Mom slides a book over to me. It’s thick, with a black cover, and nearly falling apart from overuse. Most of the students use information pads, but they’re expensive. Mom’s been taking classes, trying to earn a degree in engineering. She wants to make a better life for us. Dad does what he can, but the plant doesn’t pay well enough even though he works long, exhausting hours.
We're lucky dad has his job at the plant. Mom says at least we’re surviving compared to a lot of the country. But she wants better things for us. She works odd jobs as much as possible and, combined with dad's income and her student loans, she's been able to take a few classes a semester now for a couple of years. She says she knows it will take a long time, but “any plan for a better future, is worth the time it takes.” It's kinda like her motto or something.
Pointing to a problem on the page, she says, “Mommy’s having trouble figuring this out, baby. Can you help me with it?”
I perk up, savoring the chance to help my mom. There's nothing I enjoy more than making her happy, in whatever way I can, and math problems are one of my favorite things to do anyway. I look over the problem for a few seconds and blurt out the answer.
She pats my nose gently with one finger, a gesture of affection, and chuckles while rolling her eyes at me.
“I know the answer,” she says. “I’m just not sure how they got the answer.”
“Oh, okay.”
We can’t afford a babysitter, so mom’s professors have agreed to let me sit in with her in class. I really enjoy the lessons, and they all say how well-behaved I am. Mom won’t let me answer any of the questions in class, though. I think she's afraid it will bring unwanted attention.
I launch into a detailed explanation, careful not to go too fast, giving her time to ask questions and work through it on her own. She’s pretty sharp, my mom. We’re just finishing up when dad comes in from work and tosses his faded flannel jacket on a nail pounded into the back of the door.
“Hi dad,” I say.
“Hi guys.” He walks over and gives mom a kiss before ruffling my hair with a calloused hand. “Whatcha working on?” he says to mom.
She rubs the space between her eyes with a thumb and forefinger.
“Calculus. Alex was showing me how they arrived at the answer to one of the problems I couldn’t figure out.”
Dad looks at me for a moment with a funny look on his face, and I resist the urge to giggle again.
I know dad is uncomfortable with my “smarts” as he calls them. Sometimes I hear him and mom talking when they think I’m asleep.
“It’s unnatural,” he’ll say. “Maybe there’s something wrong with him. Maybe we should call the agency, see if they can dig a little deeper into his background.”
Mom’s answer is always the same. “Hank, it’s a gift. He’s amazing. He’s blessed. Why can’t you see that?” And so the conversation will continue, but dad never sees things her way.
I love my dad, but he’s not around very much, and when he is, he’s nice, but not like my mom. He sort of keeps to himself. He’s content to sit and watch TV after work. Mom says he’s had a hard life, whatever that means. I look up at him now and watch his expression.
“Well, that’s pretty amazing for a six year old,” he finally says, and there's no mistaking the slight edge to his voice.
Mom on the other hand just laughs and hops up. “Dinner’s almost ready you two; go wash your hands, Alex.”
For the first time, I let myself slow down enough to notice the rich aroma of stew on the stove, and I skip to the bathroom to wash up, taking a little time to play with my toy cars in the sink. Every car needs a good car wash now and then. When I come back a few minutes later, dad gives me that funny look again before glancing hurriedly back down at his newspaper.
The door crashes open and I'm sitting up in an instant, jarred from the dream, the gun from under my pillow already in my hand and pointed at the darkened figure in the doorway.
"Cray, it's me," she says.
I lower the gun as my eyes focus on the silhouette standing there. Frustration floods me.
"Sheesh, Mira, I could have killed you! What were you thinking?" I'm more awake now, and questions start popping into my head. "Where were you? Have you been out alone?"
She doesn’t answer, but walks forward and sits on the side of the bed next to me, her body radiating warmth, a hint of mint on her breath. Now that she’s closer, I can see she’s upset. Her eyes are bloodshot and her expression is drawn. I feel a sudden surge of panic, not knowing what to make of the situation.
"Did someone hurt you?" I say. If someone did something to her, things are about to get ugly around here!
"No," she whispers.
"Then what?" I’m at a loss.
Instead of answering, she walks to the closet and retrieves a jacket, a large parka with fur around the seams. She hands it to me then takes my hand and pulls me from the bed, her grip revealing the tremendous strength in her petite frame. She pulls me quickly out the door and leads me to the elevator and the ground floor. It opens onto the dome and again she pulls me behind her, this time across the still-wet grass to the far side. Once there, we take one of several hallways leading into the bowels of the main level.
Several times I start to ask questions, but she shushes me.
“Wait,” she says. "Not here. I need to talk to you in private, and this place has eyes and ears everywhere."
I really despise being patient, but I trust her wisdom and instincts, so I bite my tongue and follow. She's moving quickly, faster than she normally would, her stride awkward. Whatever she's doing, it's important enough to her to endure a little extra pain to make good time, and it's not long until we reach a dark expanse I remember as being on the western edge of the fortress. It’s an unused loading dock with small naked bulbs covered in wire mesh hanging high above, pitifully straining to pierce the shadows to give us enough light to navigate by.
Raised platforms sit evenly apart on both sides of the walls, massive doors standing in front of each one. At some point in the past, this place was used to receive cargo, send it out, or both.
She stops abruptly when we reach the far wall, presses a release switch, and a smaller door slides in and to the side exposing us to the frigid landscape outside. The cold hits me like a dagger, sucking my breath away, and I scramble into the jacket that until now I've been holding in my hand. My pants are thin and painful chills race up my legs. I begin shivering, the moisture in my nose freezing into ice crystals. My eyes burn from the sub-zero temp, but Mira charges ahead.
“Wait, you don’t even have a jacket. Mira!” Stubborn mule. “Do we really have to go outside?”
“Come on,” she yells back, “you know I can handle the temp for a while.”
“Gee thanks. That helps me so much,” I retort. “By the way, thanks for the jacket, but shoes would have been nice too.”
She looks down and seems to realize for the first time that my feet are bare.
I can make out an “oops” from her over the howling gale.
I roll my eyes and plop down. The pajama pants are just long enough that I can curl them under my feet and tie them off, not that it’s going to help much.
I stand back up and plod into the elements towards Mira, trying to ignore the aching cold oozing through the pants onto my feet and legs. Mira is standing with her hands on her hips, looking for all the world like she’s going out for a casual stroll, but as I approach, she turns on her heels and moves farther out and away from the fortress.
I fall in behind her as she moves thirty yards down the side of the monolithic black structure, the door still open behind us, teasing me with the promise of warmth, snow blowing in through the opening. I feel like an ice cube, but she appears unfazed.
Suddenly, she stops and turns to me. I’m surprised that two tear lines streak her face forming crystalline trails of ice running down her cheeks. It gives the macabre appearance that she’s crying glass.
“Mi
ra, for crying out loud, what is going on?” I yell, my teeth chattering so hard I’m afraid they’ll shatter.
She doesn't keep me waiting any longer.
“I’ve just spent the last couple of hours with your father.”
That gives me a different kind of shiver unrelated to the weather.
Uh-oh. “Did he hurt you?” I'm instantly on the offensive, ready to run off into the fortress and find my would-be dad to exact an agonizing revenge for any pain he may have caused to her.
“No. I already told you nobody hurt me. I'm angry. Cray, there is so much more going on here than we dreamed. There are things I can barely believe and things that I wish weren’t true. But more than any of that, I found out something terrible, something that affects us both. I wanted to tell you in private, without prying eyes, but there’s no place inside there that Damian can’t see.”
I still can’t shake the unnerving panic gripping my chest. “Okay, okay, you’re freaking me out. Just get to it already.” I shake as a particularly strong arctic blast pummels us. Mira still seems fine even though she’s only wearing a tank top and pajama pants like mine. Her bare feet are covered in a small snow drift.
She waits, like she’s trying to figure out how to best say what she needs to. Instead, she reaches a hand up and caresses my cheek. It’s surprisingly warm.
“Cray,” she starts, but a frown creeps across her expression. “Cray,” she starts again, but in a flash her face changes, her brows knitting together. A pained look contorts her beautiful features. “Something’s wrong…” She collapses. I catch her before she hits the surface; her eyes are rolled back in her head and her body is racked with spasms so hard it’s difficult to keep my grip.
“Mira?!” I scream. “Oh, God. Help!!” I pick her up and cradle her to my chest. Her body flails so violently it feels like my arms will be pulled from their sockets. God, she’s strong. I run back to the door, stumbling and slipping on the ice, screaming for help the whole time, my chest taking a beating from one of her elbows. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I pant. “Somebody help me…!”
Mira’s seizure is getting worse, but I try to keep moving back towards the core of the fortress. I blunder awkwardly in the dark, but I can hear voices coming towards us now, the clamor of people headed this way. I continue yelling, but before I can reach them, Mira bucks violently and our heads crash together. For a brief instant there’s a blinding jolt of pain, then darkness.
Chapter 6
When I come to, I have no idea where I am and there’s an attractive woman with dark hair standing over me saying something I can't make out. Her voice sounds muffled like my head is stuck in a barrel. I can see her mouth moving but can't make out the words. My head feels like it's been run over by an eighteen wheeler. I close my eyes briefly and open them again, trying to focus on the person talking to me.
"Alex? Alex? Respond if you understand me."
Where am I? Through the fog I remember an island, a large concrete enclosure, a tiger the size of a horse, people chasing us…
"Ilana?" I say, my voice a feathery rasp.
"What did he just say?" Another voice cuts through the haze – a male voice. A voice I recognize. New, but familiar. I try to shake off my stupor, and the pieces fall back into place. The voice is my father's. Damian. Mira. The seizure!
I'm up so fast my head spins. My stomach contorts and I feel the need to vomit, but I've got bigger problems, and I choke the feeling back with sheer determination. I close my eyes for a few moments to try to get the spinning to slow.
The woman who was standing over me is talking again.
"Easy," she says. "Take it easy. You're okay. You have a pretty bad concussion," she says soothingly.
I focus on her again. She’s young, maybe early twenties, with deep brunette hair pinned up on either side. She wears a stained white lab coat over scrubs. It occurs to me that that seems unnecessary in a God-forsaken place like this. She tries to ease me back down, but I resist.
"Are you a doctor?" I say.
"No. But I am," Damian says from where he's leaning against one of the walls of the small room.
“I’m a veterinarian,” the young lady says. “Trained here since childhood.”
"That’s nice,” I say, and only the dumbest person in the world wouldn’t catch the sarcasm indicating I couldn’t care less. “Where’s Mira?” I direct my question to Damian who still stands nonchalantly to the side. She's my only concern.
Damian makes a small nod at the woman still standing beside me, and she quietly excuses herself from the room.
"Mira is stable," Damian says, "for now."
"What do you mean ‘for now’? What's wrong with her?"
Damian doesn't answer. It’s maddening, and I'm tempted to rush across the room and try to strangle the information out of him.
He meets my eyes for the first time. "We need to talk."
Despite my repeated threats to disembowel him, Damian refuses to talk about Mira until we're alone in his office, another opulent enclosure with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the dome. He offers me a chair and takes another in front of the large window as I plop down in frustration. If my head wasn't killing me so badly, I would refuse to even sit, but right now it's a struggle to keep my balance.
I'm about to start yelling at him, when Damian begins speaking, cutting off my verbal assault before I can launch it.
"Mira is alive, Cray, but her body is shutting down. It's been under a great deal of strain, and there are certain…factors, that are pushing it beyond its ability to cope."
I feel a sense of dread beyond anything I've ever known. I don’t want to believe him. Why should I believe him? He’s a monster. But try as I might, I know it’s just wishful thinking. I saw for myself what happened to Mira.
"What do you mean?" I say, and I’m surprised by the weak sound of my own voice.
"Forgive me for stating the obvious, but you're aware that Mira isn't like you and me. She's been genetically enhanced. I made her that way. And I am uniquely able to understand what is going on with her. You see, although Mira is far stronger and more durable than we are, there are some things which could not be anticipated. Her anatomy is elegant and extremely complex, operating far above the level of a normal human being."
"Look," I cut in, "I saw your little video on the island. I understand the basics of what you've done. Just spit it out already. What – is – wrong – with – her?" I don’t like it, but he’s right. Whatever is happening, he really does have the best shot of knowing what it is and how to fix it.
Damian sighs softly and runs a hand through his graying hair.
"Mira took extreme damage from the explosion, and ever since, her body has been working overtime to keep her stable. Anyone else would have died instantly, but she's managing to survive on damaged organs, severe muscular trauma – it’s all quite amazing, in truth. Far beyond what I would have thought possible.” For a moment, his eyes flash with a sickening pride. “Unfortunately, her system's ability to cope has been overtaxed for some time. When she went out into the cold, that overtaxed state along with the metabolic spike that came from her body trying to adjust to the temperature sent her into what could amount to a short circuit."
I wait with breath held, knowing this isn't going to end well, and the last of my patience dissipates.
"So help me, if you don't stop playing games…" I begin. "Tell me the punch line already.”
Damian leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and looks hard at me. For a moment, he almost seems human. Is that genuine concern in his expression, or cruel pleasure?
"Cray," he says, "Mira is dying."
His words hit me like a bulldozer, and I react without thinking. In a flash of fear-induced insanity I’m up and on him lifting him bodily from his chair by his collar. I spin him around and slam him into one of the floor to ceiling windows. His feet dangle several inches from the ground, and my face is so close to his I can smell the coffee on his b
reath. Far below, several passersby in the clearing look upwards at us, their faces registering obvious alarm at the sight of me pinning Damian to the window.
“You're lying,” I growl. “She can’t be dying! She’s special. She’s too strong for that.” My breathing is coming in ragged gasps, my head pounding from the concussion. I realize I’m leaning on him as much to keep my own balance as to keep him in the air.
Somehow, despite the shock on his face at my reaction, his voice comes out infuriatingly calm.
“I wish that were true, but despite what you think of me, son, I assure you I'm speaking the truth. Mira has been through an unbelievable ordeal, and her body is shutting down.”
In a stupor, I release my grip and stagger to the side. This time there’s no holding it back, and I half fall over his desk, puking onto the floor. After my stomach empties, I slump back into the chair, my head in agony as I try to process what he's telling me.
There’s no doubt Mira's been digressing. I've watched it with my own eyes. I just didn't think it was this bad.
Damian smooths his ruffled shirt, casting a mortified look at the puddle of vomit on his carpet, and sits back down, his eyes fixed on me. “Son...” he starts to say.
“Don't call me that,” I snap.
He pauses, but then continues. “I know you don't trust me, Cray, and I understand why. There are many things that I want to tell you, things you need to know, but I don't know if you're ready for them yet. Not from me. I spent several hours with Mira last night and I told her everything. It was my desire that she enlighten you. I’m afraid that will no longer be possible.”
A few weeks ago I would have killed for more information about Damian and this place. Now, I couldn't care less. The whole of my consciousness is plagued by the news that Mira is slipping away from me. Not for the first time, it occurs to me that she's all I have.
“Is there..?”
“Yes,” Damian says, anticipating my question. “I can fix her.”
I stare into his eyes wanting it to be true. Can it be true? Can I even trust him?
The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) Page 5
