A few hours later I pull up in front of a fading, brick duplex on the outskirts of Brooklyn, walk quickly to the door labeled 1A, and ring the bell. I can hear shuffling inside, and a man cursing as he walks heavily to the front door, the whole place shuddering from his footfalls. He pulls the door open, but leaves the anti-Fester iron-mesh secondary door in place.
He's a heavy-set man with a grizzled beard, and quick, intelligent eyes. His arms are covered in tattoos and his long, greasy hair is pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. A mangled toothpick dangles precariously from his lips. He looks me over without saying anything at first, then barks, “Who are you? What do you want?”
I say exactly what I've been instructed to say.
“D.H. sent me. I've got a black-bird that needs looking after in the bushes.”
The beefy man's expression never changes.
“It'll be ready and refueled when you need it,” he says, and slams the door in my face.
So much for small-talk.
Chapter 8
When I was the Sweeper for New York City, my home and base of operations was the Trump Soho Hotel which had been converted to The Organization's New York headquarters. I had an immaculate suite all to myself and a small crew whose sole purpose was to back me up. I even had my own doctor.
The Soho has plenty of Fester security. You know, gates and stuff. But I know everything about the building, and getting in unseen is a breeze. I guess they really don’t expect me to return here, because no additional cameras or other security measures have been added as far as I can tell.
I sit now in a darkened suite as I have for the past hour, my eyes long since adjusted to the feeble lighting. The trace smells of laundry detergent and air freshener give the place a homey, comfortable feeling, and I’m reminded of my own place here. Like that suite, long, thick drapes cover all of the windows, a protection against the sunlight for those of us who were relegated to sleeping during the day.
This hotel holds both good and horrible memories for me. I spent many days relaxing after a hard night’s work of killing, recuperating in my own private little world. My suite was my sanctuary. It was the one place in the world that I felt the most secure.
But those good memories are now smeared and tainted with the nightmarish experience of being betrayed by my mentor in that very suite. The memories are as fresh and alive as if I had just experienced them today, and they still bring a lump to my throat and cause hatred to boil in my blood.
From outside, I detect the soft pad of footsteps approaching, and I sit a little straighter. The door opens and a thin, slightly bowed man walks in, not seeing me in the shadows. He locks the bolt behind him and takes off his jacket, tossing it onto a small table beside the entrance. He's aged since I saw him last. I imagine the last several months were very difficult for him.
"Hi, Frank,” I say.
I'm sitting in one of his dining chairs, alert, but feeling no imminent danger. Frank is many things, but a fighter isn't one of them. He would never dream of attacking me. Still, I'm cautious. I'm a wanted criminal, and I've just traipsed right back into my old lair.
The older man freezes the instant he becomes aware of my presence, his body stiffening, his eyes squinting to see into the darkness; he does the last thing I expect. Tears burst from his eyes and he runs across the room and pulls me out of my chair into a bear hug, crushing me to himself.
Now I'm the one who stiffens, unsure how to react to the unexpected show of emotion. None of my "father figures" had ever been much in the way of affectionate, and I'm unsure how to respond, but I also feel a sudden deep sense of closeness with this man I worked with for so long.
Frank was my primary contact when I was in the field as a Sweeper. He would track my movements and vitals throughout the unending nights of Fester hunting. He was always kind, a jokester, and I considered him a friend. But perhaps I had underestimated just how strongly he felt for me.
The grandfatherly man is several inches shorter than me, and his body feels thin and frail against my own, but his grip is strong. He finally pushes away and holds me at arm’s length, looking me up and down, before his eyes come to rest on my face.
"What are you doing here?" he says in a hoarse whisper. He wipes his tears away brusquely, then looks around as if someone else could be hiding in the shadows. "It's too dangerous, Cray. They could find you."
I'm still off balance from his reaction and can't stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth. "You're not afraid of me?"
His expression takes on an offended look, his words angry. "Why would I be afraid of you? Huh? Because you tried to kill Archer? That's bull crap. I've never believed that. I know you, boy, maybe as well as anyone. Maybe everybody else bought into those lies but not me.” He grips my shoulders tightly. “I know who you are inside, and you ain't no traitor. Besides, one thing's for sure, if you mean to kill somebody, you don't leave the job undone. If you really wanted to kill him, he would be dead."
I smile at the old man. “Thanks.” I believed I could trust Frank to remain loyal or else I wouldn’t have come here, but truthfully, there was a small part of me that was afraid he wouldn’t.
Frank releases me as if it's safe to let go now that he's said his peace.
"Which brings us back to my first question," he continues. "Why are you here? You don't put yourself in needless danger."
"I need help,” I say.
He rolls his eyes and sits down. “Well I didn’t think you came for coffee dumb-butt.”
I laugh and sit back down beside him. “Yeah, I guess not. I need supplies," I say. "I'm sure the code to the armory's been changed. I could break in, but it would save me time and effort if you would just give me the new one."
"Done," he says without hesitation. "But that's child's play for you. What do you really need?"
I take a deep breath. Frank’s perceptive. He knows I could get weapons and tactical gear someplace else. "What I really need is information."
"What kind of information?"
"How are things going around here?" I ask, dodging the question for the time. Now that I get to it, I’m a little worried about Frank’s reaction. “I assume I've been replaced?"
Frank gives me one of those squinty-eyed looks, but plays along.
"Yeah. Marek's here now."
"From Chicago? And who took his place?”
“Newbie,” Frank says.
That surprises me. “They put a newbie in Chicago?”
Of the refuge cities, Chicago, like New York, was considered a class one city based off of its size and population. Typically, new Sweepers didn’t go right to a class one city. Usually they worked for a while in one of the smaller ones before being moved up, not that any of the refuge cities were actually “small”.
Frank just shrugs as if to say, “I’m not the boss.”
"Marek’s not you,” he says, “but he's doing a good job. Talented kid, pretty nice around the office. Archer gave him your apartment. God knows why when they had a billion others available. Took 'em a week to clean it up. That place was a mess, buddy.” He gives me a hard look. “Want to tell me about it?"
Memories of Mira's bloodied, broken body flash through my mind, Eckert's head exploding from the gunshot.
"Not really," I say, averting my eyes as I force the memories aside. Along with those memories comes the ever-present gnawing of the beast that’s been devouring me from the inside out. The fact that Mira is dying, and what I have to do to save her. I clear my throat to hide the sudden gag reflex that threatens to make me heave. After a moment, I regain control and look back up at Frank. "Besides, you're safer not knowing."
He sighs and slides a little deeper into his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "That's what I figured. Since it happened, I've been keeping a low profile, not rocking the boat. I don't know what all went down, but I don't want Archer to get the idea I think he's a liar."
"You're right about that. And that’s why you need to forget I was ever here t
onight.” I might as well own up to the real reason I came to see Frank. “I need to know where to find him.”
Frank looks at the table and taps his fingers absentmindedly. I figure he’s processing all the possible reasons I might have for wanting to know Archer’s whereabouts.
"Are you going to kill him?" he asks finally. He's obviously disturbed at the prospect, but doesn't throw up an immediate objection. Maybe this was a bad idea, bringing him into this, but he’s the best chance I have of tracking Archer down. He has access to the man that few people do, but I notice again how old and tired he looks, and I feel guilty for the added strain I must be putting on him by placing him in this situation.
"Actually, no,” I lie, my conscience stinging. “At least, I don't intend to. But I need important information I think he has."
I feel like the ruse is completely idiotic, but Frank looks relieved. He may not trust Archer, he may even think he's the devil incarnate, but Frank's a good man uninterested in getting involved in something like murder, and if I can save him some psychological stress for now, so be it.
He gets up heavily, walks to the refrigerator, and comes back with a couple of sodas. He opens both and sets one in front of me before taking several long swallows of his own. He stares at the floor a while before coming to a decision.
"Ever since you left,” he says, “he's been holing up at the bunker. Hardly ever leaves. If you asked me, he's paranoid. Probably thinks you're going to come after him, which of course, you are."
“When you say he’s holed up there, are we talking a few days at a time, weeks?”
“Months, kid. Word is he’s only left a couple of times for brief stints. Both of those were trips to Atlanta. He’s hasn’t been to any of the other cities. Been running things like a recluse.”
That complicates things. The bunker is a slang reference for the S.T.F., the Sweeper Training Facility. It's where every Sweeper is trained, including me. It's also the headquarters of The Organization. It isn't the kind of place you can just walk into.
I take a minute to consider my options while Frank sips his drink. They're not good. I hate what I’m about to ask, but I don’t see another feasible way.
"In that case, I'm going to need a hacker – a good one. Anyone you could suggest? Someone from the black market?"
Crime and punishment are of a different nature post Virus. After the initial outbreak and subsequent devastation, the newly reformed government got brutal. They didn't have time anymore to worry about petty theft, misdemeanors, and minor infractions. So they came up with a solution. It was much like martial law, and the police force was all-powerful. In a way, it had to be, or it wouldn't have been effective. There were too few of them to keep the peace otherwise.
As a result, most crime disappeared fast. According to the new laws, if an officer even suspected someone of a violation, the person was shot on sight – murder suspects, shot on sight; thieves, shot on sight; jaywalkers, shot on sight. Okay, just kidding about the jaywalkers, but you get the picture.
However, organized crime and black marketing did still exist, and the players became more dangerous and cunning in direct proportion to the unrestrained brutality of the new police forces. But they're very well embedded, and you have to know where to look to find them. You need a lot of bargaining power, and if you cross them, death by Fester would be a mercy in comparison. If you plan to deal on the black market, you've got to be tough, smart, and have stones of steel.
"I don't know, Cray.” It’s obvious Frank isn’t keen on the idea. “You really want to mess around with those guys?"
"I can take care of myself. Just point me in the right direction."
Frank was my eyes and ears for years on patrols, and he knows the city in and out. Not just the physical city. He's been around a long time, knows people, and has built up a lot of contacts. He was never one to dabble in the black market, but that didn't mean he didn't know where to find them.
He’s still not happy about it, but I can see the resignation in his expression.
"There's someone I've heard of,” he says. “Calls himself Raven. Supposed to be as good as you can get with computer stuff. I know somebody that can probably get him a message, set up a meet for you."
"All right then," I say. "Let's do it. But make sure nothing can be traced back to you."
Chapter 9
First couple of problems solved. I know where to find Archer, and I now have weapons. Now on to the next issue – money. I need some, and lots of it. Too bad I didn't consider this possibility before leaving the fortress. I'm sure Damian has a few gazillion dollars holed up there somewhere, but it's too late now, and he certainly didn’t offer. I'm just going to have to make do. For that matter, I should have asked him for a gun too. For a smart guy, sometimes I’m an idiot.
Like I said, the black market is a rough bunch, but they’re not a gigantic singularity. In actuality, the term “black market” is just a catch-all phrase that refers to anyone or anything operating outside the realm of what's considered legal. All of the unsavory types: pimps, thieves, drug dealers, all the way up to the more traditional mob family type organizations. Together, they all comprise the black market.
I’ve had little contact with the black market types. One exception was the doctor that treated Mira’s injuries, but I would consider him more of a fringe vagrant, a doctor willing to look the other way for profit. But there was one other time.
Most people are too afraid to go against the law and roam the streets after dark for the simple fact that they don't want to be eaten by Festers, but black marketers thrive at night.
I was on a patrol on July 16 a year ago at 3:00 am. Having tracked what I thought was a pack of Festers into the ground level of the long-abandoned Chrysler building, I rounded a corner with guns raised and very nearly killed five men in their late teens and early twenties. I barely stopped myself from pulling the triggers. Instead, I had stumbled onto some type of clandestine meeting.
They were startled, but always aware of the possibility of Festers, they were all carrying and jerked their guns up. The room exploded in gunfire as I dived back around the corner. After a moment, the shooting stopped, and there was silence, the acrid smell of gunpowder hanging in the air like a fog.
Far away, I could hear the screech of Festers start up and knew they would be moving in the direction of the sound. I spoke before anyone decided to be stupid enough to approach the corner.
“Easy fellas,” I said. “I'm not a cop. I didn't mean to interrupt your little soiree.”
There was another moment of silence before a deep voice called back dubiously.
“Who are you, then? And why shouldn't we bust a cap in your head?”
Bust a cap? I rolled my eyes. Somebody had definitely been watching too many old thug movies.
“Three reasons,” I said. “First, I'm a Sweeper. Second, you would all be dead inside of ten seconds. Three, we've got a flock of Festers heading this way, and you don't want to be around when they show up.”
I could hear them whispering hurriedly.
“You think he's telling the truth?”
“Maybe. Probably. Even cops don't come out at night.”
“Dude, what about the stuff?”
“Are you a freaking idiot? You heard him. Those things will be here soon. We can do the deal someplace else, but I don’t wanna get my guts ripped out tonight by Festers.”
“Fine, fine, Chester. Let's just get outta here. I'll contact you again in a couple of days.”
Drug dealers most likely, I thought.
“How do we know you're telling the truth?” the deep voice asked again, directed towards me.
“Because I'm going to set my guns down and walk out with my hands up to show you can trust me, then I'm going to let you all walk, or preferably run, out of here. I'll stay and mop up the pack coming this way.”
It was a calculated risk, but I set my guns down on the floor and kicked them out from behind the corner where t
he group of men would be able to see them in the moonlight filtering in. Slowly, I eased out into the open, my hands up. From here I could see them all clearly enough to record their faces forever in my mind.
“Tick-tock boys.” I said.
They all continued staring for a few moments.
“Come on,” the deep voiced man finally said from directly in front of me, a huge brute of a guy with a crew cut and a t-shirt that was obviously meant to accentuate his bulging biceps. But despite his imposing appearance, he gave me a wide berth as he and the four others slipped cautiously by me, their guns still leveled at me in case I decided to double cross them.
The truth was, the moment I said I was a Sweeper, the nature of our encounter changed. They were right, cops didn't come out at night. Sure, the police knew there were deviants like these guys that took the risk, but if you were stupid enough to do it and the Festers got you, that was just less work they had to do later. Plus, nobody, not even the lowest of the low, would kill a Sweeper. Sweepers were perhaps the only group universally respected by everybody, whether old or young, rich or poor, upstanding citizen or criminal; Sweepers helped protect everyone.
I certainly didn’t approve of their career choices, but hunting down criminals was not my job, so I let them go. Of course, what they didn't know was that over the next several days I spent my spare time going through the citizen registry looking at all the photos of men with the first name Chester until I found the leader of the little rag-tag group. Once I had his name and info, I was able to identify his other associates, and I tipped off the police about their extra-curricular activities.
They were all eventually rounded up, with one exception: Chester. And considering the brutality and swift justice of the law that could have meant only one thing. He had connections. My best guess was that he had a family member or someone close to him high up in the police hierarchy. Someone was keeping him off the radar. After a while, I stopped checking up on him. After all, I had more pressing matters like staying alive every night. But now, I have an idea, and I hope good old Chester is still roaming free.
The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) Page 7
