Realm of Shadows

by Eldon Farrell

  “And the results?” he asks.

  Solemnly, Savage answers, “100 percent mortality so far. None of the subjects could mount a defense against it.”

  After a moment to contemplate this Cummings orders, “Shut it down.”

  “Sir,” Savage advances, “I thought you realized that there was no way to shut it down. I made it abundantly clear when the agent was released into the population that we would not be able to stop it.”

  “We can stop it doctor.”

  “No sir, I’m afraid we can’t. No natural immunity exists and it has moved too fast for us to be able to create a vaccine against it.”

  “This is really simple doctor,” Cummings faces him; “It feeds off us so we take away its fuel and stop it dead.”

  “But the only way to do that is…”

  “And there is the light going on,” Cummings smirks, “The order is given doctor; see to it that this test is shut down.”

  “Yes sir,” Savage responds on auto-pilot as he starts to pale in color…

  I should’ve seen it then, Cummings chews over his recriminations; I should’ve known that Savage wasn’t cut from the right cloth. Always the moralizer.

  “General!”

  Turning at the sound of boots stomping up the deck stairs, Cummings spies a winded Paul Chase approaching him. Wheezing he coughs, “You’re a hard man to find.”

  “What are you doing here?” Cummings snarls, “Why are you not watching Edlund?”

  “Cause it’s over General,” Chase exhales, “Whatever you were afraid was going to happen mate, is happening. Your boy snatched him and took him away. And I promise you, whatever he knows he’s gonna be telling very soon cause your boy looks like he’d enjoy…prying information out of people.”

  Slade! “Where did they go?”

  Chase shrugs saying, “Don’t know.”

  Stepping close enough to him to bump chests Cummings asks, “And what did you learn from Edlund in your time together? How did your plan of turning him against you work out?”

  Taking a step back, Chase says, “It was the best play I had mate. Your recruiting style didn’t exactly put him at ease. I did what I could, sorry it didn’t work out. But I’ve told you what’s up and now I’m following the breeze on out of here.”

  “You do that,” Cummings seethes as he lowers his malicious gaze upon Chase, “Just remember though that I warned you about not getting me results. You better be on the next ferry out of here because if I see you again, you’ll be sorry.”

  With a nod of his head two Black Creek soldiers appear on either side of Chase.

  “Come on mate, what’s the deal?”

  “Get him out of here.”

  Chase’s protests quickly fade as he’s dragged back down the steps. What are you up to Jing?

  Having an idea about where to find him, Cummings leaves his men to finish searching the house. Stalking through the tossed home he heads out to the road and his parked jeep. Climbing in, he turns the engine over and peels out in search of answers.

  The Atlantic Ocean

  Few people ever bear witness to the awesome wrath of nature’s might. And of all the storms in her kingdom, none so completely capture that might like a Category 5 hurricane.

  It is the perfect engine of destruction. It packs sustained winds in excess of 157 miles per hour while having the capacity to unleash trillions of gallons of rainwater in a single day. It is an enormous heat engine that generates an awe-inspiring amount of energy.

  The eye of the largest hurricanes can reach hundreds of miles across. It is a low pressure center around which the destructive force spins and while sinking air makes it serene, the eye wall surrounding this island of calm rages with the storm’s strongest winds and rain.

  In the face of such a force of nature there is nowhere to hide—there is nowhere that is safe.

  Against these high winds, manmade structures are routinely rendered obsolete—roofs collapsing in total destruction. Very few buildings are built to be able to withstand such bombardment. And the ones that can, to have any chance of survival must be located at least three to five miles inland—away from the direct strike.

  Such a circumstance will not be afforded on Hope.

  Turning day to night, with swells topping twenty feet, Fiona churns its dreadful wake as it hits a pocket of warm water and picks up speed. Its course shifts slightly—the heart of the monster now aimed directly at Hope.

  Chapter 34

  Swanquarter, North Carolina

  The Lighthouse Tavern has been a staple of Swanquarter nightlife for over thirty-five years. Its owner, Joe Casey, inherited the place from his father who opened it to rousing success. In its heyday, the Lighthouse provided locals with dart tournaments, nightly dancing on a rustic wooden plank floor, and live entertainment on Saturday nights.

  That though was a long time ago. The hard economic times that have overtaken the country have hit Swanquarter and the Lighthouse particularly hard. Gone are the tournaments that drew customers from all around the county and surrounding area, the dance floor is littered with peanut shells from disuse, and it’s been ages since any entertainment stopped by the place.

  What keeps the doors open now are strictly the select few loyal regulars who take up nightly residence on barstools to try and drown their sorrows.

  As such, strangers to the place are easily spotted.

  Opening the heavy oak door Caleb and Ling Tran step inside out of the rain. Despite the burgeoning darkness outside it still takes their eyes a few minutes to adjust to the gloom of the place.

  Moving across the sparsely populated room they belly up to the bar.

  From his vantage point behind the polished mahogany, Joe Casey watches as Ling Tran rings the water from her hair and Caleb surveys the place.

  In all his years as a bartender Joe has developed a sixth sense about people if you will, and looking at Caleb that sense is screaming at him that the man is trouble. He looks worn—like a boxer who has gone twelve rounds with the champ without the good sense to fall down.

  What is he doing with her and what are either of them doing out in this weather?

  Approaching them he wipes his towel across the bar’s surface asking, “What can I get you?”

  “A couple of waters will be fine,” Caleb replies without making eye contact.

  “Would a thought y’all had enough water,” Joe quips prompting Caleb to look at him. Raising his palms Joe says, “Just surprised anyone would come out in this for…water?”

  “We didn’t,” Caleb brusquely states, “We were hoping to find someone with a boat who could take us over to Hope. You know of anyone?”

  The request stuns Joe who stammers, “I…what y’all crazier than a sprayed roach? Realize what’s coming don’t ya? That ain’t no spring shower out there.”

  “We’re aware of the hurricane yes,” Ling Tran says with a smile, “But it’s important that we reach Hope as soon as possible.”

  “Well that may not be for a while,” Joe pours them two waters saying, “Even the government folks have all abandoned that place. Last ferry shoved off the rock…when was it y’all got back George?”

  The three of them turn to look at the hunched over form seated at the end of the bar. He has wild strands of snow white hair sprouting from his bulbous head in undefined patches that leave much of his scalp exposed. His eyes have the glazed and bloodshot look of a heavy drinker, along with the sheen of sweat that glistens down the tanned skin of his bare arms.

  But as those hooded eyes rise to meet them it’s clear that there is still a fire burning within him. This man may be beaten down but he’s not yet been broken.

  In a raspy voice he answers, “Shoved off for the last time around six, so been back here maybe thirty minutes.”

  “And the lanes are closed now,” Joe says to them, “I’m afraid y’all too late, gonna have to wait out the storm now.”

  With a curt nod to him, Caleb slides off his barstool and heads
over toward George. Extending his hand he introduces himself, “Caleb Fine.”

  After giving him the once over with a roving eyeball, George shakes the proffered hand saying, “George Dore.”

  “Nice to meet you George, am I to understand that you have your own boat?”

  “Yeah,” George nods before returning his attention to his drink. “I run the local ferry business.”

  “Business good?”

  Puckering his lips slightly, George mulls over his answer. “Not bad.”

  Motioning for Ling Tran to come over, Caleb asks, “And what would it take for you to make one more run over there tonight?”

  George arches a drooping eyebrow at him. “Are you serious?”

  “We are,” Caleb indicates Ling standing beside him, “What’ll it cost?”

  “Keep your money,” George slurs, “I’ll do you a favor and keep you alive. That water belongs to Fiona now and she ain’t got no need of money.”

  Pressing the issue Caleb asks, “There must be a number? What do you want to take us out there?”

  “Look…Caleb is it?” George swivels ungracefully on his stool, needing to reach out a hand to the bar to keep from keeling over. “There is no number cause I ain’t interested in dying tonight. What’s so dang important over there anyway? Place is deserted—whatever you’re after will keep.”

  Removing her badge Ling Tran shows it to him eliciting a widening of his bleary eyes. “What we’re after may not keep. If you can’t help us can you point us in the direction of someone who can?”

  Shaking his head, George answers, “Ain’t no one else dang fool enough to go out in that.” Downing another swallow of drink he offers, “Tell you what, you tell me the reason and I’ll see if it’s worth my risk.”

  “This is a federal matter,” Ling Tran replies, “I’m afraid we can’t divulge the specifics.”

  “Yeah,” George smiles, revealing several gaps around his yellowing teeth, “Been getting that a lot round here lately. Here’s the thing though; I promise you no one else is gonna even consider taking you out in that.

  “You want my boat; you tell me what’s going on. That there’s the deal, and having said that, I don’t like the reason I still ain’t taking you.”

  Caleb looks at Ling Tran for a moment, his eyes pleading with her until she nods her agreement. Turning back to George, he says, “We believe the Toymaker is on that island and that he’s holding someone hostage. Someone I care very deeply for.”

  “Shit, you’d have to,” George responds, “To even think about doing what you’re thinking of doing. You do realize what it’s like to be out in a hurricane right? My boat is solid but it won’t be anything but a child’s toy to Fiona. You sure you want to chance it?”

  With a nod Caleb replies, “We trust in your ability.”

  “Sure you do,” George scoffs. After staring at them both for over a minute he polishes off his drink saying, “My ability ain’t gonna come cheap. Two grand and you got yourself passage. I’ll get you over there but we leaving like right now.”

  “You sure you can operate a boat in your condition?”

  Staring quizzically at Ling Tran, he answers, “What condition? I ain’t even feeling a buzz yet. Sides, you just try an’ find someone willing to take you over there without having a drink first.

  “Don’t worry ‘bout me; I’ll get you there but I ain’t sticking around. I drop you and I’ll be back to get you after Fiona finishes with the place. And its payment up front—all that good with you?”

  Clapping him on the shoulder Caleb says with a smile, “Deal.”

  Hope, North Carolina

  “You’re going to tell me everything you know.”

  Sitting on a hard steel chair, Tyler Edlund eyes the frighteningly large man in front of him. Shaking with fear he causes the chain that is shackled to his wrists and ankles to rattle against the chair.

  “You know that right?” Samuel Slade leers at him, “The only question is…how much it’s going to hurt you first.”

  “Pl-please,” he stutters, “I-I don’t know any-anything.”

  Patting him on the shoulder Slade whispers, “We’ll see.”

  Quick as a cobra he whips his massive hands down to grab Tyler’s right hand. Pulling it up away from the arm of the chair, he draws the chain taut. With a smile Slade twists the hand forcing Tyler’s thumb to go back the wrong way instantly breaking the bone.

  He screams immediately but is quickly silenced by a backhand to the jaw that busts his lip wide open.

  “Where is the notebook?” Slade snarls at him.

  Through a fog of pain Tyler whimpers, “Wh-what notebook?”

  “Wrong answer.”

  Grabbing his hand again, Slade twists the index finger until he feels the pop of bone breaking.

  “ARGHHH…GOD!!”

  Another fist to his face silences Tyler again. “Where is it?” Slade asks evenly.

  Cradling his swollen hand as best he can, Tyler says through snot, tears, and blood, “I-I-I don’t know wh-what you mean. I-I swear it.”

  Slade drives his fist into Tyler’s chest sending the chair toppling backwards and all the air from his lungs. With the chair on the ground, Slade stands over his head holding a wet towel in his hands.

  “You sure you don’t want to give another answer before we do this?”

  Eyes wide with panic, Tyler struggles to catch his breath, to beg for him not to do it, but he cannot overcome his frailty.

  “Have it your way,” Slade drops the towel over his face and proceeds to pour water onto it.

  The technique has been outlawed in the United States as an unacceptable form of torture and not because it doesn’t work. It works very effectively.

  It produces in the person a feeling akin to drowning. Breathing becomes difficult if not impossible. Water seeps into your throat whether you try to scream or not.

  Panic overtakes you in mere seconds; your nerve endings fire wildly causing you to flail and kick and struggle for a freedom that is denied you. Just when you are about to succumb, the water ceases and the towel is removed and you cough violently to expel the liquid that nearly drowned you.

  And then, it is repeated.

  The extreme pain caused by waterboarding is one of the primary reasons the United States government banned its use. So excruciating is it for the victim, that they will literally confess to anything to end their suffering.

  And that suffering can extend to dry drowning from persistent laryngospasm, lung damage, brain damage from oxygen deprivation, as well as adverse psychological injury and of course death if the practice is taken too far.

  The psychological damage is so damning that it lasts for years after the event while physical consequences have been known to appear months after the event.

  Leaving Tyler spluttering on the floor, Slade exits the office to converse with Jing. “He knows nothing,” he confidently reports.

  “You’re absolutely sure of this?”

  Staring at his boss, Slade just smirks. “I’ve broken the world’s best assassins and its most zealous insurgents; no way doesn’t this kid talk to me. He knows nothing.”

  Considering this opinion for a moment Jing says, “I’m going in there to speak with him. Get him back to his feet.”

  “You’re the boss,” Slade says returning to the room and hauling Tyler and his chair back to a seated position.

  “Mr. Edlund,” Jing faces his battered and traumatized captive, “I need to ask you a question to which I’m going to need an honest reply. You understand that if I don’t feel you’re being honest with me, you’re going to have to deal with my associate here again. Do you understand that?”

  Tensing visibly—like a wounded animal—Tyler weakly nods.

  “Good,” Jing offers him a grin. “Do you know Felicia Werner?”

  His one eye swollen shut; it is only the right eye that flits around the room as he tries hard to think through his anguish. Finally he croaks, “Yes…a lo
ng time ago.”

  “When was the last time you heard from her?”

  “I-I…” Tyler grimaces as he says, “I don’t know…years ago. We grew up together here.”

  Leaning in close to him, Jing informs him, “I don’t believe you.”

  His one good eye widens with naked terror as he begs, “Please no more. I swear I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “I want the notebook that she mailed to you. Where is it Mr. Edlund?”

  “I don’t have…” his words come out erratically as fear begins to take control of him, “I never got any notebook in the mail. I swear.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Slade speaks up, “He’s telling the truth.”

  Jing glares at him a moment prompting him to add, “I’ll torture him some more if you like but it won’t get you anything.”

  “Then we have a problem,” Jing declares, “If the book never reached Mr. Edlund here, where did it go?”

  Rain slashes the windshield, driven by winds approaching ninety miles an hour. Behind the wheel of the borrowed Ford Bronco, Lawrence Clayton does his best to keep the vehicle steady in the fierce wind.

  Beside him Wendy Rojas shines a spotlight out into the storm illuminating the deserted streets in search of Lynne.

  The Bronco rocks as they turn the corner of another street. The street sign is unreadable to them as it shakes violently on the corner.

  “We got to be the last people on this island,” Clay observes while squinting through the rain soaked windshield, hoping they don’t collide with any of the debris that is blowing around.

  After a beat Wendy lowers the searchlight apologizing, “I’m sorry I dragged you into this Clay.”

  Without looking at her Clay responds, “It’s not your fault. You didn’t drag me into anything.”

  They slowly crawl along the block—the wind howling inside as well as outside the vehicle.