Deep Silence

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Understood.”

  “Cowboy,” said Doc, “don’t move her until you see the car. We need to reduce the amount of additional trauma and shorten the time between moving her and getting her to the chopper.”

  “Understood,” I said again. “Do it. And don’t stop for coffee, Bug.”

  “Rolling. ETA seven minutes.”

  I told Auntie that help was on the way. Maybe she understood. Hard to tell with stroke victims. Sometimes the body dies by degrees while the mind remains alert and aware of the burning building in which it’s trapped.

  Seven minutes. We huddled together and waited for hope. I talked to her, got her to grunt. Even got her to laugh, kind of. Telling stupid stories about the weird stuff that happens on field ops. It did not take seven minutes. It took thirteen. I tried so hard not to take that as an ill omen.

  Then a voice in my ear said, “Cowboy, on your six.”

  I turned and saw Betty Boop come thumping over the cracked asphalt sixty yards away. The windshield was white with spiderweb cracks, the armored shell was streaked with dust and blood. It rolled as far as possible and stopped on the other side of an overturned news van.

  “Your carriage awaits, princess,” I said.

  Auntie looked confused, and I explained that I needed to carry her to the car. I padded that with too much technical information and a lot of preloaded apologies for how much it might hurt. Auntie’s fingers twitched, pointing to her slack mouth, so I bent and listened to what she was trying to tell me.

  “Stop…,” she gasped, slurring the word so that I had to reconstruct it phonetically, “being … such a … pussy … and just … f-f-fucking … do it.”

  I straightened and grinned down at her. There was a glitter of her old edge in one eye. Even then.

  “Yes, Auntie,” I said, and did not let her see my own tears.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  THE BUNKER

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “They don’t understand,” growled the president, shaking his cell phone at VanOwen. “How can they not understand? What are they? Stupid?”

  It’s okay. I’m fine.

  “A lot of them are,” agreed VanOwen. “A towering vision is hard for most people to grasp. History will explain it to them. That’s what is important.”

  The bunker was empty except for them and two agents. Everyone else had left to dive into crisis management. Most to the devastation, and a few to spin control.

  “My tweet was simple,” groused the president. “After all, I am the country and I wanted to reassure them that this will be business as usual, despite setbacks.”

  VanOwen did not even blink at the word “setbacks.” Her smile was pretty and accommodating and unbreakable. It was exactly the right wattage for him and it drew him like he were a moth.

  “The people will understand once they’re over their initial shock,” she said. “That’s why I think it would be best if you stayed off of social media for the rest of the day.”

  “No way, I—”

  “Please, Mr. President,” she said patiently, “it’s the best way to play this. If you dominate the conversation now, then you draw attention away from the rescue efforts. Even the corrupt news services are helping with relief efforts, posting locations of rescue stations, and sending out information. The best thing we can do is sit back and let the professionals do their jobs. Believe me, you’ll be thanked for your restraint and for the trust you show in the emergency responders. And then once the first responders have done their job, then you can step forward and show them the strength and presence that the public will need for comfort and optimism.”

  The president frowned and cast a longing look at his phone, then he nodded and put it away. “I should suspend trading, though. Have you seen the numbers?”

  Again VanOwen smiled and shook her head. “Surely you don’t want to blink now, Mr. President. You know how this works. Who better? The stock market goes up, it goes down, but it always levels off. If you suspend trading, then you validate the flight-to-safety fear that causes such swings. The most commanding play is to stand firm and make a visible statement that you believe in the enduring power of the American economy.”

  The president got up from the couch and walked across the bunker floor. His frown was deep, but he was nodding again.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ve decided to keep the stock market open.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  OVER BROOKLYN AIRSPACE

  The cabin of the AgustaWestland AW101 was so thoroughly soundproofed Church could hear the beating of his own heart. Faster than he wanted, but understandable. As the bird flew toward the airfield, he wondered at what speed his heart would need to beat for it to break. It was poetic music, which usually annoyed him, but he let it go without self-excoriation.

  Aunt Sallie, he mused, and felt the deep ache.

  If she died, then she would become another of the ghosts that haunted him. She should have retired years ago. Definitely after that time assassins nearly killed her at her condo during the Predator One affair. Church had allowed her to bully him into keeping her active; he’d agreed to it out of compassion, but also because he was selfish. The war required him to be selfish, to keep in play those assets that gave him the best chance of winning. It would take ten people to replace Aunt Sallie. Her insight, her judgment, her experience … those things made her invaluable.

  Now she was going away.

  Brick poured tea for both of them and handed Church a cup. His dark, wise eyes scanned Church’s face.

  “She’s going to be a tough act to follow,” he said.

  If it was anyone else, those words might have sounded insensitive. Burying the body before it stopped breathing. But Brick got a pass because Brick understood. The war was the war. Soldiers fell. The war did not allow time to stop and mourn, because a pause is also a moment of inattention. His comment had nothing at all to do with whether she would live or die. It was all about the needs of the moment.

  When Church did not comment, Brick said, “Body count is rising. No word at all from POTUS. Not directly. He wasn’t hurt and they got him to safety, but he hasn’t made a statement yet beyond that one tweet. Kind of weird. Seems like a good time for a hand at the wheel.”

  “Yes,” said Church. The chopper flew on.

  They both put on headsets and plugged into the MindReader Q1 communications network. There were a lot of calls to be made. Brick coordinated with the Hangar and the Warehouse to make sure that the DMS field teams were putting the right resources into play. Church made calls to friends in various industries, arranging for the highest-quality medical experts to begin heading to D.C. Cost was no object, and any logistical issue was dealt with.

  He called Junie Flynn, who had returned that morning from one of her many trips to field test or implement the technologies entrusted to her by the DMS.

  “Miss Flynn,” began Church.

  “Call me Junie, for God’s sake,” she pleaded. “We’re practically family.”

  “Junie,” he conceded, “you’re right. We are family. Captain Ledger—Joe—has had a challenging day. Details are unfolding and some can’t be shared at the moment. He has some minor injuries, but that’s all we know. He is taking care of Aunt Sallie and I will make sure he calls you at the first opportunity.”

  There was a pause and Church let her process things. Then she said, “I want to ask you a question. You may not be able to answer me. I understand that there are some things you can’t talk about.”

  “Ask anyway,” he said quietly.

  “I’m watching the news right now. They’re showing people fighting in the streets during the earthquake. Killing each other.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not normal, even during a crisis like this. People attacking each other, I mean. Killing themselves.”

  “It’s unusual.”

  “It’s not normal,” she repeated. “And right before the earthquake, t
he Speaker of the House killed himself. Tell me … is this a DMS case? One of your, um, special cases?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because for the last five nights I’ve been having strange dreams.”

  “What kind of dreams?” asked Church.

  “Before I tell you,” said Junie, “I want you to remember my background. My history. I want you to remember who and, more to the point, what I am.”

  “I remember,” said Church. Junie Flynn had come into his life, and that of Captain Ledger, during the Extinction Machine case. She was a woman with exceptional abilities, including an exceptional intelligence as well as eidetic memory and hyperthymesia—a superior autobiographic memory. These were not gifts from random genetics but actual features designed into Junie and hundreds of children like her as part of a breeding program run by Majestic Three. The goal was to create potential pilots for T-craft. People who were mostly human but who had a small percentage of DNA harvested from the pilots of crashed vehicles of unknown origin. “What were your dreams?”

  “I dreamed I was standing in a field of wildflowers somewhere. It was in the States. Don’t know how I knew that, but I was sure of it. The sky was on fire and dark clouds covered the sun. The whole landscape was shaking. It was an earthquake, but not exactly like one. It was more like there was a thunderstorm beneath my feet, inside the ground on which I stood. People were screaming and running and dying, catching fire or choking, and the sky above me was filled with T-craft.” Junie stopped, and when Church said nothing, she continued. “It was a very vivid dream, though also surreal. Now, I know you’re going to tell me that it’s just a dream, but…”

  “No,” said Church, “that’s not what I’m going to say.”

  “I know that M3 is gone and all the T-craft destroyed.”

  Church said nothing.

  “But,” continued Junie, “as soon as I heard about the earthquake, the dream came right back to me. It’s like a punch in the brain. It reminded me of the dreams I had when Joe was sick after he got back from Antarctica. During the Kill Switch thing. I told Rudy about my dreams. And Joe. I dreamed that he was running on a beach on some alien world and a gigantic monster was hovering in the sky. You know what monster I’m talking about. With stubby wings and a beard of writhing tentacles. You know. The one the pulp fiction writers called Cthulhu.”

  “Yes,” said Church faintly.

  “Joe had dreams of it, too, and in his dream there were T-craft in the sky. Not ships made by Majestic Three. Original design. Now I’m dreaming of those ships in our world, and the sky is burning. There’s an earthquake. Now we have an earthquake in Washington while Joe’s there. I … I can’t believe it’s a coincidence.”

  There was a soft tone and the pilot’s voice filled the air. “Coming up on it.”

  Church leaned over to look out of the windows. Below, the Gulfstream G650 that had once belonged to Hugo Vox sat waiting on an airstrip. A fuel truck was trundling away from it and a signal was waving the chopper to a spot on the grass nearby.

  To Junie, he said, “We need to have a longer conversation about this. Take Joe’s jet and fly to Brooklyn. I want you to tell Doc Holliday every detail you can remember about your dream.”

  “Why? Am I right? Is there something about the T-craft and the earthquake?”

  “Every detail,” repeated Church. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”

  He ended the call, aware that Brick was staring at him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  THE CAPITOL BUILDING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  There is a concept of “exquisite pain,” which is a level of agony coupled with an absolute precision of awareness in every nerve ending that transcends discomfort. It has a kind of perfection to it, a beauty for those who appreciate things at their absolute best. This is not a masochistic thing. No, it’s closer to an understanding of the techniques of how a great painting was rendered or a beautiful clock constructed. If you feel it and do not pass out, or pass into the bluntness of screaming, then you truly grasp the precise mechanics of pain.

  That was what I felt as I squatted to pick Aunt Sallie up.

  She tried to help, tried to loop her good arm around my neck in order to transfer some of her weight to my frame. She tried to stiffen her body to give me better leverage. She tried. There was simply not enough of her left to help.

  I raised her improbably heavy body and felt the swords of agony strike deep. The first step was the worst because the level of intensity was unexpected. And I immediately knew that my assessment was wrong. The second step was worse. And the third.

  The car was a million miles away and receding. I felt a sob break in my chest before I was half the way there. Felt Auntie begin to slip.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, but there was no breath for making those words audible.

  She clung to me with failing strength, and as her muscular strength ebbed, her body seemed to become heavier. Holding her was going to be impossible long before I reached Betty Boop. We both knew it.

  My knees tried to buckle with each step. Blood boiled in my ears and there was a feeling in my muscles like violin strings being played to the breaking point. I could almost hear them. My lower back was a ball of fiery heat. Black and red flowers blossomed in the air in front of my eyes.

  And then a shadow passed in front of me. I blinked through tears and saw a man there. Young, black, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt under a red-and-blue Washington Wizards jacket. Maybe twenty years old, but with a hard face that was much older. Some scars on his skin and in his eyes. The kind of guy that my white upscale urban genes wanted to categorize, because even with people of good intentions there is often a latent xenophobia, a hardwired racism.

  He looked at me and at the burden I carried. His face was without expression, telling me nothing at all.

  “I got her, yo,” he said.

  I studied him. “She had a stroke.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Her face.”

  “My car is over there.” He looked where I nodded.

  “Yeah. I got you.”

  He said that to her, not to me. Same thing, though. He reached out and took Aunt Sallie from me. Her weight surprised him. He hissed and groaned and gasped, but he took her.

  I sagged down to my knees.

  “You hurt?”

  “Tore my … back…,” I wheezed.

  “That’s fucked up.”

  That was all he said. He turned away and staggered with her to my car. The doors opened for him, and if he was surprised he didn’t say a word. I struggled up and followed and caught up in time to help him put her in the backseat. Aunt Sallie was nearly gone now and could not even speak. That one eye still saw me. Saw him.

  With trembling fingers, I reached for my wallet, and immediately saw a look of utter contempt and profound disappointment on the young man’s face.

  “Shit,” he breathed, but I shook my head, removed a business card, and offered it to him. “Fuck’s this? I didn’t ask for shit.”

  “Take it,” I said. “Please.”

  He hesitated and then did. There was my name and a phone number.

  “You ever need anything, I don’t care what it is, call me. Day or night. Someone will always answer that call.”

  “You Five-Oh?”

  “I’m grateful to meet a friend,” I said, and offered my hand. He looked at it for a moment, shrugged, shook it, and stepped back. I struggled behind the wheel and he closed the doors. Calpurnia started the engine and drove us away.

  I turned a few times to see if he was there, but the young man was gone.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  FORT RENO PARK

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The two agents in black suits stood side by side near their vehicle and watched the burning city.

  One of them held a small device, and he held it up as if scanning the devastation. They leaned close to study the details that scrolled sideways on the screen, running from
left to right in a stream of symbols.

  Both of them frowned.

  They looked at each other.

  They both flinched as something exploded half a block away. They whirled to see the trunk lid of a parked Toyota Camry go flying into the air, twisted and scorched, pushed into the air by a fist of burning smoke. For a moment there seemed to be a crackle of bright lightning within the cloud, but then it paled to ordinary grayness. The trunk lid thumped down and lay on the debris from shattered car windows and collapsed walls.

  The agents glanced at each other for a moment, and then ran toward the car. The one with the scanner raised it again. They skidded to a stop and looked into the ruined trunk to see a heap of slag that ran like mercury until it slowed and cooled into a shapeless nothing.

  Their frowns deepened. The lightning had been as intense as thermite, but it had not been white or even blue-white. The glow had been a lambent green.

  “Fahf ah or’azath,” said the taller of the two. He had a network of fading pink scars on his face.

  “H’ ah og or’azath,” agreed his companion. “Ahf’ ah cahff apes ah?”

  The one with the scanner lowered it and looked out across the city. There was a second small explosion accompanied by a flash of green. Far away to their left. And then another. And another.

  “C’ mgep l’ ah,” he said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  COURTYARD BY MARRIOTT—NEW CARROLLTON

  LANDOVER, MARYLAND

  Valen and Ari met with a small group of agents provided by Gadyuka. Nondescript but capable-looking people who’d long ago been seeded into American society. They had jobs, friends, lives, and secrets.

  They were the kind of people who, Valen was sure, could probably laugh and love and appear totally plausible to anyone who knew them; but now they were on the job. None of them smiled. None of them showed a thing.

  Valen walked over to the dresser under the TV, opened a door, and knelt in front of the small room safe. He punched in the code and removed a stack of disposable cell phones. Each of the agents accepted one, and Valen gave one to Ari and kept the last.