by Jim Heskett
He jogged over the skybridge to the main terminal, and when he came upon the security screening area, his eyes ballooned. Thirty of Castillo’s people had formed a ring in the middle of the bunks, and two men at the center were circling each other, with clubs in their hands. Their bare chests sported at least a dozen bruises each.
Anders dashed down the escalator, waving his hands and shouting. “Stop it! Stop what you’re doing right this second.”
Some of the people turned to look at Anders, but the two in the middle didn’t stop their dance. One swung his club at the other, connecting with a shoulder. The crowd cheered at the blow.
“What the hell is going on here?” Anders said as he reached the edge of the ring and pushed himself inside.
“Ration competition,” a young man said with a raised eyebrow, as if Anders should obviously know what this was by the sight of it.
Anders shoved people out of the way to push himself to the inner area of the fighting ring. “You two will stop fighting right now. We have no room for this kind of crap. You should either be training or resting, not fighting with each other.”
“Who the hell are you to tell us what to do?” said an anonymous voice from the crowd.
“I’m Peter Anders, damn it, Vice President of the United States.”
A few mumbles went around the group. The two men in the center paused their fight but didn’t disperse. Their eyes flicked between each other and Anders, waiting for something to happen.
“We answer to General Castillo, sir, and he’s not around,” one of the battlers said.
“Castillo is out on a mission that I sent him on, you idiot. He answers to me, so you answer to me, if that wasn’t clear enough. If Castillo isn’t present, who is second in command here?”
“That would be me,” said the other battler, a man with arms like tree trunks, covered in tattoos. “My name is Nadall.”
“You listen up, Nadall, you are to tell everyone here to get back to their routines and to quit screwing around. You are an officer of the United States army now, and you need to keep discipline at the forefront of every waking thought. I know where you came from… where all of you came from, and what you’re doing now is something real and significant. Don’t forget where your loyalties lie and the future we’re trying to build.”
With that, he left them and trudged back up the escalator. By the time he’d reached B concourse, LaVey was standing there, his hands clenched and worry etched into his face.
“What’s going on?” LaVey said. “Is there something I need to do?”
“Nothing is going on, so you can go back to sleep. I took care of it.”
Anders believed the situation was handled for now, but he also knew that if Castillo didn’t get back soon, those savages in the terminal would mutiny and burn the whole plan to the ground. And with it, the future of America.
5
Coyle hadn’t seen Chicago since before the meteor business, but he’d heard plenty about it. A city divided into two halves, with a massive wall separating the population on either side. Northies and Southies. A wall also ran around the southern edge of the city, but as he and Logan watched from the roof of a broken car on I-94 a quarter mile back, this wall didn’t seem so imposing, and not as well-guarded. He counted less than a dozen uniformed men clanking along the metal grates, hoisting AK-47 assault rifles into the air.
Coyle checked his briefcase for supplies. They’d had to trade more of the Amoxicillin than he’d liked to get here, but their selection of transportation had been sparse. DC was mostly a ghost town, so they’d had to make do and take an offer from a driver with a shabby minivan that looked at least thirty years old. At least it had gotten them into Illinois with no stops for engine troubles. Roadside stops left you too vulnerable to the highway scavengers.
“Maybe this is all pointless,” Coyle said. “I heard there was a break in the fence somewhere in Nebraska, so maybe we don’t need to mess with this pass business at all.”
“Do you know where in Nebraska?”
Coyle shook his head.
“And we probably don’t have time to go looking for it.”
“Probably not.” Coyle took the 9mm and a box of ammo, then began to load a clip.
“Whoa, there, what are you doing?” Logan said.
“I’m preparing.”
“They’ll search us at the gate. Besides, it’s not going to be necessary. Compared to the wall at the middle, these guys are pussycats, so just show ‘em that card, and we’ll be right as rain.”
What an odd saying. “Where are you from, kid?”
“Oklahoma, originally. But I’ve been all over, ever since the meteor. Border crossings are my specialty, so you’re lucky I’m here with you.”
Coyle grumbled. “I feel better already. Let’s do this, then.”
Coyle stashed the briefcase and the envelope in the car, save for a few items, which he stuffed into his pockets. Couldn’t decide about the gun, but maybe the kid had a point about being searched. If they needed a firearm, they could find ways to acquire one within the city limits.
They walked the last five hundred feet of highway toward the gate, hands in the air.
“The middle gate is much nicer,” Logan said. This gate protecting the south of the city was mostly patchwork metal and tin and car parts, reaching maybe thirty feet into the air.
“Where did Chalmers get her army?” Coyle said.
“Some locals, some were brought in from New York and other places. A lot of Virginia militia came here when that dried up, but most of them were gang members. Red Streets, they used to be called. Chalmers gave them all titles and weapons and training.”
When they’d reached within shouting distance of the gate, the guards at the top took notice. They all formed into an evenly-spaced line and raised their AK-47s.
“So, what’s your deal?” Logan said.
“My deal?”
“Yeah, why did you volunteer to track down LaVey? Is this some kind of personal glory thing or just a regular-old suicide mission type of thing?”
“What’s your deal, kid?”
With his hands still in the air, Logan shrugged. “I needed to get out of DC and away from Dave and Isabelle, to be honest. They’re really intense and are always ordering me around like I’m their indentured servant or something. Plus, since we’re going out to Colorado, I heard about this group of guys living west of Denver, up in the mountains. Like a commune, kinda. My friend Quentin told me about it. We were going to go together someday, but I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Civilians! Approach the gate,” barked one of the guards.
“Let me handle this,” Logan said out of the corner of his mouth.
They came within a couple dozen feet, close enough for Coyle to see the expressions on the faces of the men on the wall. Not welcoming, for sure.
“State your business in South Chicago.”
Logan took a step forward, separating himself from Coyle. “I have a message from Dave Carter and Isabelle Carter, for Boss Chalmers.”
Two of the guards flicked the safeties off their weapons. Coyle surveyed his options. A broken-down car sat five feet to his left, and he could probably duck behind it if he moved fast enough. With his gun stashed behind him, though, hiding didn’t do much good.
“What’s the message?” said a guard.
Logan shook his head. “It’s for Chalmers only. I have special instructions not to tell anyone else.”
The guards looked at each other, then one of them disappeared behind the wall. A few seconds later, the doors at the center of the gate opened, and a lone man with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder emerged.
Something behind them rustled, and Coyle looked over his shoulder. Between DC and here, there’d been no sign of the sniper from the top of the Lincoln Memorial, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t back there somewhere. Waiting and watching, taking stock of Coyle’s plans.
The guard stopped a few feet from Logan. “Yo
u look familiar,” he said. Then he pointed at Coyle. “But you, I don’t know. If this one says he has a message, then what’s your business here? Does it take two of you to deliver a message?”
“I’m the bodyguard,” Coyle said, and the guard laughed. Fifteen years ago, in the field, he could talk anyone into anything. He had once persuaded an Arab prince to turn over evidence of his father’s illegal weapons dealings with Pakistan, even though the prince faced death for doing so. Now, Coyle seemed so rusty he didn’t think he could talk a wet dog into coming inside a house. “If Chalmers doesn’t get this message, it’ll be your ass.”
The guard pursed his lips, then smirked. “That supposed to intimidate me?”
“You still got a Walker named Quentin that works the middle wall?” Logan said.
“No,” the guard said, not taking his eyes from Coyle. “He’s no longer employed by Ms. Chalmers.”
Logan shifted his eyes, and Coyle feared mentioning his friend had been a bad move.
“Have ID?” the guard said.
Logan passed the card and the guard held it at arm’s length, squinting at the tiny type. “Tell you what,” he said. “Your pass is good until tomorrow, so you can enter the city until then. You’ll be assigned an escort, and you can tell your message to him. You will not get an audience with Boss Chalmers, and you will not go anywhere the escort says you are not allowed to go, or you will be tossed out of the city with more holes than you came in here with. I can promise you that.”
6
A man in military fatigues greeted them on the other side of the gate. He had a pencil-thin mustache and a shaved head. Big biceps and a fuck you look chiseled onto his face.
He gave them both a cursory frisk, under the arms, around the waist, and then up and down each leg. “Follow me.”
Coyle and Logan pushed through a procession of massive tents filled with men at tables looking over maps. Each time they passed a group huddled over some documents, the men shielded the information from view and held tight until these strangers had passed.
“What do you think’s going on there?” Logan whispered to Coyle.
Coyle figured they were battle plans, based on the secrecy they’d ascribed to it. But, if the plans were so secret, they wouldn’t have allowed Coyle and Logan to be in here in the first place. Unless these people never intended to let them out alive. That was the most likely reason. “They’re planning an attack.”
They emerged from the last tent flap out into the open city. Stank a lot worse than Coyle remembered, but that breezy moist air still felt the same as the last time he’d visited. Tall brick buildings flanked each side of the street, with heads poking out of windows to spy the street below. Clotheslines ran from building to building.
The man led them to the steps of a hotel, then paused before letting them inside. “We’re going to walk in there and turn left past the reservation desk, into a conference room. That’s where you’re going to pass along this message. If anything happens I don’t like, I’m going to break all four of your arms. Understand?”
“I understand,” Coyle said.
“Before we go in there, is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Nope.”
“Alright then.” He waved them on to take the lead, and they stepped inside an old hotel with thick patterned carpet underfoot and twinkling glass everywhere. The kind of fancy hotel that would make the National Historic Register, back when they had that sort of thing.
They pivoted into a room that looked like it could have once been a ballroom, but several long tables filled the space now. There were four stoic and blank-faced men stationed around the room, with M16s held tight to their chests like swaddled newborns.
“They have to go,” Coyle said, pointing at the men. “The message is not for their ears.”
“No problem,” the guard said as he took a seat and lifted a Smith & Wesson 500 from a shoulder holster. The piece was a huge thing, the kind of hand cannon that blew three-inch holes in people. He chambered a round, then laid it on his thigh behind the table and waved for Coyle and Logan to take a seat.
As the four men left, Coyle sat in silence as he and the guard stared each other down. This guy had one of the stoniest faces Coyle had ever seen.
“Thanks for meeting with us,” Logan said. “If our message doesn’t get to Chalmers, it could be bad news for everybody around, know what I mean? We think it could save a lot of lives in the long-term.”
“You’ll refer to her as Boss Chalmers or Ms. Chalmers,” the guard said.
“Right, right, I’m sorry about that,” Logan said.
The guard leaned forward. “Look, I don’t really care what you told them to get in here. I know it’s bullshit. But you’re going to start talking, and it better be good, or you’re going up against the wall and saying hello to the firing squad. It’s been three weeks since they had the privilege of executing anyone, so they’re due.”
“Well, it’s funny you should say that,” Logan began, and Coyle waited for the man to divert his glare from him for a second, then he launched across the table and drove a thumb into his Adam’s apple. Coyle slammed his fist down into the guard’s thigh, trying to wrench the gun from his grip. Coyle slipped it free and smacked the barrel across the man’s face.
Gasping and wide-eyed, hand on his Adam’s apple, the guard tried to stand as he heaved and gagged.
Coyle rammed his palm under the man’s chin, and a rush of blood slipped from his mouth.
“Holy shit,” Logan said.
Coyle grabbed the man’s bald head and slammed it down on the table once, twice, then a third time until he stopped moving.
“Is he dead?” Logan said.
Coyle put his finger on the trigger, then thought better of it, and reached into his shoe to whip out the blade they’d missed during the last frisking. He swiped it across the guard’s throat, then let his head fall back to the table.
“No, not here,” Logan said, waving his hands in the air. “He’s going to bleed all over the place. How are we supposed to cover that up?”
“Kid, it doesn’t matter at this point. We’re blown, so we should get what we came for and get the hell out of here. Now where do we get these passes into the West?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, but you didn’t want to listen to me back in DC. Boss Chalmers is the only one who has the official passes. We have to get them from her personally. You’ve killed the one guy who could have taken us to her.”
Coyle watched the ooze of blood spread around the corpse of the man lying face down on the table. “Crap.”
“I told you to let me do the talking.”
Coyle shoved the Smith & Wesson in his belt loop. “Talking won’t help us now. Let’s go.”
7
From atop the parking garage, Anders sighed as he thumbed the call button on the satellite phone. The worthless piece of junk had been searching for a signal for minutes, and finally connected, and he mused what a miracle it was that those things still worked. Chalmers or Beth hadn’t found a way to disable them, at least not yet. How long would those satellites keep hurtling through space, unattended? Without maintenance, they’d have to malfunction and die at some point.
He dialed Castillo, and it rang a dozen times with no answer. Tried again, same result. Anders figured he’d give it one more try. After a few rings, Castillo finally picked up.
“Yeah.”
“It’s me. How are things progressing?”
“The situation has become very interesting, Mr. Anders. I followed our initial target to DC, and he met with a man I have never seen before.”
“So?”
“Well, this man is very determined to carry out some kind of quest. He is currently in Chicago. They let him right through the gate without any trouble, but he is clearly not from Chicago.”
Anders paced around the parking garage, then kicked the tires on a Hummer, which had been mostly stripped down for parts. “Are you telling m
e you’re in Chicago right now?”
“I am not in the city, but I am nearby. I’m not sure why he and his younger friend are here, but I find his manner compelling.”
Anders stooped to pick up a broken piece of the Hummer’s side view mirror, and tilted it until he could see his reflection. “Compelling?”
“Yes, that is what I said. Compelling.”
“I don’t care about this man you’re following. What’s going on in Chicago?”
“It appears Boss Chalmers is preparing to move her people. They have been training, mostly at the football stadium… I don’t know the name.”
“Just tell me how many.”
“A thousand, possibly. But what is more important is that they have tanks.”
Anders felt weak in the knees. He dropped the piece of mirror, wandered to the edge of the lot, and sat on the concrete ledge five stories above the earth. An open suitcase sat next to the ledge, and Anders dug around in it. Mostly clothes, but he found a pair of headphones that would have been expensive under the old economy. “How many tanks?”
“At least three. That is how many I saw.”
He squeezed the headphones with one hand until the plastic bowed under the pressure. How in the hell did Chalmers get tanks? All of the military bases were supposed to have been destroyed or rendered neutral.
Beth. She had done this. There was no other explanation for how things could have gone so sideways so quickly. Beth and her Infinity followers had made a deal with Chalmers; access to some kind of secret stash of equipment she’d hidden away somewhere.
“I need to ask you something,” Anders said.
“Of course.”
“When you and Beth convinced the vice president to give up the missile launch codes, did you know what she was going to do with them?”
A pause. “Of course I didn’t. She said we would keep them pointed at America’s foreign enemies.”
