He hurried over to the window that faced where he'd seen the hunter and peeled back the corner of the privacy film. The man was gone, off into the snowy woods. There was a good possibility the man was just hunting out of season. It certainly happened, especially in the more remote parts of the forest, but Stanley didn't want to risk dismissing a man with a gun.
He turned back to the center of the room. He had a lot of work ahead of him.
-10-
Washington D.C.
6 P.M.
The garbage bag leaked vile-smelling liquid from the small hole in its bottom, leaving a squiggly line of nasty water on the driveway, from the garage all the way to the curb. Ryan lifted the ticking time bomb of trash and stuffed it into the already full garbage pail he'd taken out earlier. He had tried to get his chores done early, including feeding the living room fish, but when he got back he realized he'd forgotten one bag by the vacuum cleaner in the garage.
The lid wouldn't shut with the new bag inside filling it past its brim, so using both hands he pushed on the bag, trying to squeeze it down. All he needed was one more inch for the lid to close.
Pow. The top of the garbage bag exploded open, shooting a puff of vacuum dust right in his face.
Ryan stepped back from the garbage pail and wiped his face. "Nasty," he said to himself. He wiped his face and started heading back to the house. Halfway up the driveway, he let out a giant sneeze.
He sniffed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. The itch in his nose was replaced by the feeling of being watched. He looked over to see their neighbor, Mrs. Lang, staring at him. She'd been taking her five-year-old daughter Mary out of the car.
"Hey, Mrs. Lang," he said with a wave.
Without saying a word, Mrs. Lang rushed Mary up the driveway, through their front door and inside the house. She slammed the door closed, not once looking back.
"Psycho," Ryan mumbled.
He came inside and went to find his mom. She was in her office, working on the campaign as usual, but she was distracted by something on the Internet about all the crazy Ebola stuff going on. Infected patients escape from Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Illness begins spread to other states. He'd been watching stuff like this for years. Other people were just starting to catch up.
"All done," he said.
"Thank you. I'll start dinner in a minute. Pizza sound good?"
"Always."
She looked away from the screen. "Did you really wear that today?"
He looked down at his t-shirt, with its giant, red biohazard symbol. "You saw it this morning and you didn't say anything."
She thought back. "You were wearing your hoodie at the table."
"Whatever. I don't see the big deal."
"Yes, you do, or you wouldn't have snuck it past me. You know I don't censor what you wear, but you do have to be a little considerate about how others feel. A lot of people are freaked out right now."
"I think Mrs. Lang is one of them."
His mom rolled her eyes. "Mrs. Lang has other problems."
"Dad's not scared."
"Your dad's a tough guy, but even he's not indestructible." Her face softened when she saw his reaction. "I don't mean that he's in trouble, just that he has to be careful out there, too."
"It sounds like Uncle Stan is the one who should be careful."
Mom nodded. "To be honest, I wish I hadn't told you about that."
"Why?" He was waiting for the same 'you're still a kid' speech his Dad gave him.
"You look up to your uncle. Knowing something like this about him, about someone you love, it isn't easy. For anyone."
"Oh. It's not like he killed a guy, he just hacked into a few computers."
"He broke the law, honey. I know it's not as bad as murder, but it's still the law."
"The computers he hacks into, the government ones and the ones from the big companies, he told me once he does it because they're hiding things. Bad things."
"When did he tell you that?"
"A while ago."
She sighed. "I know that's what he says, but-"
"So if the people he's hacking into are doing bad things, and he's trying to tell people about it, isn't he actually doing something good?"
She got up from her chair and went to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "There are a lot of gray areas in life, and I know it can be confusing," she said. "But don't let your father hear you talk like this, or Uncle Stan won't be the only one in big trouble. Understood?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Now let's go make pizza."
Route 666 followed the path of a creek that twisted like an artery through the snow-covered land. Will followed it north until it passed through a town blanketed in white. The streets were eerily empty, his truck's tires crunching through snow the only sound he could hear for blocks in either direction. There was no name he could find for the town on the map or in the GPS, which seemed like the kind of place Stanley might appreciate.
The only action he could find was at a small bar at the dead center of town. It was a typical hole in the wall, a tiny bar crammed with drunk locals talking loudly over country music. That made it the perfect place to ask a few questions.
He approached the bar and pretended to wait for the bartender. The bar's patrons were rowdy, slamming down drinks like it was their last. He leaned in close to the guy next to him who was having a hard time keeping his eyes focused in the same direction. "I was just talking to John," he spit-balled.
"John's a good man," the guy slurred.
"He's looking for Steve. Steve Agudo. Have you seen him?"
"I have..." he paused, his head bobbing on his shoulders, "no clue who that is."
"Then I don't know what he's talking about. I think maybe this Steve guy's got a cabin around here he wants to check out."
"Then...then you should...you should talk to Steve."
Will was starting to regret his choice of targets. "Steve's who I'm looking for," he said.
"No, no, not that...not that Steve. Real Estate Steve."
"Who's Real Estate Steve?"
The drunk guy spun in his stool, annoyed that Will didn't understand him. He put all his energy into focusing his eyes until he spotted someone at a table across the bar. "Him," he pointed with an unsteady finger. "Real Estate Steve. He knows...he knows everyone's business."
Now Will was getting somewhere. He patted the drunk guy on the shoulder. "Thanks. I'd buy you a drink, but it would probably kill you."
The guy waved it off. "That's...that's alright, I'm...I'm dead when I get home anyway." He spun back to the bar where he found his glass had been taken away. As he cursed himself for letting his guard down, Will made his way over to Real Estate Steve.
Ten minutes later he left the bar with two business cards and the directions to Steve Agudo's cabin.
After a turn he almost missed, Will took a long drive through the pitch black woods. It should have only taken ten minutes or so to reach the cabin, but the only route through was an unplowed, single-lane road that at the moment didn't want to be driven on. He slipped and slid his way up until finally, after his knuckles had turned white from gripping the steering wheel, a steep incline appeared up ahead.
Will stepped on the gas, gradually so he didn't spin out, and built momentum. He kept the wheel straight and prayed silently as the truck climbed the difficult angle, the tires wanting to slip. They held. He didn't take a breath until he had cleared the incline. Then he let off the gas.
The truck had made it to flat land.
In the distance, through a cluster of bushes, a small cabin peeked out from the dark.
The engine ticked as it cooled under the truck's wet hood. Will had parked it a good distance from the cabin to not alert Stan or anyone that might be with him. Knowing Stan there wasn't anyone else, but he could have a closed-circuit camera or some other security system in place. It was better to keep quiet, and play it safe.
As he was deciding his next move, he got a text me
ssage from Tanya.
When are you getting back?
Usually he didn't like sharing details about the job with Tanya, but this time felt different. She was nervous about the outbreak in Chicago, and about him going after his brother.
I'm staking out his place now, he wrote.
Please be careful.
I'm not the one who should be worried.
You sound like your son, she replied. There was a long pause, then: The Ebola thing reached Ohio. I'm keeping Ryan out of school tomorrow if you're okay with it.
Ohio. That was only one state away. How on Earth had it spread so quickly? He didn't think Ryan had to miss school over it, but maybe it was better to keep him home. Somewhat for Ryan's sake, but mostly for Tanya's state of mind. She was a strong woman, not easily rattled, and if she felt this strongly about it, he had to respect that. In his head he went through a few things to type in reply, but in the end he kept it simple.
Okay.
She responded back almost immediately. Thanks. Please please hurry back as soon as you're done.
I'll be home before you know it. Promise.
He put down the phone and turned his attention back to the cabin. The green van was out front, as were partly-covered tracks in the snow, but there weren't any lights on in the windows. He decided he needed a better look.
With his coat on he slipped out of the truck and closed the door as quietly as possible. The night came to him all at once. The wind moving through dead branches, a small animal scampering through snow, the chirp of a bat somewhere high up seeking water before returning to its hibernation. As he moved toward the cabin, his eyes on the windows and door, he was grateful for the sounds that masked his own.
Fifty feet from the cabin, someone coughed.
Will stopped and looked around. It sounded close, yet he was alone. Between the surrounding woods and the dampening effects of the snow, he wasn't sure which direction it had come from. It could have been anywhere, even bouncing off the walls of the cabin itself.
It happened again. This time he was sure it came from the woods. As he listened the coughing became more violent, until it became a sound anyone who'd gone to college knew all too well. Someone was throwing up.
Will shook his head. Those locals really knew how to drink.
Feeling somewhat relieved, he continued to the cabin in a crouch. There weren't any cameras he could see, but there was a film on the windows that prevented him from getting a good look inside. It didn't surprise him in the slightest.
He moved quietly around the perimeter of the cabin, listening for voices or movement. On one window he found a corner where the film had peeled up slightly. Cautiously, he moved in close until he could see through.
Most of the small cabin was visible from his angle. There was a small bed, a table with some supplies spread out on top, a coat hanging on the chair, and the glow of a floor heater working in the far corner. All signs that someone had been there very recently.
But no Stanley.
Throwing stealth to the wind, he knocked on the front door. If Stan was in there he wasn't going anywhere. He wanted badly to break the door down, especially with the snow still coming down, but he had no legal right to do so. The unfortunate truth was, though as an Enforcement Agent he was within his rights to enter Stan's home, on paper the cabin in front of him belonged to someone named Steve Agudo. The last thing Will wanted was for Stan to claim he'd had his rights violated. And if there was one thing Stan knew, it was his rights as a citizen.
His feet were getting cold. He decided to go back to the van and wait for Stan to show his face.
-11-
Washington D.C.
The streets were restless. There was a dangerous current in the air, like a black cloud choking the city. One too many kids looking for trouble. One too many cops called out sick. Who knew. Donegan didn't care. He was inside, in his apartment above the bail bond shop, sitting in his favorite chair with his favorite slippers on, and all he wanted to do was watch some damn fine television.
"Oh, lass, come on now. Don't pick him. He doesn't look at you the way Blake does."
The rose ceremonies always got him worked up the most. All that build-up, all that emotion, all that dramatic music, just to cut to commercial at the last second.
"Fucking hell," he muttered, leaving his chair to get a refill on his drink. As he filled up the glass with ice, a series of shouts rose up from the street. It sounded like two young punks trying to rip each other's heads off. He'd heard plenty of ruckus earlier, but this time it was right under his window. He slammed his glass down on the counter, ran to the window and threw it open.
"Knock it off, you dopes! If you don't shut your gobs I'll do it for you!"
Glass shattered below. It came from downstairs, and it didn't sound like a car windshield. It sounded like a big, beautiful shop window he'd have to pay someone three hundred bucks cash just to come out and look at this late at night.
"Oh, that's it." He grabbed his shotgun from under the bed and shoved two shells in from the nightstand. "You want trouble, you got trouble." He threw his door open and stormed downstairs.
The front window was intact, the unlit shop in perfect order. Donegan was a bit confused, but very relieved. "Huh. Will wonders never cease."
The tinkle of glass sounded from the street. Whatever was going on out there was still happening, and he wanted to catch the little punks in the act. Shotgun in tow, he ran around the counter, through the dark shop and to the front door.
There was safety glass everywhere. Shards of it covered the sidewalk in front of the flower shop next door and trailed into the street. Sure enough, the flower shop's window was gone. The store was wide open to the elements and anyone who came along.
The poor girl. Donegan had known her for four years now. She always shot down his advances, but at least she was nice enough about it.
The sound of someone running away came from behind him. Whoever had done this was just around the block, fleeing the scene like a gutless pansy. Donegan ran to the corner as fast as he could manage in slippers. If he caught them, he would give them the belting of their lives.
But they were gone. He lifted his shotgun over his head. "You bloody bastards! Come back and fight like a man!" When they didn't come back he spit on the ground and turned back.
The street was an absolute mess. He'd have to call the police on this one. Or maybe just the shopgirl, and let her deal with the authorities. That did sound a little easier. And maybe he could commiserate with her over the bad luck, use it as a chance to take her out for a bit of late-night coffee. Donegan nodded. It was sounding like a better idea the more he thought of it.
A noise came from inside the flower shop. It was like someone was stirring oatmeal. Had one of those hooligans stayed behind to loot the place? If so, he didn't know what the bastard was up to, but he was about to catch him in the act. He would be the shopgirl's hero then. She might forego the coffee altogether and skip straight to the snogging.
He crept forward with the shotgun clutched in both hands, stepping carefully on the layer of safety glass. It crunched loudly under his slippers, but the noises inside the shop didn't stop. It was something wet, and another one, too, like the grunting of an animal. He took another step. As he drew closer, Donegan could make out the shape of a small figure crouched on the floor. He raised the shotgun and wedged the butt of it into his shoulder.
"I see you, you little brat. Why don't you come out here so the two of us can get better acquainted, huh?"
The intruder looked up at him. It was dark inside the shop, and Donegan couldn't see very well, but the intensity of the look was unnerving. The headlights of a passing car lit up the intruder's face.
It was the shopgirl, yet it wasn't. Her skin was pale-blue, her hair nearly gone. And her mouth. It was like a suction cup filled with knives. The lips were red with blood, the same with her cheeks. She blinked at him in the glare of the headlights, and for a moment it looked like she
had a second set of eyelids.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," Donegan said. Lying on the floor beneath the shopgirl was what was left of a man.
The creature with shopgirl's face licked the blood from her lips as she rose up on all fours, ready to pounce. She growled hungrily.
"Now, now hold on there, lass," Donegan said, taking a step back on the bed of safety glass. The shopgirl was having none of it. She let out a scream that turned his veins cold.
Donegan tried to run, but with no warning at all the shopgirl launched at him through the broken window.
April 21st, 2015
DAY 4
Will's eyes opened. "Damn it," he mumbled.
He had fallen asleep without meaning to. Sometime after midnight he had closed his eyes, trying to give them a rest after a long day of abuse. The long drive, the snow blindness, the smoky diners and bars, it all hit him after he got back to the van. He hadn't gotten a chance to grab some coffee in town before he came out to the middle of nowhere, and now he was paying for it.
Will checked the time. It was just before six in the morning.
He sat up. His muscles were stiff from sitting in the cold so long. The windows had been covered again by more snowfall. Pennsylvania wasn't for him. Back home, D.C. was enjoying mild April weather, the way it was meant to be.
After getting out and stretching a bit, he checked his surroundings. He was relieved to find the snowstorm had finally stopped at some point overnight. The sun was just trying to wake up through the trees, the sky above gray and cloudless. All told it must have snowed a good ten inches before the storm gave out.
Extinction Cycle (Kindle Worlds): Extinction [Isolation] Page 7
