“I’ll get out and see what I can find,” Sam said. “You two stay in here.”
Jim winced at him. “Don’t worry. I won’t be going anywhere.”
Sam grabbed his pistol and left the vehicle. He crept forward, loose stone crunching underfoot, and locked his eyes on the front door of the building. There were no other exits in sight. Two windows were on the front wall, but both were covered in white spray paint, and he was unable to see through them.
The door creaked on its hinges, swaying inwards in the subtle breeze. If the place was inhabited, the owners didn’t seem too concerned about security. As he approached, he could see that the inside contained more cars, most in the same condition as those outside. A few were raised on blocks, and tools were scattered across the garage floor around them.
Sam stepped through the doorway, avoiding a pile of screws that had been spilled across the interior. Like most of the places they had come across, the garage appeared to be without power; the only lighting was provided by the filtered rays of sunlight that penetrated the windows. Sam scanned the building, but as far as he could tell, the place was vacant.
Immediately to his right was a glass window looking into a small office. The room contained a desk, a computer, and a smattering of papers. The door leading inside had been propped open with a brick. At the far end was a bathroom, discernible only by a hand-written sign taped to the door.
Sam walked into the office and headed for the bathroom. With luck, he would find a first aid kit inside—or at least some spare towels to help stop the bleeding on Jim’s wound.
When he reached the bathroom door, he paused just outside of it, listening for signs of movement from within. Hearing nothing but silence, he flung the door open and pointed his gun inside, aiming it at a sink and a toilet. On the wall was a shelf, on top of which were several unused towels. He saw no first aid kit.
With a heavy sigh, he grabbed the towels and headed back through the office.
Noises emanated from outside.
When he stopped to listen, he realized that someone was calling his name. It sounded like Delta.
Immediately afterward, he heard a gunshot.
Sam dropped the towels and ran.
When Hopper returned to the control room, his heart was pounding so hard he thought it might explode. He sat in his chair, wiped the sweat from his brow, and tried to focus on the monitors in front of him.
He tried to process what he had just seen.
Who the hell were those people on the third floor, and what had Cromwell been doing there?
When he had first decided to follow the man, Hopper had expected to find something far less sinister. Secret smoke breaks—maybe an addiction to pornography. He never would have guessed that the man would be torturing people in a hidden jail cell.
To be fair, Hopper wasn’t opposed to killing off mankind. He had been through the training, and he knew what the plan entailed. In his estimation, humanity had already wreaked havoc on the globe, and it was the duty of the Agents to put a stop to it. He was looking forward to a time when he could carve out a niche of his own and become ruler of his own domain.
At the same time, it bothered him that the Agents were keeping secrets. Clearly, Cromwell was more than just another shift mate, and his authority had to extend far beyond watching the compound’s security cameras.
Hopper had no doubt that if he tried to enter the jail cells himself, his own code would fail. He would test it, of course.
But first he had to make sure he hadn’t already been caught.
As his heart rate returned to normal, Hopper exhaled deeply, doing his best to stay calm. In a matter of minutes, Cromwell would return to the control room. Assuming the man hadn’t heard the jail door slamming shut, Hopper would need to act as normal as possible.
A few seconds later, he heard the door handle turning, and he braced himself in his chair. Someone entered the room behind him.
Hopper kept his back to the door, keeping his eyes glued to the computer monitors. He heard a few footsteps—the sound of someone making their way across the room—and then heard breathing from behind him.
“How’re things looking?” Cromwell asked.
“Good. Nothing to report.”
There was a long pause, and the room fell into silence. Eventually Cromwell spoke.
“Nice. Let’s hope it stays that way.”
Hopper heard the click of boots on the floor, and then the sound of Cromwell starting his next round of pushups.
Sam flew out of the garage and into the parking lot. When he emerged, he gasped in surprise.
The body of Jim lay next to the SUV, his face oozing blood from a gunshot wound to the forehead. Delta stood over him, her gun extended.
Sam ran to her side.
“What the hell happened?” he asked.
At first she didn’t answer, her body wracked with sobs. When she calmed down, she looked over at him, her blue eyes streaked with tears.
“I had no choice. I was talking to him like normal, and all of the sudden he got quiet. I asked him what was wrong, but he didn’t answer.” She paused to wipe her face. “A second later he tried to grab me. I jumped out of the car, but he got out and kept coming.”
Sam grasped her shoulders, and she embraced him.
“You did what you had to do,” he said. “Were you hurt?”
He examined her, but she appeared to be fine.
Sam walked her back over to the SUV and helped her into the passenger’s side.
“I’ll drive,” he said.
When they had gotten back into the vehicle, Sam paused for a second before putting it into drive, staring out the front windshield. Delta glanced over at him.
“It’s just so hard, you know? I feel like we’re all alone out here, and there’s no one we can trust.”
He nodded in agreement.
“Do you think either of us will turn?” Delta asked.
“I don’t know. I’d like to think we’re still safe, but I can’t say for sure.”
She reached out, feeling for his hand.
“Do you believe in God, Sam?”
He lowered his head.
“You know, I’ve questioned my faith a lot in these past few years. But of all the things that have happened to me—including this whole contamination thing—there’s always been a person to blame.” Sam tilted his head, glancing at the blue sky above the mountains. “You know what I think? I think if there is a God, He’s given us free reign over our choices, and it’s our decision as to whether or not we fuck it up.”
Delta gave him a grim smile.
“How about you?” he asked. “What do you believe?”
“I’d like to think there’s something out there—something keeping watch over us,” she said. “When I was a kid, my grandmother used to take me to church every Sunday. For years I went with her, never stopping to question what I was doing.”
“One day, I remember asking her if all the things they taught us were true. She said that even if there were a grain of truth in every story, it would be worth telling, because having a little hope was better than having none. Even after she was gone, I’ve always remembered that.”
“Ever since she died, I’ve always had this strange feeling—like she isn’t really gone. It was almost as if she’s still watching over me, trying to guide me from a distance. I know it sounds silly, but it’s always made me feel better.”
“That’s a nice thought. What do you think she’d be saying now about all of this?”
Delta paused.
“I’m sure she would think it was awful. But at the same time, I think she’d be proud of us, and she’d know that we’re trying to do the right thing.”
“It sounds like your grandmother was an am
azing woman.”
“She was.” Delta smiled. “The best.”
“Ready to get moving?”
She nodded.
Sam threw the car into drive and hit the gas. The SUV launched forward, crunching gravel as it transitioned from parking lot to pavement. He double-checked the gas gauge, verifying the tank was full, and resolved to keep a steady pace for the remainder of the trip.
With a little luck, they wouldn’t stop until they reached Salt Lake City.
12
Cromwell stood next to Hopper, peering over the man’s shoulder at one of the flat-screen monitors. A white cargo van had pulled around to the back of the compound, letting out a stream of soldiers from the rear. The men, all dressed in identical white jackets, held their rifles in front of them, marching into a cargo bay that led into the building.
“What’s going on?” Hopper asked.
“I’m not sure.”
Cromwell was lying. He knew exactly what was happening, but it wasn’t any of the other Agent’s business. The soldiers outside were preparing to head into the city. Having come from a previous mission in New Mexico—a successful one, according to reports from the Agent leaders—the troops were now heading into Salt Lake City to ensure that everything was progressing as planned.
Once again, Cromwell felt a surge of jealousy, and he clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to reel in his emotions.
Patience, he told himself. Everything will come in due time.
While it pained him to sit out the action, he had other things in mind that would help relieve his stress. Like the woman in the jail cell on the third floor that he was planning on attending to this afternoon. Even though she had opted for the virus, he was almost certainly going to use the knife instead.
Why should she have a choice? She was no better than any of the others.
After that he would start in on the rest, savoring each one until the time came when he could leave the compound—but only when it was safe to do so. He couldn’t risk going out beforehand, not without making sure that all of his plans had been carried out to completion. Having worked for years in preparation of the new world, Cromwell wanted to be sure he lived to enjoy it.
The prisoners were his outlet, his reprieve.
The people he held captive had been taken from various locations in the southwest. In the initial stages of testing, it had been thought that the infection was foolproof; but during the actual implementation, they had discovered that a small percentage of the population was resistant to the strain. As a result, Cromwell had instructed his troops to bring back survivors so that the Agents could test the effectiveness of the virus.
He also used the holding cells to house people he had kidnapped for other reasons, such as the families of Agents who had proven untrustworthy.
No matter what the case was, the prisoners had proved useful. Not only did they allow his scientists to do further analysis, but they also provided a source of entertainment for Cromwell. He had made sure that very few people had access to the jail cells—and those that did were instructed not to ask questions.
Nobody would notice when the woman disappeared. And if they did have concerns, they would be sure not to voice them.
On the monitor, the cargo van had begun to reverse into the building. He watched it disappear from the screen, and then saw the garage doors descending. With the soldiers out of sight, he paced the room, letting his mind drift to other things. Like which knife he would use on the woman later that day.
There was the Magnum Desert Warrior, which he hadn’t used in quite a while. Or the WWI Trench Knife—a personal favorite. He smiled at the thought of each of them, basking in the memories they provided.
Hopper coughed and shifted in his chair, breaking his attention.
Cromwell looked up and found himself staring at the back of the man’s neck. How easy would it be to slip a blade into Hopper’s throat? After that, he could watch the man squirm as he bled out onto the desk in front of him. The guy was practically useless, anyway. The thought was a tempting one.
But that would be unprofessional.
Cromwell glanced at the time on the computer screen. According to the clock, his shift had just ended. Like clockwork, he heard a rap on the door and watched another Agent enter.
“Ready for me to take over?” the man asked.
“Yes. Perfect timing,” Crowell said.
Before Hopper had even stood, Crowell had already walked out of the room and started down the hallway, making his way to his private quarters.
“What do you mean they’re all dead?” Cromwell yelled into the phone.
The man on the other end mumbled a response, infuriating Cromwell even further. According to the Agent leader, one of the teams in St. Matthews, Arizona had run into issues with a band of survivors.
Eventually, the Agents had lost control and had gotten killed.
Cromwell and Hopper had noticed something suspicious the day before on the dash-cams and had called it in to the field leader. It looked like the vehicles had been vacant for quite some time.
“What would you like me to do, sir?” the man asked. His voice was monotone.
“Figure it out!” Cromwell shouted, glad once again that his room was soundproof. “Send a few more men in there—make sure no one is left. And don’t let it happen again!”
Cromwell smashed the phone back into the cradle and paced the room, his pulse racing.
He had known there would be casualties—had expected them, actually—but the listless tone of the Agent leader’s voice had enraged him. If these men expected to get their share of the new world, they needed to take their jobs seriously.
There was no room for weakness, no room for error.
That was one of the problems he faced. Because he was only one man, there was no way Cromwell could execute his plan alone. Whenever someone failed him, it was a constant reminder that he needed to keep tight control over his group.
For the past ten years, he had worked to create a silent army—people he thought would be dependable, people who were in various positions of authority across a multitude of professions. He’d also secured a handful of high-powered donors from overseas, ensuring the funds needed to complete his task.
In some cases he had met them online; in other instances, he had met them face-to-face, which usually meant sending one of his trusted delegates and passing them off as himself. Others had been recruited at college universities with the help of his trusted subordinates. Once they were in the fold, new Agents would be brought in and trained at the compound.
No one knew who Cromwell was. And that was the way he wanted to keep it.
After a few minutes of pacing, he settled down and sat on the bed. In the scheme of the greater plan, the complications he had just heard about were miniscule. Still, he hated failure, and the fact that four trained Agents had been taken out was disappointing to say the least.
Do I have to do everything myself? Is that what this has come to?
Cromwell twisted his hands, cracked his knuckles. He thought of the cargo van that had just pulled into the garage, and the upcoming mission to Salt Lake City. There, the infection would have just taken hold—the streets would be filled with bloodshed and chaos, and legions of creatures would be running rampant.
And his Agents would be in the midst of it. Enjoying every minute.
As he sat on the edge of the bed, Cromwell pictured himself alongside them—a leader among men. In the city, there would be no rules, no laws to stop him from doing what needed to be done. The prospect filled him with excitement, and he struggled to suppress it.
Calm down. Think rationally.
Stepping out onto the field would be too risky. If he were to perish, his plans for a new world would die with him. Without his oversight, th
e Agent leaders would be lost in a sea of details, struggling to make sense of what was expected of them.
That was the way he had designed it.
Cromwell let out a deep sigh and stood up from the bed. With his shift over, maybe it was time to pay a visit to the jail cells. On the way, he would make a stop at his knife room.
He had just crossed the room and put his hand on the door when the phone rang again.
Cromwell stopped, angrily returning to answer it.
“Yes.”
“Sir? There has been another incident in Butte, Utah. We’ve lost another four Agents. We’re not sure where the vehicle went. The dash-cam stopped working.”
Cromwell squeezed the phone, wishing he had the strength to crack it with his bare hands. He managed a reply and then hung up. Then he picked up the phone, flung it across the room, and watched it smash into the wall above his bed.
This time he had had enough.
It was apparent that his subordinates weren’t taking things as seriously as he was. Perhaps he had been too lenient—too far removed from the front lines. Cromwell ripped open his bureau and gathered his things, veins bulging from his forehead.
If words weren’t enough, then he would have to demonstrate in person.
It was time for a trip to Salt Lake City.
When Cromwell opened the door to his quarters, he was surprised to see Hopper standing in the hallway.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Hopper stepped back and cleared his throat. He seemed nervous. Then again, Agents like him—the weak ones—always were.
“Nothing. I was just heading back to my room.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Cromwell barked.
Realizing he was overstepping his supposed bounds, he softened his tone. Hopper looked at his hands, seeming to notice the backpack.
Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7] Page 34
