The Last Iota

by Robert Kroese

  The other thing I needed was a spark, and the easiest way to get a spark is electricity. I rooted around in cabinets until I found a twenty-foot extension cord under the sink. Not long enough. I set it aside. In a closet I located a vacuum cleaner. Good. I removed it from the closet, then grabbed a sharp knife from the counter. After hacking off the cord where it connected to the vacuum housing, I stripped the ends of the leads. I then stripped the paper from the twist-tie I’d used earlier and twisted each end of the twist-tie around one of the leads, making a bridge between them. I could have just twisted the leads together and hoped for the best, but the breaker might trip before I got a spark with that method. This way the current would melt the twist-tie and then arc between the two leads. I tied the end of the cord around the handle of the oven, and picked up the rest of the cord, along with the extension cord.

  I put the flashlight back in the backpack and put the backpack on. Opening the door, I made sure no one was in the hall, then exited the apartment with the coiled-up end of the vacuum cleaner cord, the extension cord, and the damp towel. I closed the door over the vacuum cleaner cord and shoved the towel against the gap.

  I continued down the hall, letting out cord as I went. I made it almost to Jorge’s apartment before running out of cord. Plugging the end of the vacuum plug into the extension cord gave me just enough length to get to an outlet in Jorge’s living room, near the door to the fire escape. I set the male end of the cord down next to the outlet and sat in a chair where I could keep an eye on the door.

  Then I waited.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Green River mercenaries moved more quickly than I thought they would. Hearing some activity downstairs about twenty minutes after I sat down, I went across the hall to Slim’s apartment to investigate. As I expected, the Green River guys had cut the padlock to the gate and moved into the building. They’d be going door to door to check for guns and gang members. Unless they ran into some serious delays on the first two floors, they were going to be at the door to Gwen’s apartment in less than an hour. All I could do was go back and sit in Jorge’s apartment with the door open, listening for the sounds of men coming down the hall and hoping that I had enough time.

  Well, that wasn’t all I could do. In fact, I seriously considered plugging in the cord, hoping for a big enough flash fire to blind the guys outside for a few seconds, and making my way down the fire escape. I didn’t like my odds, but at least there wouldn’t be any collateral damage. That was the problem with my current plan: the Green River guys were going to be opening doors and possibly escorting people downstairs. If I waited until the mercs got to Jorge’s apartment before triggering the bomb, there might very well be civilians within the blast radius. I hadn’t been too worried about the neighboring apartments, because there were at least a couple of walls between Gwen’s apartment and her neighbors. But if there were people in the hallway, they could conceivably be seriously injured or even killed by the blast.

  I decided to take my chances. If there were civilians in the way, I just wouldn’t trigger the bomb. That meant turning myself in to Green River, but I didn’t see any other options. I wasn’t going to kill innocent people to escape.

  So I waited. And smashed the mirror in Jorge’s bathroom. This action served a purpose other than venting my frustration: I wanted to be able to see the Green River guys coming down the hall. I left the door open and propped a shard of glass against the door jamb, angling it so that I could see anyone coming down the hall. About forty minutes later, I saw several men in full combat gear, bearing automatic rifles, exiting the stairwell. As expected, they went to the first door and knocked. They identified themselves as a “DZ security patrol,” which I thought was a nice touch. The guy doing the talking was loud and authoritative, but not overly aggressive. When nobody answered after a minute, he backed up and his two comrades smashed in the door with a portable ram. The guy in charge and one of the ram guys went inside while the other two waited in the hall.

  A couple minutes later, evidently satisfied that the apartment was empty, the men moved on to the door across the hall. One man remained behind to watch the stairwell. There were five apartments before Jorge’s, including the one they had just gone into. Slim’s was the second one on the left.

  The occupant of the apartment across the hall from the one the Green River guys had just broken into had opened his door and was complaining loudly in a Haitian accent about his Constitutional rights being violated. I sympathized, but his argument was legally questionable—the DZ having been de facto disowned by the U.S. government—as well as highly inadvisable from a strictly pragmatic perspective. The man—a little black guy in short-sleeved cotton pajamas—was dragged into the hall, handcuffed, and escorted by one of the mercenaries downstairs. While the guy at the stairs held his post, the other two went inside the man’s apartment to search it.

  They finished with his apartment a few minutes later, and the man who had escorted the Haitian downstairs rejoined his fellows as they approached Slim’s apartment. I had closed and relocked Slim’s door, so they went through their usual routine of knocking, identifying themselves as DZ security, waiting a bit, and then bashing in the door. This time there was a bit of a commotion as they found Jorge’s body, but they deduced pretty quickly that he’d been taken out by a stray bullet through the window. They finished clearing his apartment and moved on.

  At this point, I picked up my mirror sliver and gently closed the door to Jorge’s apartment. The Green River guys were getting close enough that they might notice me spying on them, and there was no point in accelerating things. I would just have to wait and listen for them to knock. And then what? I checked the time. It had only been an hour and eighteen minutes since I’d started the gas flowing. Unless the next two apartments took them eight minutes apiece, I was going to be below my minimum threshold. The gas would probably catch fire at this point, but it wouldn’t blow out the windows or doors. It would just be a momentarily flash of light and a big whoosh! Just enough to put the mercenaries on edge.

  Maybe if I could let them into the apartment and stall them somehow—the problem being that I’d look pretty suspicious hovering over an outlet with an extension cord. I needed some way to remotely trigger the bomb. I searched Jorge’s place frantically for some kind of electric timer, but found nothing. There was a timer on the oven, of course, but that would require some tricky wiring I didn’t have time for. I needed a switch with a simple on/off circuit.

  A lightbulb went on over my head as I walked into the bathroom. Literally—the bathroom light was on a motion detector. I went back into the living room, unplugged the extension cord from the vacuum cord, and then grabbed a butter knife from the kitchen. I went into the bathroom, turned the light switch off, and then climbed onto the bathroom counter to unscrew the lightbulb. After dropping the lightbulb in the wastebasket, I yanked the light fixture off its brackets and used the butter knife to unscrew the leads. Then I wrapped the leads around the prongs of the extension cord. I got down from the counter, turned the switch back on, plugged a lamp into the extension cord, and walked into the bathroom. The lamp went on. Good. I walked out of the bathroom, turned the switch off, then flipped it back on, doing my best to remain motionless. The lamp stayed off. I very slowly withdrew my arm from the room. The lamp stayed off. Taking a deep breath and cringing slightly, I plugged the vacuum cord back into the extension cord. Nothing happened. I exhaled.

  I went to the door and looked out the peephole. The Green River guys were going through the apartment across the way, which was apparently empty. Great. Jorge’s place was next. My comm said that it had been an hour and twenty-four minutes. I needed at least six minutes more to be assured of an explosion. Somehow, I had to stall.

  I was trying to imagine how I might do this when I heard a woman yelling loudly in the hall. Her voice seemed to be coming from the right, toward Gwen’s apartment. One of the guys in the hall was yelling at her to get back inside, but she was refus
ing to comply. This was not welcome news. If my bomb went off, anyone within thirty feet of that door was going to be severely injured, if not killed. To make matters worse, she was complaining about smelling “tear gas” in her apartment. Nice going, Fowler, I thought. How long before the Green River guys smell it and figure out what you’re up to? Hopefully they were too distracted to notice the vacuum cleaner cord running along the baseboard.

  I slid my gun under the couch and opened the door to Jorge’s apartment, startling the man standing in the doorway across the hall. At the end of the hall to my right, maybe ten feet from Gwen’s door, was an elderly woman, still yelling about the “tear gas.” Halfway between us, facing away, was another Green River mercenary. He was assuring the woman that they were not using tear gas, that this was just a routine security check, and that she needed to get back in her apartment.

  “Sorry,” I said to the guy across the way. “I heard the yelling. What’s going on?” I turned around and quickly locked the door, then turned to face the man again.

  “DZ security check,” said the man. “Sir, you need to go back in your apartment.”

  “Security check?” I said. “Oh, okay. Did I hear something about tear gas?”

  “See?” cried the old woman. “He smells it, too!”

  The man to my right looked back at me and scowled. “Please, ma’am,” he said, turning to face her again. “You need to get back in your apartment. It’s not safe for you out here.” I saw a gold oak leaf on the man’s shoulder, similar to the army’s major insignia. Most of these private security firms used an officer rank system modeled on the U.S. military. For combat positions they usually hired only elite soldiers who already had some military experience, so they didn’t have enlisted men per se. They had civilian employees and officers. If these guys had been army, it would be pretty unusual to have a major doing door-to-door searches, but this Green River squad was probably all officers.

  “She’s crazy,” said the guy across the hall. “We ain’t using no tear gas.”

  “I thought I smelled something, too,” I said. “This is an old building, you know. They’ve had problems with the pipes leaking.”

  “Well, it ain’t us,” the major said. “We’ll get to you next, sir. Please go back inside.”

  The man down the hall was now attempting to physically move the old woman toward her doorway. The old bird was putting up a hell of a fight, but I was starting to worry the guy was going to lose patience and clock her.

  “Please,” I said, moving down the hall toward them. “Let me help.”

  “Sir!” the guy behind me yelled. “You need to get back inside!”

  “It’s not tear gas,” I said, coming up on the other side of the old woman. “It’s the pipes. They leak. Smell that? Natural gas. I already called. The guy is supposed to be coming out in the morning.” I put my arm around the woman and helped the mercenary maneuver her toward her door. He seemed grateful for the help, and the guy behind me stopped yelling orders for a moment.

  “Natural gas?” the woman asked, confused. “But then who are these soldiers?”

  “Some kind of security check,” I said. “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’m sure it will all be over with soon.” We had gotten to her door, and I turned to the major. “I’ve got it from here, sir,” I said. “I’ll make sure she stays inside.”

  “Who are you?” the woman asked.

  “Why, Mrs. Graham!” I exclaimed, glancing at the name on her door. “I’m Kevin. We met yesterday, remember? I just moved in.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Graham. “I’m sorry, Kevin. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Are you sure they’re not using tear gas? It makes my sinuses hurt.”

  “No, ma’am,” I said, with a smile at the major. “No tear gas.” We escorted her into her living room.

  “Ma’am,” the major said, “are you going to be all right? Can I leave you with Kevin for a few minutes?”

  “Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Graham. “Kevin’s a nice boy. He lives next door.”

  “Okay, ma’am,” the major said, backing toward the door. “We’ll be coming to your apartment in just a little while. Kevin will stay with you until then.” But the guy didn’t leave. He was still watching me. “What’s your full name, Kevin?”

  Shit.

  “Mrs. Graham,” I said, “why don’t you go lie down in your bedroom. I’ll handle this.”

  “I’m not sleepy,” said Mrs. Graham. “And I should make coffee for the soldiers.”

  “You got some ID, Kevin?” asked the man.

  I sighed. “Look, Conroy, is it?” I said, reading the name on the pocket of the man’s fatigues. “Kevin isn’t my given name. I had some trouble after I got out of the service. Nothing major, but I got mixed up with the wrong people. That’s why I’m here. Trying to start over, you know?”

  “What kind of trouble?” Conroy asked, with a frown.

  “Your name isn’t Kevin?” Mrs. Graham asked.

  “Don’t really want to talk about it,” I said. “Mrs. Graham, please go to your bedroom.”

  Mrs. Graham scowled at me but didn’t move. This was not going well. Conroy looked like he was about to call for help. It was time to mix things up a bit.

  “Hey,” I said, pretending to pick something up from the bookshelf to my right. “You ever seen one of these?” I was holding the iota coin between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Jesus,” said Conroy, looking at the coin. “Is that…?”

  “It’s one of them iota coins. They only made nine of them. I wonder if they’re worth anything.”

  “Where did that come from?” asked Mrs. Graham. “That’s not—”

  “Some kind of bug on the back,” I said, studying the coin. “Like a dragonfly.”

  “Let me see that,” said Conroy, taking a step toward me.

  “What do you think this means?” I asked. “‘Not One Iota.’ That’s weird, right? How can it be not one iota?”

  “Give it to me,” said Conroy, taking another step toward me. The barrel of his rifle was still pointed at the floor, but it was creeping upward.

  “Oh well,” I said. “It’s all yours if you want it.” I tossed the coin in an arc just over Conroy’s head. He snagged it with his left hand and I punched him in the face.

  While he was still stunned, I undid the catch on his sidearm holster and pulled out the gun, a Glock 9mm automatic. With my left hand, I redirected the barrel of his rifle and with my right I jammed the gun under his chin. By this time, he had steadied himself, but blood was gushing out of his nose down his chin and neck.

  “Shhh,” I said.

  Conroy swallowed hard and gave a curt nod.

  “Mrs. Graham,” I said, “for this portion of the program, I strongly suggest you retire to your bedroom.”

  Mrs. Graham, a bewildered look on her face, nodded and walked down the hall.

  “Conroy!” yelled somebody in the hall. “Where’d that guy go? We need to get into his apartment.”

  “Tell him you’ll be right out with the key,” I said quietly. “You’ve just got to make sure Mrs. Graham is okay.”

  Mrs. Graham went into her bedroom, closing the bedroom door behind her. Conroy glared at me.

  “Hey, Conroy!” yelled the voice in the hall again. “What’s going on?”

  I pressed the gun harder against Conroy’s jaw. Conroy glared at me harder.

  “Give me a sec!” Conroy yelled. “Just making sure the old lady’s okay. Thought she was having a heart attack or something. I’ve got the key, just hold on.”

  “Very good,” I said. “Put down your rifle and close the door.”

  He lowered the gun to the ground, walked to the door and closed it.

  “Lock it,” I said.

  He locked the door and turned around.

  “Take off your gear,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Your helmet, your vest, your boots. All of it. Down to your skivvies. Do it fast. I’ll take that coin too.”

/>   Conroy grumbled, but he complied. I guessed I had about thirty seconds before the guys in the hall figured out something was wrong, and when they did, I wanted to be wearing as much bulletproof clothing as possible. It had also occurred to me that I had a better chance of getting out of the DZ alive if I looked like I worked for Green River. Fortunately Conroy and I were roughly the same size.

  I moved the rifle a healthy distance away and then began stripping down as well, keeping the Glock close. When Conroy and I were both down to our skivvies, I heard a crash through the wall on my left. Conroy’s pals had evidently decided not to wait for him and had moved into Jorge’s apartment. Things were going to get really interesting when one of them wandered into the bathroom. I ordered Conroy to sit cross-legged on the floor with his hands on his head while I got dressed.

  “What the hell is going on out here?” asked a voice to my left. Mrs. Graham had emerged from her bedroom into the hall. “Why are you naked?”

  I was not, strictly speaking, naked. By this time I had Conroy’s pants on and was working on the shirt. Conroy was still in his skivvies.

  “Mrs. Graham,” I said firmly. “It isn’t safe for you out here. You need to go back to your room.”

  Mrs. Graham disappeared again. I put on Conroy’s vest and started working on the boots. I was just getting the second one on when Mrs. Graham came into the hall again.

  “Mrs. Graham,” I said. “Please don’t make me—” That’s when I noticed she had a gun: a .357 revolver. Jesus. I should have known. It’s the DZ. Everybody has guns. Conroy sat on the floor in front of me, chuckling at this development. Personally, I was more concerned with the bomb that was going to go off at any moment a few feet down the hall. We were probably relatively safe in Mrs. Graham’s living room, but I’d feel a whole lot better if she would get back in her damn bedroom.

  “This is my apartment!” snapped Mrs. Graham. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, Kevin!”

  “Please, Mrs. Graham,” I said, taking a step toward her. “This is for your own safety. I—”