about the end of days,” Tindall said. “This current situation has nothing biblical or godly about it. This apocalypse is manmade.”
Smoothie felt like a debate. “Jesus was a man. If Jesus made something happen, then it would be manmade, correct?”
“Yes, but this was a created in a lab. No one turned water into wine here—this was chemistry,” Tindall countered.
“How do you know Jesus didn’t turn water into wine through chemistry? Maybe he figured out some formula and it’s been lost to the ages. Or, perhaps, it was just a magic trick, but he told everyone it was a miracle to appear important?”
Tindall furrowed his brow. Frustration bloomed inside him. “Jesus was important.”
“Yep,” Smoothie agreed. “Jesus raised the dead and he himself rose from the dead, so perhaps this is all his doing.”
“This ain’t that!” Tindall snapped.
“How do you know?”
Tindall raised his chin in the air and rubbed his eyes. “Those super sinners you knew, the ones who still showed up to church every Sunday. They are not real Catholics, they are called ‘lapsed Catholics,’ people who think you can act the fool all week and then every Sunday wipe their soul clean like they do their browser history.”
Smoothie shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He knew his browser history couldn’t be cleaned with bleach. “Yeah, true, but isn’t that the bargain Catholics sign up for? Confess your sins, pay your penance, and be forgiven?”
Colonel Tindall leaned back in his chair. “I feel like New Jersey has perfected the art of sin. The governor of this state should set up confessional toll booths on the parkway so people can drive through, pay the soul-toll with their E-ZPass, and get their forgiveness receipt emailed to them each week.” He looked upwards to the heavens. “Christ, why do I have to meet my judgment in Jersey?”
Jack Jones, otherwise known as Smoothie, smiled. He liked Tindall. Smoothie knew his family would be okay—his wife was tougher, smarter, and more resourceful than he ever was. Besides, it has been a long time since she wanted him around. Tindall was the type of man he had hoped he would become when he grew up. Issue was: Smoothie never grew up.
This might be my chance, he thought to himself. He never had a mentor, or someone to show him the way to become a man. A man that could take on the troubles of the world and have the respect and admiration of those around him. Maybe this was his chance to start over.
Right there, he made his decision. He would follow Colonel Tindall wherever it took him. He had found his mentor, and perhaps, he too could counsel this man, a man of decency, on how to navigate the depravity of the new world they would be facing.
It was his destiny.
CHAPTER 33
Daniel’s head was spinning with everything Pinskey had just told them.
“This is not something that can be managed. This needs to end,” 7322 yelled to Pinskey. “This entire town has been wiped out, and you think that this can be prevented with some formula tweaking?”
“Exactly,” Pinskey responded. “Hell, even New Coke didn’t go over so well when first launched, but business is all about trial and error. Now, Mr. Sullivan, if you could please provide me the location of my son.” He squinted at Daniel. “Then, after that, my friends and
I would like to take a trip with you all back to Cape May.”
“You won’t get near the president,” 7322 said.
“Oh, I couldn’t care less about that puppet.” Pinskey sneered. “I need to speak with the real man in charge. And you three will assure me a personal audience with Mr. Gold. He and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
9104 had managed crisis negotiations under the worst circumstances. She felt she could handle this: “Listen Pinskey, this is not some sort of corporate pissing contest. You don’t need to push it any further. If you leave now and let us go, no one is going to get hurt. You’re a businessman. You don’t want blood on your hands.”
Pinskey slowly strolled over to her.
7322 tensed.
“Really?’ Pinskey said. And with that, he gave her an open-handed palm directly into her face, splitting her lip and knocking her to the ground.
7322 attempted to move forward, but the men with the guns stepped towards him.
Daniel did not react.
Pinskey reached down and grabbed 9104’s face, his palm on her bloody mouth, and pulled her to her feet. He then looked at the blood on the palm of his right hand and wiped it together with his left.
“Hmm, looks like I now have blood on my hands.” Pinskey said showing his blood stained palms to his hired troops.
His men chuckled.
He walked over to Daniel and wiped the blood off on Daniel’s new uniform, making a show of it to demonstrate his control over the situation.
“Calm yourselves, this is not going to be for public consumption.” Pinskey continued. “At least not yet. First, we have an army to build. An army that does not need to be fed, but that feeds itself. These men you see behind me work for paychecks. The army I envision will see no need for money.” He turned to one of his hired mercenaries. “You there, zip-tie their hands.”
Pinskey’s gunman took two steps forward and began gagging as if he had swallowed something foul. His wretches became more severe and he bent over and started vomiting profusely.
Everyone looked over at him, confused.
“He’s infected!” 9104 shouted, pointing at the stricken man.
The puking man waved at them like he was trying to disagree, but he could not stop his projectile vomiting.
Pinskey and the others began to back away from him.
A second guard grabbed his stomach and bent over in pain. That man began vomiting while simultaneously letting out horrific blasts of flatulence.
“They’re sick! They’re all infected. Your men are infected!” 9104 yelled to Pinskey, who was obviously terrified and confused by what he was witnessing.
A third gunman let out a disgusting sound as if his entire bowels had emptied with the force of a freight train. He dropped to a squatting position and hobbled away behind one of the vehicles and started removing his pants.
Pinskey ran back to one of the Humvees, jumped in, and sped away. The remaining unaffected security also piled into their vehicles and fled, leaving behind the three stricken cohorts.
BMW jumped down from the roof of the truck onto the roof of the cab, then slid down the front to the ground, still holding the Shit Storm weapon.
9104 gathered up guns from the gastro-attacked mercenaries. Having the attractive woman relieve them of their weapons while they lay on the ground in a pile of their own filth was truly rubbing salt in the wound.
She walked over to the truck, still spitting out some blood, and threw the guns into the space behind the driver’s seat.
Daniel reached his hand down and helped her up into the cab.
“You know, the Borg would have been a better analogy,” she said to him.
“Huh?”
“Earlier today, when you and your friend put on the uniform. You said it was like Body Snatchers. That’s a really old reference. The Borg is a Star Trek term for an enemy that assimilates everyone into their ranks.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t watch that because I’m not a friggin nerd.”
“Okay,” she said, spitting more blood out the window. “You missed a good show.”
“And besides,” Daniel continued, “I don’t see you as an enemy.”
“That’s good.” She paused. “What do you see me as?”
Daniel cocked an eye. “A nerd.”
They laughed.
CHAPTER 34
GRASS not only had a cybercrime unit, but also a marketing division. Since many of the members were millennials, they understood the power of proper messaging and communication online. Triston, Marcus, Joel, and Shoshanna had joined the movement together, leaving some of the most sought after public relations and advertising firms in the country.
Their specialty was in the realm of association and affiliation promotion, with a focus on launching political campaigns and new charitable organizations. If you were looking to create a labor movement like SEIU (Service Employees International Union), a national association like AARP, a reformation like Perestroika or a protest group like Occupy Wall Street or The Tea Party, you had probably worked with one of these four young individuals to create the message and launch the campaign. Together, they were the senior management of Autumn Marketing, LLC, based in Red Bank, NJ.
Triston, with a perfectly groomed, auburn beard that seemed too big for his slight frame, stood at the front of the table near the white board. Dry erase marker in his hand, he started off the meeting by asking Marcus if he could capture notes.
Marcus was the sole minority in the room. His afro large enough to demonstrate he was cool, but short enough to fit into the corporate culture. His work focused on creating specialty and social activist groups. Whenever a message needed a group, like Occupy Wall Street or The Moral Majority, Marcus was your guy.
Shoshanna was the lead on focus groups. All messaging needed to be tested, and she specialized in ensuring that the right combination of words and phrases were put together to nail home the point. Her job was to ensure that the proper color lipstick was put on the pig.
Joel was the lead on organization development. Movements didn’t truly rise from the street. They took strategy and planning. You had to have the right people in the beginning. If you wanted to open a hot new restaurant, you needed shiny, skinny people in attendance so that the gray, boring-yet-wealthy people would be desperate for a reservation. Joel handled that. If you wanted to open an exclusive member’s only club and have the richest and most influential people want to join, Joel was your guy. Also, if you were a guy looking for a guy, Joel was your guy.
Triston took a long sip of his Mocha Valencia half-caff, returned the cup to its coaster, and began the meeting. He raised the dry erase marker to the top of the white board and wrote:
It’s the end of the world as we know it.
“Our mission for the GRASS movement is a bit unusual, but not too far from what we’ve done in the past,” Triston began. “We are here to create the birth of an army. The development of an idea that will spark devotion within a large number of people. A message that will create a following, a following of everyday folks who will feel the need to get off their couches, out of their comfort zones, to leave their jobs, their families if necessary, and all their worldly possessions, and to coalesce around, or should I say, behind, a single man.”
“Which man?” Joel asked.
Shoshanna sighed. “Don’t tell me we’re creating another pre-packaged boy band.”
Triston shook his head. “The man is still TBD. The message is up to us, and no, this is not a boy band, nor a candidate, nor a lifestyle personality. We are creating the next cult, but with a leader who will wield more power than anyone in this country has ever seen.”
Marcus raised his hand as if he had heard more than enough of the sales pitch. “Come on, Triston, is this another one of those fitness programs we had to market? Some sort of get thin retreat where we take a bunch of rich fatties to Brazil and make them follow some muscle guru again?”
“Ah, Marcus, this is much more intense
. After this journey, there will be no returning to the life you once lived. But enough of the mystery.” Triston reached under the table and brought out his very expensive leather briefcase. “How many of you have read post-apocalyptic fiction?”
The three seated staffers exchanged looks. It wasn’t a genre of book that would have been on the Amazon wish list for anyone in the room.
Joel raised his hand sheepishly. “I read Stephen King’s The Stand in high school.”
“Excellent!” Triston exclaimed. “Who else?”
“Define post-apocalyptic,” Joel said.
“Books or movies that take place after the end of everything. Nuclear war, plague, famine, pestilence, alien invasion. You know, real science fiction-type works.” Triston explained.
Shoshanna spoke up. “My little sister has read all of those Hunger Games books.” She herself had just finished the last in the series a week ago and was about to begin reading The Giver.
“Okay, I am going to give you guys a reading and viewing list tonight. I, too, have not seen nor read much in this genre, but I spent the day with several of the Blades of GRASS tech support guys—i.e., nerds—and I got a thorough education.”
Joel rolled his eyes. “What’s the purpose of this exercise?”
Triston smirked. “This has come from the top. From Ronan himself.”
Raised eyebrows and impressed looks were exchanged around the table.
Triston nodded. “Ronan feels that we need more than a brute squad within the Blades of GRASS. We have the Cyber Army, now we need a real army. An army that will take our message forth and rule the scarred landscape of the post-apocalyptic world.” Tristen said this particular line of bullshit as dramatically as he could.
“Look, I don’t want to be the naysayer here, but we are not exactly on the cusp of the apocalypse right now. I mean, Starbucks is still open,” Joel said, motioning to Triston’s cup of $9.00 coffee. “Of course, the wait at the shop downstairs has been really long, but that’s because the head barista was eaten by a zombie on Monday and the new girl is still learning the order process.”
Exit Zero (Book 2): Nuke Jersey Page 12
