Armageddon Heights (a thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

‘A holy man? You’re pissing up my back. A man like Cain has some kind of priest?’

  ‘More like a shaman.’

  Wade gave an icy laugh. ‘Tell me I’m going to wake up soon. This is utter madness!’

  ‘In spite of outward appearances, Cain and his not-so-little community have a strong quasi-religious belief system in place. Like all people across all time, at some point they need some kind of spiritual belief to hang onto in times of great distress and need. If it doesn’t exist they’ll invent one, or they’ll adapt one. Cain and his charges observe something akin to the beliefs of ancient warrior-like peoples like the Vikings. They have a number of Gods, one for each of the Twelve Laws they created. The Twelve Laws govern everything they do, and so they must make special reference to each of the twelve gods. Ensuring that the gods are consulted is the Magwer. Basically a one-man judicial system. Judge, jury and executioner all rolled up into one. Cain may command one thing, but his Magwer may decree another. It’s a system of belief that has been fine-tuned ever since the Fall, a period of at least two hundred and fifty years or more.’

  ‘The Fall? So what’s that exactly?’

  ‘The beginning of all this. The time the bombs fell in 1962.’

  ‘Keegan, you’re not making sense. What bombs?’

  ‘The A-bombs.’

  ‘Now you really are crazy,’ said Wade. ‘There were no A-bombs dropped in the 1960s. Just those two on Nagasaki and Hiroshima.’

  ‘I’m afraid to say there were. Lots of them. What you see up there – the desert – and the men down here, all are products of that vast nuclear destruction of apocalyptic proportions which was so huge it shifted the Earth off its axis, created a nuclear winter that devastated the planet and all life on it. But, as you can see, a few people survived, clawing out a living as best they could. You see the results of that in Cain and his brood. The survivors banded together into collectives that eventually became tribes, of sort, each with their own territory, their own unique way of scratching out a living, their own culture. In the case of Cain’s Territory it’s underground; in others it’s caves in mountainsides or cliffs – anywhere to escape the searing heat of the day and the freezing temperatures of night. That’s what Armageddon Heights is; a collection of huge territories we call sectors with precious few people surviving in them. It’s a hell-on-earth with far more horrors in it than you can imagine.’

  ‘I’m not falling for that, Keegan. I know what I know, and history tells me that no such thing happened. You’re either lying or I’m so fucked-up in the head I’m hallucinating all this.’

  ‘October 27th 1962. The day the world as we knew it ended and Armageddon Heights began,’ she said. ‘The day an American U2 plane was shot down by the Russians during the Cuban missile crisis. America’s decision to put missiles in Italy and Turkey with which to target Moscow, and which caused Russia to respond by placing missiles in Cuba, thereby threatening America, lit the touch-paper that eventually blew the world apart. There was no resolution between President Kennedy and Premier Khrushchev, no talk of mutually assured destruction and the last-minute backing down of both parties. In this history, the world ended, two nations unleashing the full destructive power of bombs hugely more powerful than anything that fell on Japan. That was two hundred and fifty years ago. And the end result is what you see all round you now. In short: Armageddon Heights.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ said Wade. ‘Total bollocks! And next you’ll be telling me those creatures, those bonesnappers, came about as a result of that nuclear aftermath.’

  ‘That’s right. They’re a genetic mutation. Some people call them mutoids.’

  Wade laughed again. ‘None of that is true, and you know it…’ he scoffed. But his mind ran over what he’d seen; old pre-war cars buried in the desert, grenades, rifles and Cain’s Webley revolver – all Second World War issue. At least that somehow made sense now. He shook away the irrational thoughts. ‘I don’t buy any of it. It all sounds like the plot of a naff science fiction B-movie, or something lifted straight out of a kid’s comic book. Genetic mutations? A-bombs dropped in 62? Come on, Keegan, you can’t expect me to believe all that shit. I want the truth. The real truth. I’m sleeping, right? Drugged-up or something. None of this is real. It’s all in my head, right? This place, Cain, the desert, you – I’ve got to be in a coma, maybe. Did I have an accident, is that it?’

  She sighed. It sounded like the moaning of a spirit lost in the dark. ‘There is more, Wade. But like I say, you’re not quite ready to hear it all now.’

  ‘I’m more than ready,’ he growled.

  ‘You’re not going to like it,’ she warned.

  ‘There’s nothing about all this I like. How much worse can it get?’

  Silence.

  ‘Keegan? You OK?’ he said after a few seconds passed. ‘Come on, don’t do this to me. I’ve got to know…’

  ‘Trust me, it can – it will – get far worse for you…’ she said. ‘Some take it better than others.’

  ‘Some? Other people like me, is that what you’re saying? You’re losing me again,’ he said. ‘Just come clean and tell me what’s happening to me and how I can get back home.’

  That same, charged silence again. ‘I’m sorry; you’ll never get home, Wade.’

  ‘The hell I won’t,’ he returned fervently. ‘One way or another, I’m getting out of this.’

  ‘You can’t,’ she said patiently, ‘because your home as you knew it, the life you had, or thought you had, your wife, your child – none of it ever existed…’

  27

  Mind Games

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Dale Lindegaard, sitting back in the soft leather rear seat of the limousine, had a ghost of a smile on his lips, his eyes staring straight ahead, as if looking upon another scene entirely; a delicious memory, perhaps, which he was taking the time to savour in all its melting detail. His aftershave didn’t so much waft over to Robert Napier but engulf him, dominating the confined space. It was faintly feminine, Napier thought, and prodded his mind to dredge up his own fleeting memories of days long ago, before he met Melissa Lindegaard; memories of someone, somewhere, with whom he’d spent a warm, comforting night that seemed to last forever. And, like the night itself, the flimsy memory didn’t last and was torn like wisps of early-morning mist upon the sharp boughs of his unease.

  Lindegaard was dressed in his familiar cream suit, wearing an emerald-green tie against a scarlet shirt, diamond cufflinks sparking playfully as he reached up and smoothed back his glossy white hair over his ear. He turned to Napier and the smile broadened.

  ‘Don’t look so on edge all the time, Robert. You’re always on edge these days. It will do nothing for your heart.’

  A message had come through from Lindegaard’s secretary to Napier that he had to meet with the old man first thing in the morning – 6.30 a.m. sharp – outside the Power Tower. He was collected by Lindegaard’s chauffer, taken to the Dorchester, where Lindegaard had been entertaining business clients the night before, and a cheery Lindegaard greeted Napier affably enough as they entered the limousine. But Napier sensed something had shifted in their relationship, like a slight tremor beneath the surface of the earth that foretells hidden movement. Of course, Dale Lindegaard was far too shrewd a man to let it show, even though Napier was desperately trying to read the situation – the tiny muscle movements of the big man’s plump, pink face; the manner in which he rested his hands upon his thighs; or the relaxed position of his body pressing against the car seat. But he could not read anything into any of it, and he sensed Lindegaard’s smile was his way of displaying he knew it. Or maybe he was reading too much into that, too.

  ‘I take it there’s still no sign of that traitor Levoir,’ Lindegaard offered at last.

  ‘You’d be the first to know if there was, Mr Lindegaard,’ Napier assured.

  Lindegaard made a sound like he was about to clear his throat, but didn’t. ‘Here we are,’ he said as the car pulled up at the
side of the road.

  Napier frowned, but refrained from commenting. He knew it was unwise to question him. The chauffer opened the door for them. Lindegaard told the immaculately dressed man to wait for him and proceeded without delay to the smart, modern-looking glass-fronted building. Above the doors was a huge sign – Mindgames, it declared in powerful white letters. A suited man greeted them at the door, hardly daring to look Lindegaard in the eye as he opened the door for them both and followed them through into the lobby.

  ‘It’s an honour, Mr Lindegaard!’ he said, almost genuflecting in his subservience.

  Lindegaard didn’t acknowledge him. He might have been a fly hovering just a little too close; not quite close enough to be irritating but on the verge of becoming so. The men strode across the lobby, a smartly-attired woman bearing manikin-immaculate makeup asking if they’d like refreshments bringing up. Lindegaard, Napier noticed wryly, didn’t ignore her, but instead took a hold of her dainty hand and lifted it to his lips, which brushed ever so slightly against it, as gently as a whisper brushes against the ear.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘that is so kind of you, but we do not have the time. We shall go straight up, if we may.’

  Was that a blush on the young woman’s cheeks? Napier wondered how the old man did it. But there again, to be worth a few billion does help, he thought cynically.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Lindegaard, but what are we doing here?’ Napier ventured at last as they ascended in an elevator, soft music playing.

  ‘It does one good,’ he said, ‘to remind one what is important in life. Don’t you think?’

  Napier nodded. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘There you go again,’ Lindegaard said, ‘looking so ill-at-ease. Perhaps it is time you thought about taking a holiday.’

  The lift came to a halt and they were met on the other side of the door by yet another smartly turned-out man in a crisp suit and tie. ‘This way, Mr Lindegaard,’ he said, his bottom looking pinched as he trotted off in front. Some way down the corridor he paused, swung round with a flourish and opened a door. ‘All yours, sir.’

  ‘How full are we today?’ Lindegaard asked.

  ‘Packed to the rafters, sir!’ he enthused. ‘Are you here about the expansion to the premises, sir?’

  ‘None of your business,’ Lindegaard said bluntly and entered the room, Napier following close behind. ‘Do not disturb us,’ he ordered and closed the door.

  The room was bare and in darkness, except for two chairs strategically placed before a long window at the far end of the room, a window covered over by blinds. Lindegaard went over to the window and pressed a button. The blinds began to open, like a curtain before a cinema screen. He waved for Napier to sit down on one of the seats.

  Framed in the lengthy oblong window was another room. But this was brightly lit and stretched out beneath them – for they were high up and looking down onto it – like the inside of a colossal aircraft hanger. It was filled with line upon line and row upon row of reclining chairs in padded black leather, each chair occupied by someone looking to be fast asleep. Their ages and genders varied – men, women, old, young, and everywhere in between. Beside each chair was a small table upon which sat a computer, the only indication that they were working being the blinking of a tiny red light on each. Slowly, silently, carefully, attentively, people dressed in uniform cream – Lindegaard’s telltale colour – passed down the many rows attending to the computers, ensuring all was well on one before moving on to the next. And more people, dressed in black, were helping others onto chairs, settling them down and making them comfortable before swabbing their arms and injecting them with hypodermic needles, customer-friendly smiles decorating their faces as the people on the chairs closed their eyes and appeared to fall asleep like the others. Then someone dressed in cream would check the computers and give the signal that all would be well.

  ‘How many do you think are down there?’ said Lindegaard.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Napier admitted, trying to do a rough headcount. ‘A thousand?’

  ‘One thousand four hundred. And we’re expanding this particular facility to take three thousand.’

  So what? Was he supposed to gasp in admiration? What was Lindegaard up to? He’d seen all this before. There was nothing new in seeing punters being doped up with tremethelene. ‘I am well aware of our expansion, Mr Lindegaard,’ he said, failing to hide his irritation.

  ‘And how many such facilities do we have globally, Robert?’

  ‘Is this an examination, Mr Lindegaard?’ he replied lightly enough, but he couldn’t hide his testiness. He sighed. ‘To date we have five thousand seven hundred.’

  ‘And with an average of two thousand customers per facility that makes…?’

  ‘Eleven million, four hundred thousand at any one time, Mr Lindegaard.’

  ‘With one new facility being opened up how often?’ Lindegaard asked.

  ‘Sir, you know how many…’

  ‘With one new facility being opened up how often?’ he persisted.

  ‘One every month,’ he said.

  ‘One every month,’ Lindegaard echoed. ‘Even without the expansion, with every customer using a facility for an average of two days each, that’s about seven thousand customers per week per facility. Which currently means forty million people per week globally. Over two billion people per year.’

  ‘That’s a lot of people,’ Napier said, trying to inject a little enthusiasm. ‘I’m more than aware of what our current growth rate is, Mr Lindegaard.’

  ‘It’s not only about the money, Robert,’ he said thoughtfully, watery eyes looking upon the recumbent ranks of stupefied people. ‘Many think it is only the money that motivates me. But it is not. Look at them all, Robert; see how they crave release from the drudgery, the hopelessness of their lives. I give them that, Robert. I offer an exciting adrenaline-inducing alternative to the bland and soul-sapping ordinariness of the everyday. They look to me for salvation, almost as if they look upon me as their saviour. And indeed, after a fashion, that is what I am. Their saviour.’ He glanced at Napier.

  There was mischief in Lindegaard’s eye and Napier didn’t know whether the old man actually believed what he was saying or not. ‘It has been likened to religious fervour by some,’ Napier admitted. ‘Sad acts of desperation by others. Glorified drunkenness, one influential critic said. Sanctioned drug-induced euphoria, waffled another.’

  ‘I’m so glad you are there to filter out the nasty reviews before I see them,’ Lindegaard said brightly. But his face dropped cold and serious almost at once. ‘I have governments lined up against me,’ he grumbled. ‘All intent on shutting me down. The walls of our once powerful fortress are starting to crumble, and I fear very soon they will be irreparably breached.’

  ‘You have others welcoming the income and employment you bring,’ Napier countered.

  ‘Global market domination means just that, Robert. It doesn’t mean being forced out into the margins. CSL…’

  ‘They won’t do that, sir. I won’t allow it.’

  ‘They can bring me down.’ He rubbed his stomach. ‘They have given me ulcers. Damn them! But I won’t let them continue to nibble away at me, Robert. Too much is at stake. And what use is having billions at my disposal if I cannot deal with the CSL irritation effectively? Just when I think we have them within our grasp, they kick me in the stomach again. This Cobalt – how far are we from catching him?’

  ‘He may not even exist, sir.’

  ‘He exists alright. I feel him here, in my gut, his putrid little fist squeezing away at it, keeping me awake nights. Why the hell did you not see through Levoir?’

  Napier shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘I could have been very angry with you, Robert.’

  ‘I know, sir.’

  ‘But I know you will come through in the end.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring, Mr Lindegaard, to know I have your trust.’

  Lindegaard waved hi
s hand at the window. ‘These people – they all depend upon you, as much as they depend upon me.’

  Napier surveyed the scene. He never liked seeing it. There was something wretched watching so many people strapping themselves to a seat, being hooked up to a computer and being injected with chemicals in order to escape the moribund reality of their everyday lives. He felt infinite sorrow for their gross delusions.

  There was a tentative knock at the door. Lindegaard bade enter. It was a young woman. She looked awkwardly from Lindegaard to Napier.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Lindegaard, there’s an urgent call come through from New Mexico for Mr Napier, on the secure line.’

  ‘He’ll take it here,’ Lindegaard said, waving her away. He turned to Napier. ‘Progress, Robert?’

  ‘I hope so, Mr Lindegaard,’ he replied, walking over to a wall-mounted phone that rang as he got to it.’

  ‘Put it on speaker, Robert,’ Lindegaard insisted, his hands behind his back.

  ‘Mr Napier?’ The voice sounded very hollow and distant over the tiny speaker.

  ‘Yes. Have we got a result?’ he said, aware of Lindegaard’s burning stare.

  ‘We’ve pinned down CSL’s probable target. It’s someone called Samuel Wade. He’s gone off-piste, taking an entire coach load of others with him.’

  ‘Why wasn’t that seen until now?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, but my guess is they have some kind of firewalls in place that prevented us from discovering it till now. We worked out a possible heading and we came across another significant disturbance in a zone called Cain’s Territory.’

  ‘He’s crossed over the border?’ said Napier.

  ‘It looks like it. We also managed to pin down where the CSL signal is coming from, and they’re bang on top of Wade’s signal. And both of them are slap bang in the middle of Cain’s underground city. The longer they stay there the more damage they’ll do…’

  ‘I don’t need to be told that!’ Napier snapped, feeling his neck get hot under the collar. ‘Have you redirected the Sentinels into Cain’s Territory?’