After a moment of consideration, the woman says, “OK, but put a towel down on the seat. You’re filthy.”
I hoist Dave’s body into the rear of the couple’s minivan, taking care that he isn’t visible beneath the fabric. I slip the M4 underneath it, too, but keep the ESEE and the .45 beneath my tattered bush jacket.
Much to their chagrin, none of us has a towel handy, so I opt to lie on the floor by the backseat while we make our way into Roswell. A steady line of police cars, ambulances, fire trucks and military vehicles cruises past us in the opposite direction.
“Say, we’re not going to get into any trouble by giving you a ride, are we?” the man says from the driver’s seat, adjusting the rear-view mirror so he can get a good look at me.
“Maybe. But didn’t you sign up for Skywatchers 51 for the adventure?” I say. “And crack a window, will you? I can’t stand the smell of myself in here.”
“Agreed,” the woman says and lets some fresh air in.
“We signed up to watch for UFOs, seeing as how Roswell is, well, Roswell. I guess I never expected we’d actually see one crashed in the sand,” the man says. “By the way, my name is…”
I cut him off. “I don’t want to know your name. It’s probably best you don’t know mine, either.”
“At least tell us why you need to get to Mt. Shasta,” the woman says. “Are your other alien friends there?”
“I told you before, I’m not an alien,” I say. “They might exist for all I know, but what that was back there, it’s even weirder.”
“Do tell,” the man says.
So I do, every bit of it. I start with the story of how I got to know Biyu on a previous adventure in a place called The Pit and I end with Dave’s craft self-destructing. It feels good to tell someone else about everything, which is part of why I’ve taken to writing my travels down. I especially enjoy their reaction to my commitment to my daughter, Ava. I might not be perfect, but I’m the world’s best-worst father, even if she doesn’t always know it.
Explaining these details takes the better part of the trip, which, save for a wretched encounter with a fast food dinner, is surprisingly uneventful. No Men in Black. No police cars. Not even a chance encounter with an animal crossing the road.
We each take turns driving, stopping only to fill up the tanks in our stomachs and in the minivan. Despite my condition, I refuse to shower at a rest stop, instead taking the opportunity to sleep. Washcloths can come later.
It’s not until we close in on the 3,500 square-miles of natural beauty that is Shasta-Trinity National Forest that I’m struck by an odd sensation, and this time it’s not coming from my filth.
How did they know how to get here? I never once saw them look at a map.
The man at the steering wheel notes my expression in the mirror. He gets the gist, and he nods to the woman sitting in the seat across from him.
She turns to me and says, “Oh, Mr. Baker. Did you really think you were so lucky? That a couple of old farts just happened to stumble across you in the desert?”
What the hell? How does she know my name?
“You’re with…?” I say, trailing off.
“You called her Biyu before, but she prefers Chenguang now,” the woman says.
I want to draw the .45, but I’m out of ammo and I know better. I need to get back to Biyu regardless.
“So that Skywatchers 51 group, I suppose that’s not real,” I say.
“Oh, it’s real. Dave did kill those innocent people from the club,” the woman says. “But you never would’ve come with us had you known who we were working for.”
“So Biyu…,” I start to say.
“Chenguang,” the woman says, correcting me.
I clear my throat. “So Biyu waited until the dirty work was over, then sent you to make sure I brought her the goods, is that it?”
“She has many friends in America,” the woman says.
“So I’ve come to see,” I say. “When can you introduce me to your friend?”
The man checks the clock on the dash. “I’d say in about an hour.”
I crack my neck and say, “I can’t wait.”
I wondered why Biyu wanted to meet at Mt. Shasta in the first place, but seeing spiritual seekers hiking alongside the road provides all the answers. This is ground zero for a lot of what I’ll call “mystical hippie bullshit.”
If you ask any of the New Agers camped out like it’s Woodstock why they hold Mt. Shasta in such high regard, you’ll get some variation of it being the gateway to a lost civilization, a portal to another dimension, one of seven planetary chakras or a glorified bed and breakfast for Fortean phenomenon. Stories of encounters with otherworldly beings, UFOs and messages from divine entities supposedly go back thousands of years.
Supposedly.
The skeptical take is that the geography of the mountain ends up creating bizarre meteorological effects, including strange UFO-esque clouds hovering above the peak. This gave rise to the legends of the peoples indigenous to the area, which, in an ironic twist given the destruction of those cultures by Europeans, were then appropriated and re-packaged by descendants of those same settlers seeking some sort of meaning in the vacuum of modern existence.
The truth is for another day. Right now, the legends surrounding the mountain offer perfect cover for Biyu’s operation. It’ll be easy to dismiss any claims of her activities as just another day at Mt. Shasta. I suppose she expected me to fly in on Dave’s craft, not pull up in a minivan, but I can still see her reasoning.
If I remember correctly, some of the legends say that strange beings, sometimes referred to as Lemurians, live above the tree line. Apparently, they’re part of an advanced species. I bet that’s where we’re headed.
UFOs? An advanced race of beings? Sounds to me like this mountain was a U.T. base for a long time, if there’s any truth to the legends.
After parking on the far corner of a lot away from view, we’re greeted by the muscle that made me feel ever so welcome in that workshop. The pair comes comically complete with fake dreadlocks, ponchos and what could generously be called DIY shoes. It’s a much different look from the last time I saw them.
I don’t resist when they beckon me out of the minivan and strip me of the .45 and the ESEE knife. One of them pops a fresh mag into the pistol for good measure. I need to get to Biyu anyway, but there’s no way in hell I’m permanently parting ways with my gun and knife. I’ll get them back eventually.
“Where is it?” the first meathead says to the man and woman who drove me here.
“The trunk,” the woman says and opens it up.
The first meathead ignores the M4 hidden beneath the black suit jacket, instead going straight for Dave’s body and throwing it over his shoulder. It’s still wrapped in black fabric, thankfully, although I have the insurance of the sleeve in my bush jacket. They didn’t think to take that piece.
“Let’s go,” the first meathead says and points to a trailhead.
In any other place in the country, our peculiar cavalcade would’ve warranted a call to the police. But we’re far from the oddest sight in the parking lot. The chanting. The dancing. The flute music. Unwashed bodies writhing together in passion as their grease forms slurry that drips down their legs. It’s like I stepped onto the set of a movie. My movie. I’m no more out of place than the homemade soap for sale.
The hike up the trail tests what’s left of my endurance. It takes hours, but we never stop to rest. Gradually, the trees give way to rocky outcrops that skirt the trail up the mountain. An hour after I lose feeling in my feet, we reach a barren plateau the size of a football field.
I spot a familiar face as I collapse against a boulder. Rising to her feet from inside a makeshift camp of tents and crates, she’s flanked by a dozen or so companions dressed to match the locals. It looks like they’re on a spiritual pilgrimage, but I know better.
“Hello, Biyu,” I say.
“You’re ahead of schedule, Mr. Baker,” B
iyu says, glancing at her watch as she strolls over to me. I’d forgotten all about the 48-hour deadline. “And, please, call me Chenguang.”
The meatheads on either side of me close in, jerking me to my feet and holding my shoulders in place. I’m not looking for a fight, especially with the heavy duty weaponry I’m sure is hidden in all that camping gear. I’m set on a plan already. The fates of the world and my daughter rest on not throwing a punch.
All eyes are on me as I say, “Only if you call me Apocalypse Bomb.”
Biyu scoffs and paces while rubbing her palms together. “So you’ve discovered The Current. Good for you.”
“I’ve come to find out quite a bit,” I say and crack my neck. “And I’m game.”
Biyu stops. “You’re…game?”
“You didn’t need to go to all this trouble to get me on board. You could’ve just asked me to help,” I say. “I’m happy to deliver this ultraterrestrial, this U.T., to you. If anyone should have it, it’s your government.”
“I know you too well, Chase. You’re bluffing. What are you trying to pull here?”
“Nothing except the realization that my country isn’t always the good guy. Do you know who has been trying to kill me for the past 24 hours? Men in Black hired by my own government, which in turn is trying to use The Current to build this Apocalypse Bomb,” I say, conjuring as much sincerity as I can. “It tends to make a guy not trust his own country.”
“Go on,” Biyu says.
“Dave told me the Chinese government, your guys, is different. You want to use The Current for peaceful purposes, for creating a limitless supply of clean energy,” I say. “I want in on history. I’m game.”
Biyu grins, but it’s more menacing than she lets on.
“Then let’s see how genuine you are about your sudden change of heart,” she says before motioning to Dave’s cloaked body, now lying on the ground. “I take it this is the U.T.?”
“The last one. Unwrap it and see for yourself,” I say.
Biyu motions for one of the meatheads to remove the black suit jacket. He peels away the fabric like a meaty banana, revealing Dave’s tattered body. The M4 really did a number on him, but I know he’s not dead-dead. I explain this to Biyu, who looks at me like I’m trying to sell her oregano as marijuana.
“I know he doesn’t look so hot, but you of all people must know that The Current means even a dead guy can put himself back together,” I say and point to the jacket. “The ink in that jacket interrupts The Current, which is apparently a piece of tech lodged inside ol’ Dave’s brain. Disable the ink in the jacket, and you’ve got yourself a kicking and screaming U.T. That’s the only way you can extract a functioning Current, if the U.T. is alive.”
The meathead inspects the jacket before handing it to Biyu. She doesn’t seem impressed by the mundane piece of clothing, her eyes instead focusing on Dave. I spot the recognition in her face despite his mangled appearance.
At least she’s satisfied with the body. For a minute there I thought she’d demand a refund.
“And how do we deactivate, as you say, this magic ink?” Biyu says.
I chuckle and say, “Oh, come on, Biyu. Do you really think I’m going to tell you that without holding you to my side of this arrangement? Make the phone call. Thaw out those bank accounts so my daughter, Ava, can get healthy again.”
Biyu smirks and outstretches her hand. One of her goons plants a cell phone onto her palm. She dials several rounds of numbers before saying, “Do it,” into the mouthpiece.
Turning to me, she says, “Satisfied?”
“Not really. You might’ve called for pizza for all I know. Prove it,” I say.
A few button taps on the phone later, and she shows me some bank accounts that may or may not have anything to do with the people in my life.
“Now are you happy?” Biyu says.
Honestly, I haven’t been happy since Biyu ruined an otherwise eventful evening of female companionship back at that motel, but I nod my head anyway.
“Good. Now tell me about the ink,” she says.
“You might want to lock and load beforehand. Dave here can be a little grouchy when he wakes up from his naps,” I say.
Biyu motions for her crew to break out the big guns, literally. Machine guns. Grenade launchers. Shotguns. Machetes. Chains. Ropes. My hunch about what lies in wait beneath that “camping gear” isn’t too far off.
“You’re stalling,” Biyu says. “Now tell me.”
“You haven’t actually met a U.T. before, have you?” I say. “You’d appreciate my thoroughness if you did.”
“This is the first, yes,” Biyu says.
Then my bullshit will stick when I throw it against the wall. That’s always comforting when the fate of the world is on your proverbial shoulders.
“Would you mind if I had a bit of protection myself?” I say, thinking of the .45 and the knife. “It’s not like I’m going to put up much of a fight. I look like the inside of a Slim Jim and you’re packing enough weaponry to take over a small country.”
Biyu sighs in disgust but allows it anyway, on condition that I keep the gear holstered.
No problem. I won’t be the one doing the fighting.
“You want to see a magic trick?” I say to the increasingly agitated, well-armed crowd.
With a wary hand, I take the black suit jacket from the meathead. All eyes are on me as I reach into my bush jacket and slowly pull out the lighter. After lighting a corner of a cuff, I place the garment on the ground. It only takes a minute to go up in smoke.
Biyu’s eyes light up in anticipation, only to smolder once it becomes clear nothing’s changed about Dave. “You come in here and try to pass off a fraud? He’s still dead.”
Of course he is, idiot. You don’t know about the trick up my sleeve. Or, rather, the trick that is the sleeve.
“Give it a minute,” I say.
The meatheads aren’t paying attention as I start to inch backward, slowly slinking away like it’s a sleight-of-hand trick. Everyone watches Dave, not me. Once I’m out of reach, I turn and run at a full sprint down the trail.
Watch closely, everyone. The magic is about to happen.
I only stop once I hear a cascade of carnage erupt above me. The sleeve in my pocket is out of range, and Dave can use The Current once again. I don’t need to be present to know what happens.
Biyu and her minions are allowed only a moment of excitement as Dave performs supernatural surgery on his mangled body. Then comes the explosions and the gunfire, the screaming and the chaos, as Dave wakes to a sight that surely turns him from merely pissed to incensed: human beings pointing weapons in his direction. That doesn’t last long.
If Biyu didn’t understand the true power of The Current before, she does now.
I wait until an eerie silence returns before heading back up the trail. I’m not finished with Dave yet.
“Oh, fuck me. You’re still around?” Dave says from inside the chunky crater he dug for himself from all the explosions and gunfire. He absolutely pulped Biyu and company. She won’t be back from the dead this time.
“Sorry about all this, Dave,” I say as I approach the human wreckage, .45 in hand. “I had to do it. You’re a U.T. In all your intelligence, you understand.”
Dave wipes his face clean with his sleeve. “Understand what exactly? That you betrayed me? You brought me right to the fuckin’ Chinese, Chase. Do you know what they could’ve done with me?”
“So I’ve heard,” I say, taking a step closer.
“You better watch it with that .45. I’m obviously in no mood.”
I don’t break my stride, stopping only when I hit the edge of the lagoon of gore. “Do you remember what you warned me about back at that bar in Warsaw?”
Dave snorts. “Not really.”
“You told me, ‘Either your curiosity will destroy you, or you will destroy what your curiosity discovers.’ Well, Dave, I’m here to tell you I’m every bit that un-evolved, glorified
ape that you pegged me out to be,” I say and raise the .45. With my free hand, I draw the sleeve from my bush jacket.
Dave’s harsh expression wrinkles into one of terror at the sight of the fabric. “No,” he says.
“Oh, yes, Dave. I think so,” I say.
Dave holds his hands in air, resigned to his fate.
“You humans are all the same. So much heart, yet so little brain,” he says. “This is why you’ll never do great things. You could come up with the cure for cancer tomorrow, but it’d take you a century to figure out what to do with it.”
“Maybe. But I don’t want my species spending the next 100 years figuring out what to do with you, or you with us. This is for the best,” I say and plant a bullet into Dave’s forehead. Hunching down, I stuff his mouth with the sleeve.
I haul Dave’s body away moments before a group of park rangers reaches the scene. What they find will no doubt become another part of the mountain’s lore, as will Dave’s body if anyone manages to find it. I find a deep opening in a cave far from any beaten path and toss him down. There’s no guarantee he won’t be back, but hopefully by then The Current will be old hat, for better or worse.
If Dave represents where humanity is headed, are things getting better or worse? Can the singularity – the fusion of humans to technology – finally breed the animal out of us? Or will we still carry the burden of the savage core inherited from our primal ancestors, but with bigger toys like the Apocalypse Bomb?
Thankfully, I won’t be around in a few thousand years to find out.
I chew on these thoughts as I hitchhike my way back into town, find a bank to make a withdrawal and start the journey back to New York City. There’s someone I need to see.
“Dad?” Ava says in surprise as I limp through the doorway of her room. By any other standard, the room is cramped, with barely enough space to open the chest of drawers next to the bed. But this is New York City. Gramercy Park, to be exact. The townhouse is a mansion compared to most of the shoeboxes around here.
Chase Baker & the Apocalypse Bomb (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 7) Page 9
