Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  “Small pox?” he winces. “Like wee kids get.”

  “No, like everyone get sick and dies.”

  “Don’t blame me,” he argues defensively. “I didn’t know anything about that.”

  “It would appear they are putting it on a small drone to deliver it over a populated area. Since they are assembling it at your beach house, I am afraid you’re going to have to accept some blame.”

  “Who is this Darius then?” he demands, swerving around a group of bicycles.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. What did he mean when he said the drone was armed? Does that mean the little one carrying death is gone?”

  “No, I don’t think Mathias is nearly done with that one. He’s talking about the big one that’s on security.”

  “Armed with what?”

  “Some sort of gas powered paint gun,” he reveals, swerving around a vintage VW bug pulled over on the side of the road. “Nasty looking thing. Mathias said it was armed with pellets.”

  “One down, but at least one more on site,” I mutter aloud as I read the text back. “Cooper and Ella.”

  “I’d suggest you don’t get out of the car until we see what’s going on,” he orders.

  “John, you’re in a lot of trouble,” I warn. “You need to help me here.”

  “Just when things start looking up for old John,” he whines. “Now it turns out I’m some sort of terrorist.”

  “Let’s just see how bad it is.”

  “Can you call your people and keep them from shooting me at least?” he begs, dodging a rodent dashing across the road.

  “If I use my phone, Darius will know I’m here,” I stammer, trying to think. “They basically own yours so there’s no way I can call to warn the agents.”

  “Darius isn’t at my house,” he argues. “I have no idea where he is.”

  “That is the problem with Darius,” I complain, thinking he’s floating around up there somewhere. “He’s hard to pin down.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  John’s house is set off from the two-lane road by a driveway that runs a quarter mile. There are scruffy trees that block the view from the road. It’s one story, sort of a mismatched collection of square rooms. The roof is aluminum sheets, the ones facing the front are bent as if a storm tossed around some debris. It’s old, looking as if it’s been there for decades. I already know it backs up on the beach, but the ocean isn’t visible from the front.

  There is a car port, open on two sides, but it’s empty. Ella and Cooper’s Jeep sits a half dozen car lengths back from there, the surfboard still strapped on the roll bars. John pulls up on the left side of the Jeep, scanning the yard.

  “Oh crap,” I jump in my seat, a chill running down my arms. “That’s Cooper.”

  On his back in the driveway is Agent Cooper Sands, one arm over his chest. I can’t make out any blood or injury, but then notice the foam around his mouth. Why isn’t he moving?

  “What do you suppose happened to that guy?” John frowns, peering over the steering wheel. “Chap looks like a goner.”

  “Your guard drone isn’t firing paint pellets, that much is obvious.”

  “You can’t know what happened to the guy,” John complains. “He was trespassing. Stop making this a conspiracy.”

  Before I can form a reply, the driver’s side window explodes, glass shards striking me in the side of the face. With the window gone, the whirring sound of blades pounding the air fills the car. John turns toward me looking stunned, a hand over his shoulder. Blood trickles between his fingertips, then he coughs and grabs his throat. Conspiracy aside, let’s assume the drone is armed with poisoned pellets.

  “Can’t breathe,” John coughs, pushing his door open, then rolling out, onto the ground.

  Out the open drivers door the massive mechanical attacker hovers. The framework is flat black, with four blades spinning loudly. I’m staring down what looks like a gun barrel hanging underneath, then a whoosh of air hits my face, followed by the passenger window exploding. The near miss startles me and I bend over with my head on the leather seat. I need to get out of this car and into the house.

  I’d venture a bet that Mathias will have locked the door, but from my head-down position, John’s car keys dangle from the ignition. I pull them out, turning the engine off in the process. The drone advances on the driver’s side, but a wheezing John kicks the door shut. I remain hunched over, frozen while my brain screams for action. For the love of God, get your butt out of this car.

  I push my door open and roll out on the gravel driveway. Shots ping off the inside of the door as I force it shut. Two orange balls sit smoking on the gravel under the door. Each has one flat side from hitting the interior of the door. I slide over a foot to make sure I don’t step on them. Peeking under the Caddy, I can see John’s feet, then dust blowing around from the drone hovering over him. Think hard now, you can figure this out.

  From my vantage point between the Cadillac and the Jeep, I can see the front entryway. On either side of the faded blue door are panels roughly the same size. On the left it’s solid, painted the same bleached out color. Black house numbers are tacked there, rusting a bit leaving a trail of orange down the wood. The panel on the other side is glass. I can hear the spinning blades of the drone as I lean up to see if the keys are in the Jeep, but find them missing.

  “If I run for the door it will cut me down,” I whisper to myself, then crawl on my belly under the jacked-up Jeep.

  I have to do a complete roll, leaving me covered in dust. Now on the other side, I can see Ella, her back pressed on the side of the carport. She waves, then makes a hand gesture, but I have no idea what it is. She repeats it, but I just shake my head. I’m not military.

  Coming to grips with my ineptness, she gathers up a large rock and throws it over the house, landing on the roof. It clatters down the corrugated aluminum, then off into the bushes. The sound of the drone grows quieter. It’s off chasing the rock.

  Ella peeks out, then sprints in my direction. She nearly reaches me, then the popping of gas pellets being fired fills the air. At least one strikes the ground between us, but she’s hit and stumbles. As she struggles to get up, her body convulses, the fingers of her right hand wrapping around her throat. She gags painfully, then foam dribbles out on the gravel. It takes a moment for her breathing to stop completely, her mouth open, eyelids twitching. Laying with her gun still tucked in the back of her jean shorts, her legs wiggle involuntarily. They are both dead, and Cooper had six kids. His poor wife’s going to get the phone call this time.

  A dust cloud moves over Ella, the drone hovering nearby. I slip to the rear bumper, just out of sight. Hanging on the rear fender of the Jeep, John’s keys clutched in my hand, I notice the red button on the key fob. It’s the alarm. I stare across the gravel to Ella, her gun, then the front door. This is a horrible idea. I inhale deeply, then repeat it several times in my mind. The alarm, the gun, the door.

  “For a girl who nearly committed a murder-suicide only a short time ago, I seem far too worried about dying,” I whisper, pressing the alarm button.

  The sound of the Cadillac’s horn explodes in the air all around me. The marker lights flash on and off in unison with the headlights. I witness the dust cloud lessen as the drone moves away. Peeking under the jeep I follow the dust cloud as it moves to the other side of the Caddy. Now or never.

  I count slowly to three, then shove off the Jeep and scramble on all fours to Ella, fighting to free the gun from her belt. Trapped between her skin and the shorts, I have to pull three times before it pops out. I am off balance and wobble back, catching myself with my free hand. The drone is hovering on the passenger side of the Caddy, which still honks and flashes.

  “Perfect.”

  I sprint towards the front door, but given the distance, I determine if the door’s not open there will be no time to use the key. I flip off the safety and run with the gun out in front of me, clasped in both hands. I fire several
times into the glass, then hurl myself through the jagged pieces left hanging there. I land on grey tiles, sliding on the tiled surface after landing. The stab of several shards of glass poke into my side. When I clamor to all fours, a man I take to be Mathias is glaring at me through tiny round spectacles.

  “Geh weg,” he shouts, then freezes as the sound of spinning blades hums from behind me.

  I roll over onto my back, the glass cracking. With the gun held in both hands, I raise it. Floating just outside the shattered glass panel is the drone. The beast is probably too big to get through, but it’s only fifteen feet from me. And its accuracy range is quite a bit farther than that. I try to fire, but before I can convince my finger to squeeze there is a loud pop, then a fizzing electrical sound. The blades on the drone slam to a stop and it clatters to the concrete walkway. I also notice the honking car horn ceases its audible assault.

  “Thanks Darius,” I exhale, doubting his EMP blast was intended to help me, but glad just the same.

  “Lastig Hudin,” Mathias shouts, then darts down a hallway to the right, the slamming of a door echoing in his wake.

  I roll onto all fours, then struggle to my feet. I have to remove my blazer to get at three shards of glass stuck in my side, the third having cut me fairly badly. I press a hand over the seeping puncture wound and suck in air in quick shallow gasps. What to do now?

  On the table in the dining room sits the smaller drone. It’s flipped over on its back, a canister I take for the smallpox is mounted in the center. The drone itself is not small, being at least two feet across, maybe more.

  “What now?” I glance down the hallway to make sure the German is still hiding.

  A furry orange face peeks around a door frame, first looking at the door slammed by the German, then at me. Curling around the frame, it takes a few cautious steps in my direction, then meows loudly. This must be Sybil.

  “Your life just got pretty interesting,” I cough, receiving another meow as she winds around my feet.

  From outside, the pounding of a propeller screams past the house. The whirring sound changes pitch from high to low as it moves away. Darius must have popped the EMP in hopes of stopping the Zero. You have to appreciate it when a perfectly timed plan comes together. Stallings would be pleased.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Assuming my location would seem less secretive at this point, I pull out my phone and replace the battery. I wait while it starts up, wiping my bloody hand on my jeans. I am going to need a doctor. The Zero screams past the house several times as the phone starts up. The air seems to recoil from the spinning blades, leaving behind it a thrumming sound that rattles the walls. When the phone finishes booting, it rings. The screen indicates the call is from Daddy.

  “How’s tricks?” I ask, peeking out the glass slider on the patio as the Zero blasts past the lighthouse causing roof shingles to peel off and flutter into the ocean.

  “Tell me what’s going on?”

  “I got the case,” I boast, then realize that’s not accurate. “Scratch that, I have the canister that was inside the case. It’s mounted to the underside of a small drone. I doubt this is a surprise.”

  “No, it’s not. Where are Lewis and Sands?”

  “Dead, both of them. Sorry, there was a defense system in place here. It got John as well.”

  “I suppose we can stop arguing over his innocence now.”

  “Not funny.”

  “So, you’re the last man standing?” he declares, then pauses. “Last woman in this case.”

  “Darius sent a guy to build the drone, but he’s hiding in a back room. I don’t think he’s going to be trouble. Send in the troops and get me out of here.”

  “There’s no time.”

  “Come again?”

  “Darius jacked a Qantas flight out of Sydney. It’s nearly on you.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “You have less than two minutes to clear the area before he drops it on the house. Do you have a car?”

  I think hard, but assume the EMP took out both cars. On the grey tile lay John’s car keys, the foam fish speared by a shard of glass. Does his boat have an electronic ignition? Didn’t he say it was older?

  “I might have something,” I advise, scrambling over to pick up the keys.

  “Take the canister with you.”

  “Why on earth would I do that?”

  There’s no telling what will happen,” he lectures. “What if the canister is punctured and a first responder gets a face full?”

  “I’m thinking the fireball will take care of that,” I argue, looking at the unwieldy framework of the drone.

  “You have to take it. That’s an order.”

  “Great,” I huff, dropping my bloody blazer and dragging it off the table with one hand.

  “Less than two minutes.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, stuffing the phone in my pocket.

  The canister is held to the bottom of the framework by metal hoops. Two separate hoses enter the canister, both covered in blue braided sleeves. A battery and what appears to be a spray nozzle book end the deadly cargo. I’m at a loss for how I might separate the deadly payload from the drone. I squeeze one hose between my thumb and forefinger, but can tell it’s a screw on connection. Let’s not snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

  Dragging the drone framework, I head to a set of sliding patio doors. I pass Sybil lounging on a pastel blue couch licking her paw.

  “Too bad you don’t like boats,” I mutter, recalling John’s description of his feline companion.

  My side aches from dragging the added weight. Once I clear the glass sliders, it’s only ten yards to the water, but the dock is long and winding. As I clatter along, it sways from side to side. I’ll probably hit the canister on a dock pole and kill everyone myself.

  The white sands of the bottom glow in the sunlight as I move. It’s shallow for fifty feet, explaining the long run out to water deep enough to moor the boat. The boat itself is huge, over thirty feet, and shaped like a spear. It would seem to be built completely out of wood, but the hull underneath could be some other material. There are only two seats and they reside almost at the stern. An arching Lexan windshield circles the two captain’s chairs. Behind it, a bench seat is more for storage than passengers. There’s another five or six feet behind that, but it sits over the twin inboard engines. Vented air intakes shine chrome between the well-polished planks.

  I drag the small drone frame onto boat and then stuff it on its side behind the passenger seat. A sharp whistling noise has begun to pick up volume behind me, but the airliner isn’t visible through the puffy white clouds yet. For all I know it’s the Zero.

  On the dash, is a copper colored plaque. There are two metal toggle switches and a largish red button. The switches are labeled right and left fuel pump. Over the red button the words Go Baby Go are etched. I fumble with the keys and finally get one into the car-like ignition on the right side. Under it is a huge lever, now pointed at the back of the boat. It’s like a gear shift, only I can see it’s split down the middle, forming two separate levers.

  “Two engines, two gas pedals.”

  I expect it to start like a car, but the key simply unlocks the controls. Tiny red lights glow under the toggle switches, but when I flick them up they turn green.

  “Green means go,” I exhale, jamming the button down with my thumb.

  Air bubbles burst forth from under the rear. The wonk, wonk of something turning very slowly vibrates under my feet. As I stare at the bubbles floating up to the rear, the tip of the Qantas airliner pokes out of the clouds. It’s practically on top of the house and looks massive in comparison to the tiny structure. I push the button hard and hold it down.

  “Go baby go. Go baby go.”

  Bubbles explode, bringing with them quite a bit of sound. The airliner begins to emit a screeching howl that drowns out everything else, but my feet vibrate. I can feel it, this sucker’s running. I jam the two leavers forwar
d and nearly fall out of the boat. I would have been tossed out for sure, but the rope holding the stern to the dock stops us. The dock quickly buckles, then two entire sections ski behind me, pulled by ropes wrapped around stern cleats.

  I watch in horror, one hand on the wheel as the plane hits the house. The angle is steep and the aircraft seems to disappear into the fire ball. The approach isn’t lined up with my position and several huge chunks explode out of the expanding molten center and skip over the water to my left. One, an egg-shaped meteor that may be an engine, finally comes to rest inside a wall of steam hissing from the super-heated metal.

  More debris sprays out onto the water, but is followed by a wall of fire skimming over the surface. I turn the wheel away from the blast, but the back of the boat is momentarily engulfed. Blistering hot air stings my skin as it rushes past. A spinning piece of aluminum, flying like a boomerang, slams into the backend, sticking there like a metal flag. Another flying shard must cut the lines holding the two sections of dock, as they seem to be gone, leaving only the ropes dragging in the water.

  Once I reach a safe distance, I slow the boat and troll in a circle, observing the carnage. The water near the shore burns, covered in a layer of aviation fuel. The house is unrecognizable, sitting in the center of a searing hole that warms my face from a half-mile away. A huge melting tire sits on the edge of the blaze, turning slowly as the rubber drips off. The realization that more than one of the sections of floating wreckage are rows of seats still holding bodies jolts me out of my haze. My pocket also vibrates.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” I moan, watching a row of seats roll over, the bodies disappearing for the moment. “Unbelievable.”

  “You okay?”

  “Other than the huge plane that nearly landed on me? Sure, I’m good, but you’re going to need to call someone. There might be people still alive,” I suggest, but am positive that’s wishful thinking.

  “Did you get the canister?”