“We...”
“Who’s We?”
“Sansa.”
“You mean you?”
“No—we’re too large now. We need organisation and delegation.”
“More fingers in the pie...”
“There is that problem...”
“Don’t forget Kathy.”
“I haven’t, but this has grown beyond a small operation.”
“There’s more isn’t there—more than the Sansa?”
“We’ve,” again with the collective—this was beginning to irritate Feargal, “been in contact with several governments and the UN.” There was a weighty, terrifying pause at the end of this announcement.
Matt was grateful he had left his weapon in the car; otherwise he would have used it. Instead, he rose from the couch and walked over to the window. Breathing slowly and deeply, a technique he’d learnt from China, the young man attempted to calm himself. If not completely successful he managed to mitigate the rage. “They,” in a quiet, hollow voice, “know of me?”
“They already had a good idea.”
“But you completed the picture?”
“In general—but not in the particulars.”
“China and Leonor?” Turning back to Salt. The Meta nodded. Matt tossed the bottle in the refuse bin beside the utilitarian desk. Taking another breath, he headed for the door.
“Matt, you can’t...”
“Staying I would have to kill you.”
“Matt!” At the raised voice he stopped halfway out the door and looked back over his shoulder. “Not including them and informing them is no longer an option.”
“Telling them about my family was—you know their reaction is going to be the same as Neruda’s.”
“A calculated risk, but we are fast coming up on Leonor’s birthday and neither of us are any closer.” There was sense in this, but it was also true the Archaics would have Leonor on a vivisection table the first chance they got; then put her down. If Surrey was a singularity, then here was another.
“You didn’t even ask.” There was menace in the voice—rising, the Meta withdrew a step. Since Milwaukee and the episode in White Oak Matt had become a far more effective killer.
“This, or worse, would have been your response. Matt, understand, this has gone beyond your family—or is about to. I still wish to save them, but must consider the world first.”
“The world isn’t my concern.” As Feargal walked out, Jonah followed.
“It’s too late for that. You and they are now known to all. You work with them or they will capture you—the governments, Neruda, or Botrous.”
“Effective little box you’ve built for me.”
“Not my intention.”
“Of course it was. You didn’t want me running about the country looking for them and risking capture—this does that.” Salt looked at the floor, but didn’t answer for a moment.
“You have to admit you have been out of control and that you only came close once and couldn’t, even then, take back China. We all need help.”
“You’ve killed my daughter—if the Archaics get their hands on her she is dead.”
“Then we will have to prevent that.” Matt kicked him in the balls. Once on his knees, Matt threw a boot in the Jungian’s face.
“We do it your way because there is no choice, but if anything happens to either of them I’ll be blaming you and Sansa—as much as I do Botrous and Neruda—and I’ll make you all bleed for it.”
“That,” groaning from the floor, “I understand.”
“No matter what—at the end of this I will be killing you and Neruda. As long as any of you—not just Botrous and Edwards—are alive the women will never be safe.” There emerged an incredulous confusion on the Meta’s face, but he seemed to believe the man. “What’s the first step with the Archaics?”
“We’ve all agreed that the Cinn must be stopped and the soft spots plugged.”
“Brilliant plan, that.” Smiling, though he still wished to kill him. “How?”
“The point of transformation would appear the best opportunity, but there is a hope we or you may get there first—before the fact.”
***
Matt took the next few days to put some distance between himself and Jonah. When he took a step back he could see what the Meta had planned was the only way to proceed. Whatever he might have had with Leonor and China had been compromised by Zakara, Thin Man, or whatever they were working with. He was still receiving half-dreams of the women, but they weren’t images—or even personalities—so much as a ping. Sooner or later, his father would get bored with this and he’d either contact Feargal directly or give up and return to silence. That’s if it was Botrous at all—increasingly Matt was of the opinion this was not the case. Whether this was correct or not he did not know, but it was, if nothing else, comforting.
If it was his father, he was being out-thought by a sociopath. What this meant for himself, he’d rather not think. Yet, if this was Shaitan and a Cinn, then the possibility of being out-thought by an entity that was close on to being a god was not such a bad epitaph. If he won, he won against a god; if he lost, he lost against a god. The latter was a balm to his pride. At the moment he’d no time for pride. Now he had to think about how to save Leonor from what the Archaics would do to her if they caught the child—ever. Nothing occurred—no solution; no path toward what might become a solution if only partially. With the Archaics in the game that became one more enemy he’d have to deal with—this one with a greater reach than any of those before.
On the fourth day, still with no plan, he received a call from Jonah. Feargal considered letting this go to voice, but avoiding the problem was not going to help it go away. “Yes?”
“Where are you?”
“Kingston Springs.”
“What are you doing out there?”
“Avoiding temptation.” There didn’t appear to be any consideration of this necessary.
“Everyone’s getting a little nervous about your absence.”
“You haven’t told them what you’ve done.”
“Not the details or that you had not been informed.”
“Worried about their reaction.”
“Yes—no one seems all that reasonable any longer, but I did what I had to...”
“What you wanted to—don’t tell me there were no other choices.”
“Not reasonable ones.” There was no point in the back and forth, but the fact Salt had kept the others in the dark about what he’d done to him and his family might be useful.
“So, what’s up?”
“We need to meet—come to 5102 Idaho Avenue. It’s a green house with a brown roof.”
“What’s going on?”
“We need to talk about dealing with the Archaics.” Matt sighed.
“What are the details this time?”
“Not on the phone, get here as soon as you can. Okay?”
“Yeah, see you in a bit.” Voice tired and hopeless. Feargal thought the Meta might comment on that, but he didn’t. “Just us?”
“Yes, this must be kept quiet.” Perhaps another nail in the old man’s coffin, but he thought that overly optimistic.
“On my way.” Ending the call he swung off the barstool and headed out to the car.
***
The house was in a lower middle-class or upper working-class neighbourhood. Most of the yards were clean and the lawns mown—whereas just one street over the houses and the yards were in advanced stages of decay. This was something he’d been noticing about Nashville—the radical breaks between classes and sensibilities. He hoped this meeting would help put the city behind him. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it but, rather, there was something unsettling about the disparity in wealth which offended his demos-aesthetic. Whatever was coming around the corner in his general direction had to be better than staying here—one more reason he was in Kingston.
As green, the place was somewhere between an olive and forest green and th
e building was a split level clapboard with a rail fence and a couple of trees which obscured the front door. There were no guards and only Salt’s SUV in the driveway. Could he have come alone? If that were the case this could be another bomb like the one he’d dropped at M&W. Parking on the street, just up from the drive, Matt stepped out and looked up and down the road; then across this. No one—no suggestion of anyone. This made him nervous. As he crossed the sidewalk the front door opened and Jonah appeared between the trees—he was alone.
“Hey, Matt.”
“Jonah.”
“You alone?” He nodded. “Good. There’s a picnic table around back—we can talk there.” Sitting at the table, Matt looked about—most of the back yards were shaded and all fenced. “So,” looking back at the Meta, “what is this?”
“We need to meet with the UN and DC. I thought you could head to New York and I’ll take Washington.”
“Why do we want to do that?”
“The UN and the Americans need to be briefed on how this began and where it is heading. They’ve an idea, but the picture isn’t clear yet.”
“You sure they want to hear the facts?”
“Desperation makes people receptive.” Or stupid, Matt thought to himself.
“But this is, at best, Metascience—they’ve no physics which will comprehend it. Besides, I’m not a scientist—they need someone who understands the science.”
“No one does—not even Roberto. This will take a long time to sort out. Right now all they want is an explanation as to how this began and appears to function.” Leaning back, Matt nodded. Jonah passed him a large, bulky envelope. “You’ll need to leave today—tomorrow at the latest.” Snatching the envelope, Matt agreed and left. Salt called after him, but Feargal didn’t turn back.
***
Sitting on the bed, Matt stared out the window at the shop signs—jewellers, coffee, tailoring, convenience, and then down, from the second floor, without seeing; without wanting to see. The afternoon shadows, though, were getting long and the light had gone an orange yellow. Fall was about gone, even when the sun was high and the two men had been sitting at the picnic table the air was sharp—and this was Tennessee. Once he headed north the nights would be difficult, especially if he couldn’t find anything—there’d been rumours, but, then, there’d been rumours about everything. Standing, Matt stretched, grabbed his backpack, and headed out.
First stop was M&W where he needed to get fitted out for the trip. Time was, and not all that long since, this would have meant gear for a holiday. Today it was more likely to include a bull pup, concussion grenades, field dressing kit, and whatever else he could carry or stuff into the truck. This was, exactly, what happened at the warehouse. Good news was that he received a new SUV, armoured, with—it was considered—enough fuel to make New York if he stuck to the route programmed into the truck’s GPS. This was, he was firmly convinced, more phantasy than anyone had a right to any longer. Still, there was a profound conviction here; that the Sansa were still attempting to accentuate the positive was ludicrous. For a moment, Feargal wondered, how many of these were working Botrous’s side of the apocalypse.
Mostly this wouldn’t be the case, but there’d be one or two that were, which was why he was nervous about a few of the warehouse staff knowing his destination. No one, excepting Jonah—he hoped—knew why he was heading there. Nor would they know why Jonah was heading to DC. Even so, this should make the trip for both of them interesting. If interesting was the proper word for what was coming.
What was coming?
If the Transhumanists found out about the skitter north of the Mason Dixon there’d follow a few interesting days—and the gas wouldn’t last. Half expecting this to be the case, he’d made sure to collect a syphon kit and barter goods. Another rumour—some parts of the East and West Coasts had been reduced to barter economies.
With all he could think of and carry packed into the back, and as many weapons, along with ammunition, as he felt comfortable carrying in the back seat, as well as a 9 in a holster and the pup in the passenger’s, he pulled away. Once around the corner and out of sight of the warehouse he flipped the GPS on and entered his password. According to this it was nearly a straight line to New York—if looked at from the right distance—and should take about 14 hrs. If they cleaned up the highways, there were no Archaics hoping to take advantage of the chaos, and the Transhumanists hadn’t gotten wind of his destination and travel plans. The latter he believed they’d not have gotten—since he’d downloaded the route from Salt’s secure cloud server—but the destination he assumed to be compromised. Given the latter there’d be no reason why they’d have not chosen the simplest route as well. Sometimes, though not often, Feargal believed Salt was using him as a stalking horse.
Whatever the case, Matt assumed he was in for an interesting ride north and was happy for the shake siphon he’d picked. Low tech had become a preference since the Northwest, especially since he’d lost faith in the ubiquity of power—hence the shake siphon. Everything else was reasonably low tech, as well—including a few solar chargers for his phone and other electronics, mp3 & tablet. Both were important because he still preferred his music and library portable. Good news here was they took up so little space. Feargal was certain wifi would be sketchy and had little enough faith in the possibility of a data connection. Beyond these there were flares; an assortment of knives—especially a new Harkins OTF; a couple of crowbars; small ball peen hammer; rechargeable flash light; extra gas cans; tent; backpack; thermal sleeping bag; MREs; water.
The planned route, in the end, had worked out better than he’d hoped. It wasn’t until a few miles north of Knoxville that he ran into his first incident—this was with Archaics from the town that had seen his supplies and followed him. In the ensuing engagement he lost the back window of the truck, but had managed to make the cost not worth the effort for the militiamen. Once he taped up the window with some cardboard and duct tape he bought in Kodak off I40 he was warm again. If this should have unnerved Feargal it didn’t—he supposed because it was all part of the narrative he put together for the trip.
After this, the excursion became gamier.
He took heat in Harrisburg and Woodstock from Transhumanist teams, but excepting a few rounds in the side of the SUV and a near miss with an RPG-7 all was quiet. Woodstock was hard enough so that he went off script and skirted Washington; then Philadelphia. He only came back to plan after a run in with a couple homespun militias outside of Philadelphia. The damage from this attack was serious enough he had to dump the SUV and steal an old Ford pickup—not unlike the one he’d driven back in Dilmun while painting houses. He managed, however, to salvage most of his supplies after killing about a half dozen of the militia members. Once south of Bethlehem he caught I78 and sailed into New York with only a few rounds zinging, harmlessly, by.
There’d been only one good part to the trip. Whether this had been planned or hoped for by Salt was uncertain. Though he could ascribe a great deal of duplicity and conniving to the Meta, this appeared beyond his ken. Yet, it might have been expected someone of note would be sent after him; someone who knew Feargal; someone who might predict what his next move would be; someone who might suspect actions and reactions. In the end this was Matt’s best guess on that final engagement north of Philly. It had been in Kulpsville, northwest of the city. The last RPG had ripped the back roof of the SUV off and left Matt with a disorientation which suggested concussion. However, he didn’t lose consciousness and was left with only mild tinnitus.
Nonetheless, the vehicle had been lifted off the road and thrown, violently, against the guardrail of 476. Once he’d recovered from the assault he was again on his way, but the engine was now making unhealthy sounds. On top of this he had picked up a tail—what followed wasn’t so much a chase as a cagey to and fro at posted speeds. The latter was necessitated because of the damage to his engine and undercarriage. Why he’d not been run down had not been immediately apparent until he m
anaged to get off the highway. On the outskirts of Kulpsville he had grabbed Wambold Road and was headed in a generally northern direction. It was here, where the chase had become almost tailgating that he could see into the Ford pickup.
The hair was still black, but the pupils—he was that close—had gone a hard candy red. His Meta seam was nearly purple and he was yelling at and struggling with his passenger. This one Matt could not make out. Then there was a hard report and the card swerved toward the far shoulder. As Matt began to put some distance between himself and Essio he hoped that would be the end of the encounter because he needed to find alternate transportation—plainly the SUV was toast. But he’d not gone more than a few hundred metres when the pickup was pulling back onto the road, and was picking up speed. Whatever, or whoever, had been holding Bill back was gone and now there was not going to be any choice but fighting.
On the other side of the road he abandoned the truck and disappeared into a stand of trees with his pup and a belt of concussion grenades—William, regardless of how dangerous, he needed alive. Feargal was counting on the fundamental character of his old friend not to have changed along with the better part of his physiology. When Bill made the rise, Matt could hear, rather than see, him screech to a halt. A brief silence followed. Then—“Know you’re out there.”
“Come on in.” Pulling the pin on the first grenade; Matt hardly had to wait until the sound of snapping branches and torn undergrowth was followed by strangled curses. Essio hadn’t become more circumspect with the years—if anything, his reckless rage had made him more predictable.
It’d taken no more than the one grenade to pull Essio down. With a pair of zap ties he had William’s hands behind his back and gagged him with a rag and a handkerchief. Once he could move again, Matt half dragged, half pushed the man out of the trees and had him back in the cab of his Ford. When he first attempted to zap tie his legs together and to the seat, Matt received a hard knee to the side of his face. Cursing he staggered back and shook his head; it took a moment for this to clear. As his mind did so, William attempted to bolt, but Feargal grabbed him about the waist and held on. Eventually dragging him to the ground; clawing up his waist, Matt hammered him in the face a couple of times, and then bit down on the man’s earlobe. The screaming broke into a piercing shriek until he’d bitten through the lobe. Spitting the flesh out, Matt dragged Essio back to the vehicle and tied him up.
End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity) Page 20
