“You...you can keep her from dying?” My desire to believe it outweighs the deep revulsion I feel for my father, and I find myself looking to this person I hate as if he's a life raft in the ocean I'm drowning in.
A smile creases his lips and he leans forward, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“Oh yes. I can do much better than that.”
I look at him, this creator of The Virus, this man that the whole world has always considered a monster, this person who faked his death. Is he genuine? Could there be more to him than I've believed? I mean, he did find a cure. Could there be more to the story?
I almost choke on the words. “Okay.” My voice sounds defeated to me. “Please help her. I can't lose her.”
He leans back, and all of my apprehension resurfaces at the look on his face. He looks down for a moment, toying with one of his fingernails before looking back up at me, his smile gone.
“I will fix Mira and save her life, but in return for something from you.”
He's bargaining with Mira's life! Any temporary doubt I had about his level of evil is squashed. I'm too stunned to respond, and I sit dazed, too much bad news in too short a time. Heaven only knows what he wants from me, and I almost don't want to know.
He continues quietly. “I know how this will seem to you, Cray. I'm sure you think my actions savage. Perhaps they are, but I find myself in a unique position, and there is something that simply must be dealt with. You are the best chance I have of accomplishing this. In fact, you may be the only chance given your particular skill set.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do, but make no mistake, using her for extortion is absolutely savage.” Memories flood my mind of Mira collapsing in the snow, the violent seizure.
What if there was something I could do? What if I didn’t need Damian? Is there some way I can figure out the workings of what Damian does? Could I fix Mira? But the hopelessness of my situation crashes around me.
The recording on the island explained many things about Damian’s work, but not in the level of detail I would need to understand it all. Not even close. Besides, Damian isn’t going to let me have free reign here. And even if I could find out what he does, it would take time. Time Mira may not have. I think of losing her and my nausea returns, but for a completely different reason.
“Extortion is such an ugly word. Think of it more as…incentive. As long as you keep your end of the bargain, Mira will be fine.” He pauses, giving me a chance to respond, but I don’t, and after a moment he continues. “For much too long now, Cedric Archer has been a thorn in my side. Worse, he's been the cause of great trouble both for me and mankind. He poses a serious threat to my plans, and it's time for his power to end.”
“What plans?” I say.
“For now, I think that is better left in the dark. Most importantly, I don't think you would believe me. I don't deserve it, but I'm asking you to trust me. This is a necessary evil.”
The pieces slide into place.
“You want me to kill him,” I say.
“I need you to kill him, yes. In return, I'll save Mira for you.”
I mull over the implications, shock and sickness slowing the process.
“I have no love for Archer, and I almost killed him once, but you're asking me to become an assassin, to kill him in cold blood.”
“Yes,” he says, “though I'm sure even you would agree that it would be justice for all that he's done.”
“Most people would say the same thing about you,” I bite out, tasting bile rising in my throat.
He simply looks at me. “I’m sure. I know this is not something you're accustomed to, Cray, but with your abilities, I'm sure you are the best possible chance of it being accomplished. According to Mira, he tried to kill both of you without mercy. Look at it as a way to make things even.”
I feel like my wits are returning, and I begin to turn over scenarios in my mind at rapid speed. Cold-blooded murder. Can I live with that? To save Mira?
My hatred for Archer is only surpassed by my hatred for Damian. Isn't it true that Archer's a traitor, and that he's killed people in cold blood? He killed Eckert and tried to kill me and Mira, and because of his position, he's above any other justice. Perhaps I could justify his murder. Still, I’ve never tried to kill anyone who wasn’t actively trying to kill me. Can I really go up to Archer, say, “Hey, I’ve changed my mind and I’m going to kill you now”, and pull the trigger?
Damian sits across from me, patiently stoic, his hands folded in his lap. He gives me time to process the information, and I see that he already knows where the process will lead me.
I come to the terrible realization of the truth. I've never been a saint, and if killing an evil man is what it takes to keep Mira alive, that's what I'm willing to do. I suppress the disquiet I feel in my heart.
“What guarantee do I have that you'll keep your end of the bargain?”
“I'm afraid my word will have to be good enough, but I promise, if you do this, Mira will be better than new.”
I make up my mind, knowing full well there was never really a choice. “You have a deal.”
Chapter 7
I stand quiet vigil over Mira, the complexity of what lies ahead of me weighing down on me like a thick blanket of despair. At times, I feel as though I can hardly breathe.
She looks angelic and peaceful, lying there in the metagenic chamber as Damian calls it; in my estimation, it looks too much like a coffin. Multicolored tubes snake around her, leading to and from intravenous lines and electrodes and strange machines I have no name for. An unusual smell fills my nostrils – antiseptic mixed with something I can’t place. Something I’ve never smelled before. Something tart and acrid.
My head still pounds from the concussion and perhaps equally from my desperation. Just when I thought Damian may not have been as bad as I believed, he goes and pulls a stunt like this, his own flesh and blood, demanding I become an assassin. And yet there’s a part of me that doesn’t cringe at the idea. Far from it. It’s a darker part of myself that I fear to explore and fear to let out of its cage.
I wish I could talk to Mira, to ask her what she thinks, to hear the soothing softness of her voice. Instead, I'm left with my own mechanical reasoning, and no matter how I reason it, I can’t think of another option.
Damian’s argument makes sense. After all, who else is going to stop Archer? He's too entrenched in the government. It's not like I can arrest him. He controls everything. Damian's logic may be brutal, but it rings true. I don't trust Damian, and I hate him for manipulating me, but there's no doubting that Archer is a danger to the world. The bad thing is that I don’t know the true motivation behind Damian’s desire to end Archer’s life. But for now, I'll play the game. First I'll take down Archer and make sure Damian keeps his word. Then I'll take him down too if need be.
Someone approaches from behind, and I turn my head to the side to see the towering hulk of Graelin move up beside me. He stares for a moment at Mira’s small body in the tube. In comparison to him, she looks tiny and breakable.
“He’s ready for you,” he says interrupting my thoughts.
I look up at him, and he returns my gaze. His expression is somber, unreadable, but when he speaks again, his voice is kind.
“I know you’re in a tough spot, Cray. Please, just do what he says. He really does know what’s best.”
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound? Your blind, childlike faith is foolish.”
I expect him to respond with anger, but instead, he places a huge hand on my shoulder, squeezing firmly. “You can do this. You can, and everything will turn out good in the end.”
I don’t feel like arguing with him. He’s a good man, but he’s blinded by the only perception of the world he’s ever known. It’s a world where Damian Harbin reigns as God and everything fits into his skewed logic. Instead, I let Graelin lead me out of the room to embark on the most important incursion of my life.
I ride dow
n a narrow elevator into the bowels of the fortress, deeper than I've been before. I clench my teeth and fists to assuage the pent up anger and malice that threaten to boil over inside of me. Damian stands beside me, his arms folded and head held high. If it weren’t for the fact that I absolutely believe he is the only one capable of fixing Mira, I might give serious thought to killing him instead of Archer, father or not. I've made it this far without having a real dad, and the one I have now is certainly not a role model or someone I care to have around.
After the initial shock of his request set in, I've felt nothing but growing, seething hatred for the man. It’s palpable, like an animal inside of me clawing to get out and sink its teeth into him.
He eyes me carefully from the corner of the elevator, as if he can read my thoughts, which only infuriates me more. But I mash down the loathing and anger, determined to control it. No matter how nasty the situation, I won't risk Mira's life for the sake of this freak.
“This is best,” he says. “In the end, you'll understand. Archer is too dangerous to leave alive.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” I snap. “I know what a creep Archer is, but what's it to you? Right now, I don't see how you're any better than he is.”
Damian just shrugs off my comment unaffected.
“And what if I don't succeed?” I say. “What if I can't find him, or he's too deep? What if something goes wrong? What guarantees do I have from you?”
“My dear boy, I have the utmost confidence in your abilities.”
Before I can come up with a sarcastic retort, the elevator comes to an abrupt halt and the doors slide open with a squeak to reveal one of the most unbelievable things I've seen here yet.
In front of me is a hangar. A massive one. Several jets sit off to the sides, each looking pristine under the glaring overhead lights. Fighters sit alongside several small private jets. A long, sloping runway leads off into the distance. Landing lights are placed along the length of it, but they’re not on, and I can’t see where the runway ends.
After a few moments they flash on, perhaps in response to Damian’s presence like everything else around here. There’s a deep rumble and I see a glaring white line appear and grow as a behemoth-sized hangar door cranks open. With the lighting and open door, I can now see that the runway is roughly a half mile long and doesn’t extend beyond the hangar door. To take off from here would require pinpoint precision.
Damian walks forward, and I follow as he strides to the left of the enormous place, around a cargo plane, and towards a small group of men servicing a jet fighter.
I shake my head in disbelief. He actually has an A-25 Wraith. This was a beast of a jet fighter back in the day. The military's last manufactured fighter before The Virus outbreak, the Wraith took everything that was great about what came before and improved on it. With a top speed of 1800 miles-per-hour, stealth technology, and a price tag of 170 million dollars each, the Wraith was state-of-the-art.
He says something I can't hear to one of the servicemen and then turns to me, a big smile on his face.
“Beautiful, isn't she?” he says.
I confess I'm dumbfounded, looking at the ultra-sleek, midnight-black aircraft in front of me, but he's acting like a proud dad who's not currently holding my girlfriend's life ransom. I guess he thinks better of it because his smile fades.
“Anyway,” he says. “She's in perfect working condition and she'll provide you with good cover against radar due to her stealth qualities.”
“How on earth did you get this?” If it weren't for my circumstances, I would actually be looking forward to the opportunity to fly such an amazing piece of military hardware.
“I used to have friends who were very well connected,” he says, as if that explains it all perfectly. “I trust you can fly it?”
“I'll manage,” I say. “I’m a quick study.”
“Good. This way.” He moves off without waiting for me to a small enclosure off of the main hangar room that’s filled with computer banks and flight equipment. “Here,” he says, gesturing to a low chair. “Let me show you your destination. Then we'll go over the details you'll need to know.”
The airfield I was given instructions to land on is nothing of the sort. It’s not much more than a strip of cleared land nestled amidst the encroaching trees surrounding it. At the end sits a small, weather-beaten storage shed, the kind you can buy at hardware stores. There's a narrow, semi-overgrown path leading out of one end, just large enough for a small automobile. Other than that, it's just a big field of grass, but it's level enough, and obviously has been tended to recently. Someone’s keeping the grass cut short, and large drifts of it have been pushed up against the tree line on all sides. I wonder how often Damian and his group fly here.
I taxi the Wraith as close to the tree-line as possible on the east end of the field as Damian's crew instructed, power everything down, pop the canopy, and drop to the ground below, bending my knees to absorb the impact. I glance up and scan the grayish haze of the sky overhead. It feels wrong leaving the jet so easily visible from above, but I know the chances of it being seen here are astronomically slim, and I force myself to relax.
Air traffic is reserved almost entirely for government and military personnel, and they stick to the cities of refuge. No one will by flying over here.
I'm in upper New York State and it's cool this time of year, but in comparison to the Fortress and the surrounding glacier, the breeze blowing briskly across my skin feels warm and comforting. It carries the rich aroma of evergreens, and I’m struck with memories of sitting by a warm fire during the Christmas season, snuggling in my mother’s lap as we read stories together and laughed.
But the feeling of comfort dissipates as quickly as it arrived. I gaze around, unable to shake the feeling of being watched, and it suddenly occurs to me why I would feel that way. Festers. I’ve been away for a while, and with my mind so preoccupied on Mira and my mission to kill Archer, I didn’t immediately register the threat that the noise of the jet would attract any Festers within earshot.
I scan the field again in all directions, this time carefully and systematically. Nothing out of the ordinary that I can tell. I hope that maybe there just weren’t any infected close by, but I’m not going to dawdle and take chances.
I set off at a run, and it only takes a minute to cross the field to the little aluminum shed. It sits in isolation on the edge of the field, a spattering of brown paint hanging on doggedly to the sides and roof, losing the relentless daily battle with the elements.
Pulling the key Damian gave me from my pocket, I insert it in the rusty padlock that secures the doors, expecting the lock to stick, but to my surprise, the key turns easily, and the lock disengages with a small pop. I open the doors wide, and the pungent smell of gasoline rolls out to meet me from where it’s been trapped in the confined metal space with no windows and no ventilation. For the second time in as many days, I gawk at an unexpected piece of machinery.
Before me, in this middle-of-nowhere excuse for a landing strip, in a pitiful little junkyard-reject shed, sits a jet black X132 Hellcat motorcycle, sleek and powerful-looking, cocked to one side on its kickstand. From the looks of it, it's been retrofitted to carry additional gasoline, and the walls of the shed hold several gas cans of various sizes on hooks.
The Hellcat was a rare find back in the early part of the 21st century. At a price tag of $60,000, it was a masterpiece of engineering from a small company in Alabama. It’s a speed demon, and despite its age, this one looks brand new. There seems to be no limit to the lavishness Damian lives under. I do a quick inspection and find everything I need.
I move quickly, placing two of the extra gas cans in the makeshift harness on the bike, all the while keeping a wary eye out for unwanted visitors. I’m still hoping for a no show, but I’ve just straddled the bike when the first one shows. He lets out a feral shriek alerting me to his presence across the airstrip and to the right. In a couple of seconds, three more c
rash through the woods behind him.
They haven’t seen me yet, but as soon as I crank this baby, they’re going to home in on me like missiles. That might not be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that they’re between me and the exit path I saw when I landed.
I don’t want to kill them, not knowing what I do now. I make a snap decision, and crank the Hellcat. It starts right up and I lean into the throttle, the powerful engine making the walls of the thin shed rattle.
The heads of the Festers snap in my direction and they break into a mindless sprint. Popping the clutch, I whip the Hellcat out and to the left, away from the exit path. I plan to lead them away from it, make a large U-turn, and speed back to it. I should be able to easily outrun them. I just don’t want to have to go through them.
They give chase, and my plan is going great until I’m almost to the end of the strip. Suddenly, a group of twenty or more Festers emerges from the woods in front of me and close on me like lightning. The timing is too perfect and I curse, unable to believe what I’m seeing. Did they just set a trap for me?
I slam on the brakes, the Hellcat sliding into a skid, and I hit the gas again, the rear tire throwing up turf. Now I’m flying back towards the first three freaks, and I watch in horrified frustration as they fan out to cut off my escape. But there are too few of them, and I grit my teeth and gun it, moving for the largest opening between them.
There’s less than twenty yards between us and they immediately turn inward to cut me off by closing the gap. It’s going to be close.
I shift into second gear and give it all she has, holding my breath as I squeeze through two of them at fifty miles per hour. Their fingers actually brush my arms and chest, but I’m moving too fast for them to get a grip. Now I’m out in the open and I risk a glance back, thankful to see they’re all falling behind the powerful bike.
I let out a long sigh of relief and head for the exit. In ten more seconds, I'm racing down the path under the canopy of trees, the Hellcat purring like a bridled beast beneath me, heading to my old stomping grounds.
The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) Page 6
