THE NIGHT SWEEPER: ASSASSIN
J. Steven Butler
Text Copyright © 2015 J. Steven Butler
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not the intention of the author.
Email me at [email protected]
Follow me on Twitter @jsbword
To Kim – You are my constant muse, source of inspiration, and encouragement.
To Ethan – You bring me unending joy and happiness.
You are both my lights and loves.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
PROLOGUE
Edward Cavaland was born in the year 2045 into a United States of America rife with political turmoil and social unrest. The citizens of the country no longer trusted its government, and they had good reason. Politicians manipulated the system to stay in office and rake in profits on the backs of the general populace to a degree unheard of before in the country's history. Sickness and disease were widespread as poverty and unemployment exploded to an all-time high. There were rumors of revolution, a second civil war. Many thought the whole system needed to be wiped clean and rebooted.
As if the internal struggles weren't enough, the cold wars of the twentieth century had resurfaced with a vengeance. Fragile alliances between nations rose and fell almost daily as the world sought to gain a foothold in a global economy that was flailing.
Born to poor parents, Cavaland became one of the few commoners to rise to significant renown in this tumultuous society. Throughout the first forty years of his life, his brilliance led him to international fame. A scientific prodigy from childhood, he seemed to have a preternatural gift with genetics. By age twenty he had cured cancer, HIV, and virtually every other disease of his time. He was the hero of the entire planet, a beacon of light in a dark time, and he quickly became one of the most powerful and influential people alive.
At age 45, at the pinnacle of his career, he disappeared without a trace. Speculation and shock were widespread. At first, many thought it was a publicity stunt. Others said the great man needed a vacation and was taking some well-deserved time off. But after six weeks with no sighting or contact, the news agencies began to theorize the worst. The world mourned his loss. Government leaders of all nations stood before their people and sang the praises of this most amazing man and benefactor, promising that no stone would be left unturned in the search. But it was all to no avail. Rumors of kidnapping and murder ran rampant, but despite extensive worldwide investigation, nothing ever turned up. It was as if he simply vanished.
It has often been said that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, but sometimes men pave it knowing good and well where it leads.
Chapter 1
Cray
Nothing makes you feel as alive as having your face smashed with a tree. At least, alive in the sense that every nerve in your head crackles with intense, blinding pain to the point that you're willing to die to make it stop.
Let me bring you up to speed. The Neanderthal that just hit me is named Graelin, pronounced Gray-lin, and "tree" is a bit of an exaggeration, although that's how it felt to me. It's complicated how I ended up here, but I'll try to give you the short and sweet version.
I used to have a pretty amazing life as a Night Sweeper. I spent my nights killing Festers while the rest of the former United States counted sheep under their three hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. I lived in the swanky penthouse of a magnificent hotel in New York City, slept during the day, got paid a truck load of money, and was well-respected as a modern warrior.
I was living the high life until all that went south when I took on a mission to save a man who purportedly created a new strain of The Virus that created the Festers. I and my new partner were supposed to break him out of detainment, whisk him away to heaven-knows-where, and let him live the rest of his life in forced anonymity where he couldn't hurt anybody and nobody could hurt him.
Things went okay up until the point that we were ambushed. The guy we rescued got shot, he confessed to being my brother, and revealed he invented a cure instead of a new Virus strain. Then he died, and we were kidnapped by a double agent. In a few days’ time, I found out my new girlfriend was a genetically altered clone, I discovered my real dad is the man who created The Virus, I was betrayed by my long-time commanding officer, and I fled to the arctic to find the cure. Confused yet? And if all that wasn't enough, I should also mention I have a brain that works like a computer, which I'm finding comes in handy keeping up with all of this crap.
What Mira and I found in the arctic was nothing short of incredible…and bizarre. My real father's name is Damian Harbin, creator of The Virus, the scourge that led to the death of billions and the creation of the Festers, zombie-like people that the world has worked hard to exterminate. The whole world thought him to be dead. Imagine our shock when we found him here alive and well and living in a monolithic fortress.
I confess I know little of Damian. The only father I had growing up was my adoptive father, Hank Sorren. Hank was a good man, a simple man, until my adoptive mom died. After that he changed. He turned on me and became distant and hurtful. Overwhelmed by the loss of my mom, he began treating me like a freak because of my intelligence. In truth, I believe he had a nervous breakdown. He was never the same. It was a rough way to grow up.
In my early adulthood, Cedric Archer, the leader of The Organization, took me in and trained me to be a Sweeper. For a long time I considered him to be the only true father figure I've ever had.
He supported and helped me when Hank didn't. He made me feel special because of my gifts, whereas Hank made me feel dysfunctional. But in the end I found out Archer wasn't what I believed him to be. We discovered he is the covert leader behind The Council of The States, their puppet master. Unbeknownst to the public, Archer is the real power holder, and he's set up a virtual dictatorship where he calls all of the shots.
He wants the cure for himself, not out of a chivalrous desire to help people, but to use it to establish a new American empire that will dominate every other country and race left on the planet. He believes the cure will be the ultimate leverage to coerce the other nations into submission. I can't argue his logic, but you have to admit that's twisted.
Now back to the arctic. I've never been as shocked as when Damian walked out of this fortress on the day we arrived here and introduced himself. My first reaction was not to believe him. My second reaction was to blow his head off, but Mira and I, mostly Mira, decided to play it cool. We had no idea what we were facing, and it was better for him to think we might be on his side until we c
ould get our bearings. Little did I know that would take weeks.
According to all the reports from our old sources in the government and The Organization, Damian had been killed under mysterious circumstances after selling The Virus to the president. Come to find out, one of Damian's many talents with manipulating genetics was successful cloning. He created a clone of himself and had it killed in order to make the world believe he was gone forever, only to come here, his hideaway deep in the arctic, to continue his plans and plotting.
But apart from superficial details, dear old dad isn't revealing much of his overall scheme. He’s nothing if not secretive.
I had my first real conversation with him less than a day after we arrived. We sat across from each other in his office, me feeling an odd sense of curiosity mingled with disgust. I recall it clearly...
Even though I would never admit it, I'm fascinated by this man sitting in front of me, this enigma whose blood I share. What traits of his do I have that I don't even know about? What mannerisms? What similarities? I remember reading that children will sometimes adopt mannerisms of deceased parents that they never knew, like little ticks or expressions. I wonder how much I'm like him, and it’s not a pleasant thought. When I think of all he's been responsible for, I'm repulsed to think that we share the same blood.
I try my best to shake off the seething hatred I feel so I can analyze him without bias. I have a mission here, and indulging my feelings isn't going to help me accomplish that objective. But it’s difficult. Now that I know the creator of The Virus is not dead, my hatred for him is more than just the intangible despising of someone who once existed. I blame him more than ever for the death of my mom, no matter how inadvertent it was.
He speaks, his voice dignified and gentlemanly, like an English lord minus the accent. The timbre is a rich baritone. The effect is disconcertingly soothing.
“Cray,” he says. “I know there are so many things you want to know. I'm sure you have a multitude of questions, not the least of which is the reason I sent you away. I want you to know that I am open to telling you everything, but I have to know that you can be trusted first.”
What? The killer of billions wants to know if I can be trusted? Okay, so maybe the guy is just a looney toon. I almost say so without thinking, but bite off the words before they can leave my mouth. Calm dude, stay calm. Best not to get him on the defensive yet. I still need information, not just about my past, but about the cure.
He pauses in his conversation, and I get the itching feeling he knows exactly what I'm thinking. He stares at me calmly, waiting, as if giving me time to process my own doubts. I don't like it.
“Okay,” I say. “So how about we start with Jonathan? Seems as good a place as any since it was his appearance that got me all caught up in this in the first place.”
He looks at the floor, a small sigh parting his lips, before looking back at me.
“I'm not sure that would be the best place to start, but if that's what you want.”
His eyes are a deep blue, almost black in the ambient lighting of the room.
I wait for him to continue, and when he gets no further response from me, he does.
“Jonathan, and many other things you'll discover from my past, is not what he appeared to be on the surface.” He pauses again, weighing his words. “Jonathan, like the dead man the government thought was me, was a clone. You may be happy, or upset, to know that you are my only child. You've never had any siblings.”
I scoff and stifle a rush of annoyance. “Frankly, I couldn't care less if I was the only one, or one of a thousand.” If I was hoping to get a rise out of him, I'm disappointed, but then something else occurs to me, something that doesn't make sense about Damian's claim that Jonathan was a clone. “He recognized me,” I say, keeping my voice controlled. “Don't lie to me. You owe me the truth.”
“It is the truth,” he replies calmly.
“Oh yeah? How could a clone recognize me as if he's know me all of his life? And what about all the things he knew about me?”
“Implanted memories,” Damian says nonplussed.
“Give me a break! How would that even be possible?” But even as I say it, I remember on the island Ilana talking about Damian's ability to manipulate memory.
He smiles humorlessly.
“Ah yes, well, explaining how would take more time than either of us are willing to give at this point, I believe. The nature of memory manipulation, or more exactly in this instance, creation, is a complex process to put it lightly.”
I consider that, but I still have an issue with what he's saying.
“There's more,” I add. “I could see the similarities in our features. Memories can't create that.”
“Indeed. But you're smart enough to figure that out if you give it a little thought.”
I chafe at being addressed like a student, but a possibility does come to mind easily, if this whole fairy tale can be believed.
“You're saying he had your DNA?”
“Not completely. Only a small part, but enough that some traits could have been passed on. And in this case, to enough of a degree that similarities could be seen. He was a combination of many interwoven genetic strands. His code came from several people, some of whom themselves were clones.”
“You make him sound like a patchwork quilt,” I say.
“An apt, if oversimplified, description. The very proof of the reality of such things you have seen for yourself in Mira.”
I swallow my irritation. I don't like to think of Mira in such an impersonal way, but like it or not, it is the truth. I have seen it for myself. I accept it, even if I don't like it. But more disturbing, is the way Damian speaks of them both as if they were no more than plants grown in a lab. He’s nothing if not impersonal.
“Archer said he'd been tracking him for years; he followed his research after you died.”
“What?” For the first time he seems a little off balance. I'm strangely comforted by that small crack in his veneer. He usually exudes complete control of his emotions. “That's a lie. Archer knew I had you, but Jonathan was a relatively new creation. Jonathan wasn't on Archer's radar, and he also didn't do any real research. Archer's great at deception, as I'm sure you know."
He taps his fingers on his desk rhythmically, his expression a perfect mask again.
“Believe it or not, Cray, there was once a time I considered Cedric Archer a friend. It was no accident that he found you with your adoptive family and recruited you to be a Sweeper. I'm sure he was most likely responsible for placing you with them in the first place.”
I guess he wants me to say something, and he just sits there without speaking.
“So what happened between you two? Did he steal your girlfriend or something?” I ask with a smirk.
“Our friendship came to an end, and then I faked my death.”
Thanks for clearing that up.
I don't mistake the tone in his voice that says he isn't going to tell me any more about that situation for now. Okay then, we'll pick up where we left off.
“So why did you make Jonathan, and how did he end up in Archer's custody?”
“Jonathan had two purposes. One was collecting Festers for me from the mainland to bring here so I could work on what you call the cure. But his knowledge about my work was very limited.
“You see, the clones that are here have a lifetime of memories because they have lived a lifetime. However, clones created in adulthood are somewhat problematic. There are only so many false memories and so much information that can be placed into their psyche. Jonathan was a prime example. And the clone that took my place on the island had no memories at all. He was just a living body that died to give me freedom.”
“Wow, pops. That's cold.”
But Damian doesn't miss a beat. “You of all people should know by now that sometimes you have to make tough decisions when so much is riding on your success.”
Now it's my turn with a quick comeback.
; “My mom taught me that doing the right thing never comes at the expense of hurting others.”
I notice Damian's eyebrows furl slightly at the mention of the word “mom”, but he doesn't comment about it.
“Say what you will. One day you may be faced with just such a decision, and I would be interested to know how you react then,” he says. “But for now, that's beside the point.
“Jonathan's main purpose was to seek you out. Like I said, there was a time when Archer and I were good friends, and I even believed I could trust him with anything, but he proved his true nature. Until recently, I had no need to bring you in. Jonathan was given just enough information to say the right things to help you to find me. Namely, he was able to tell you to find the island which ultimately led you here. His instructions were to make contact with Archer, tell him he was my son, and then to get into contact with you. For obvious reasons, attempting to contact you myself would have been detrimental to me and my work. That's why I waited so long to try.
“I don't know all of the details, but from what I've been able to piece together, I again underestimated Archer. He immediately began pumping Jonathan for information, and unfortunately, Jonathan told him about the cure. I should have been more careful with that piece of information, but as they say, hindsight is always 20/20.
“I had fail safes built into his brain patterns. When he was caught, there was certain information he could reveal, and some things that his mind would not allow him to, no matter how badly he was beaten. Sadly, it didn't occur to me to keep him from being able to reveal that there was a cure for The Virus. But at least there was no way he could reveal this location. To be honest, with his limited memory, I didn't expect him to be any real asset to Archer anyway, and didn't expect Archer to immediately imprison him. I only placed the fail safes there as an afterthought in the first place. But I considered their necessity to be of the utmost unlikelihood.
“However, once he met you, he was programmed to tell you about the island, so you could find your way to me here. There were access points on the island configured to your biometrics that nobody else could access. That way, even if you were followed, or deceived, only you would be able to find out on the island that this fortress existed, and subsequently find your home.”
The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) Page 1
