The Longest Road (Book 3): The Other Side

by A. S. Thompson

  “I just find itscientifically interesting,” Albert continued, carefully choosing his words, “that maybe desire for power and global control is a genetic trait.”

  “Thenscientifically speaking, one generation more doesn’t make you unrelated.”

  Albert raised his glass for a toast. "Auf die Familie. Prost,” he said as a sly acknowledgement to their Austrian ancestry. As he took a sip of the minty-lemon cocktail, he watched Liz cringe, and that small verbal slap to her face made him smile inside. “Still, what aren't you telling me?"

  "If you must know, Lizzy was here because there was an incident abroad, and she wanted to personally deliver the results. The issue did not concern you, so I didn't tell you."

  The response was less than satisfying. Albert could tell there was more than he had been led to believe, but before he was able to comment, his eyes caught a small blinking light from the screen in front of them. "What the hell?"

  "What is it?"

  "The GPS on truck three," he said, striking a series of commands on the personal tablet.

  "What about it?

  "Well, as you can see, it is no longer broadcasting. I only stepped away for sixteen minutes and…” he paused momentarily to reference his watch, “twenty-three seconds. When did it go offline?"

  "I don't know. I wasn't paying attention.”

  "Damn you-"

  "Watch it, son!"

  "No, not you, the GPS." Although he did, in part, mean her.

  MIA manifested herself next to Liz. “Ms. Baron, if I may comment, the GPS has ceased broadcasting for twelve minutes and fifty-seconds. Additionally, I have Daytona online for you.”

  “Put him through.”

  The screen lit up with Daytona's face in a real-time video feed. "Hello? Are you getting me?"

  The picture came through with high definition clarity, as did other individual transmissions from Daytona’s Guardsmen; all of whom were busy extinguishing intense flames and engaging with an onslaught of infected.

  “Daytona, why is one of my jets on fire?”

  "No offense, Mother, but screw the jet! Where is truck three? Has West been taken care of?"

  "No, the truck has been destroyed. We got there too late.”

  Liz’s fingers curled into a tight, frustrated ball. "Daytona, what did I tell you before you left?"

  "I didn't fail! I didn't even have a chance to!"

  "Chance to what? Fail?" Albert chuckled. "Dear brother, it's funny how even you know that you would have."

  "Blow me. You know what I mean. I didn't have a chance to kill West. He and his men had already taken out the truck. We engaged in a firefight with him on the move. West made it to his plane and got away. We would be chasing him right now, but one of his people sabotaged our jet."

  "Daytona," Liz began, but then gasped in surprise.

  From the side of the camera, an infected man latched its yellow-foam-covered teeth onto Daytona’s shoulder and dragged him to the ground.

  The video feed showed only the arms and legs of two men wrestling.

  Liz stood, worried. “What’s going on? Daytona! Are you alright?”

  “Hold on, I got this,” Albert said, overriding the camera remotely. He zoomed back the lens, just in time to see Daytona break away from the scuffle and rise to his feet.

  The infected man made another attempt, but Daytona blocked it by bracing his hands against the man’s shoulders. Then Daytona let go and pinned the man’s head in between his hands and squeezed until the skull caved in.

  "Son, are you alright?"

  Daytona wiped his bloody hands on his pants and replied, "Ya, I’m fine. Thanks to the new meds I'll heal soon."

  "I think this goes without saying, but since you never seem to listen, you did get your dose of our version of Ambrosia, correct?"

  “Yes, Albert, I did. I do listen to you, but most of the time, I ignore you.” Daytona spat in disgust on the body of his kill. "You were saying something, Mother?"

  "I was about to say that West is a damn cockroach who won't die! Left unchecked, he could ruin everything!"

  "On that topic, I think it's safe to assume-"

  "Nothing is safe to assume, Albert!" she snapped. "That was the last of the Ambrosia. I gambled on your percentages and relied on your brother’s security and lost both bets!"

  Daytona scowled. "I can kill him."

  "Splendid job so far.”

  Normally Daytona would have engaged in the bickering, but he hated West more than his brother. "I can and I will. I even know how to make him come to us. Mother, please trust me. Give me this chance to make things right, and I promise you I will get it done."

  Liz leaned back, considering the proposal.

  "Care to elaborate on your plan, brother?"

  "I will, when you get here."

  “Where?”

  "To whatever shithole airport I'm at."

  Albert snorted. "I'm not going."

  "You very well are," Liz commanded. Her entire demeanor shifted to a threatening level that those closest knew to tread cautiously. "You are going to watch over your brother and make certain there are no more mistakes."

  "I don't need Albert to babysit me."

  "Noted, he’s still going. Both your asses are on the line. I will not accept failure. I WANT WEST DEAD!" she declared, slamming her fist on the table.

  “Ms. Baron,” interrupted MIA, though only her audio. “I detect increased blood pressure and stress levels. If it would please you, I can advise your masseuse to ready your room or perhaps another acupuncture session with me in the medical bay?”

  Liz slid her fist off the table and regained her composure. “Thank you, MIA, but that will not be necessary. Boys, am I understood?”

  “Yes, Mother,” mumbled Albert.

  Daytona cracked his neck. "Yes, but in order to kill West I will require a few things."

  “Fine, but know this. This is your last chance. If you do not succeed, you should not bother returning. That goes for you too, Albert. Hold on,” Liz said, picking up her personal mobile phone. She glanced at the text message and excused herself from the table.

  "Who is it?"

  "None of your concern,” she said, looking from Albert to the screen. “Now I don't care how you get it done, Daytona, just get it done. Albert, whatever your brother tells you he needs, get it for him."

  Albert watched the fogged glass door slide closed behind his mother.I’m almost certain that was Lizzy, but what is she keeping from me?he thought. He looked back at the screen and said, "What’s so funny, brother?"

  "Whatever I need you have to get for me, huh?"

  "I know where you are going with this. Don't press your luck."

  "Tell your tech geeks to track the plane that just departed from our position. They were heading west, but their flight path could deviate. I want to know the moment they land and where."

  MIA’s human image manifested from the ceiling lasers. “Dr. Stone, I have taken the liberty and began scanning.”

  Albert used his finger to stir the remainder of his cocktail before finishing it. "I’m still waiting, brother...if I recall, you said you neededthings- plural."

  "Go get Shanna out of holding and bring her with you."

  "I am ninety-nine percent sure that mother doesn't want her leaving HQ."

  "Well, then she can deal with it. We both heard her. She said to get me anything I need, and I need Shanna. It won't work any other way."

  ***

  Liz walked down the circular stone corridor, past a pair of patrolling Guardsmen who stood up straight and nodded politely. She continued walking until the passageway opened into a naturally carved-out cavern.

  On one side of the grated metal bridge, an underground river flowed from the facility’s hydroelectric power plant. On the other, the unlimited supply of water fell hundreds of feet, landing in a swirling pool illuminated by dozens of tiny lights.

  Liz held up the smartphone at eye level to alleviate the strain on her neck
. "Hello, dear. I received your text and called you as quickly as I could.”

  "How is everything?" asked Lizzy.

  A white sand beach and rolling tide could be seen behind her face.

  "We just lost truck three."

  "Well, we can't say we’re surprised. What is going on now?"

  "Daytona is going to take care of West, and Albert is off to supervise him."

  "And what happenswhen they fail?"

  "That's why I have you. Speaking of, how are you doing?"

  "Fine. As my message said, I made contact with Dr. Crowley. He had the cases of Ambrosia as promised."

  "And what of Dr. Crowley?"

  Lizzy panned her phone so the camera could capture a man with his head lying away from his body.

  "You weren't really going to let him live and move up in the company, were you?"

  Liz smiled. "Of course not. Well done. You truly are your mother's daughter."

  Loveland, Colorado

  December 2, 2009

  1316 hours

  Harry Jones was forced to land an hour after takeoff.

  The bullets from Daytona and his Guardsmen caused more than superficial damage. What started out as minor vibrations stemming from the left aileron, increased to a concerning, consistent rattle. Gauges began to display increased temperatures readings, “warning” and “check systems” alerts.

  Collectively, these symptoms caused Jones to make the executive decision to land the Gulfstream at the closest airport to his position in northern Colorado.

  Since touchdown and taxi to the first available hangar at Loveland airport, much needed to be done. West and Travis were busy repairing the plane, while Clint was off searching the airport for alternative air transportation in the event the jet could not be fixed.

  Meanwhile, Alex and Jones were busy basking in comfort inside a room marked “Captain’s Lounge.”

  "This is some good stuff," Alex said, sipping on the last bit of whiskey through a plastic straw. After five glasses, he was numb to almost every sensation. "I gotta give you credit, you know how to roll."

  Glass of thirty year old scotch whiskey in one hand and clipped cigar in the other, Jones lounged across from Alex. "Roll? You and your idiotic Generation Y have bastardized modern language."

  "I like think we made it betterer," Alex argued, slurring and adding an extra and unnecessary "er."

  "By the way, aren't we Generation X or Z? Oh snap, Jonesy," Alex said, inebriated brain simultaneously changing subjects and giving Jones a nickname. "Did you ever see Generation Kill? It was on HBO before the outbreak. It was crazy legit."

  "Case and point."

  Alex ignored or didn't hear the comment. "You know my cousin Collin fought in that war. Or was it Afghanistan? I don’t remember. All I know is he was a brave-ass dude. I miss him. Mike too. You'd like him, Jonesy. He'd be getting so stoned right now."

  Jones blew out a cloud of tobacco smoke. "I don't smoke marijuana. Only Cubans."

  "I'm sure Mike could wrap some into that," Alex added before his tone dropped. "I miss Bill too. We used to have so much fun together. When I change, I want to kill the people who did this...that's it! You guys should keep me around and let me take ‘em out as a zomb! That'd be tight!"

  “Is it possible for you to stop talking altogether? Keep drinking and shut up.”

  Alex went to sip but remembered his glass was empty. "Hey, Jonesy, can you fill me up? I'm a little dry. Hey that's what she said! Hah! Or he said, to her, not as me, but a girl, she would say that..."

  The rambling explanation after the joke made little sense. Alex raised his hands up as far as they would go; duct tape had been wrapped around his forearms and legs binding him to the chair.

  "But seriously, I'd get some more, but according to you guys, I might change and kill someone."

  Jones rolled his eyes and walked out the door.

  "Hey, you're forgetting my glass!"

  "I'll bring you a new one," he called back without turning.

  While refilling his glass and a fresh one for Alex, Jones overheard a discussion, so he leaned out the fuselage to investigate. "Fitting," Jones said, walking down the stairs. “Leave it to a black man and a Mexican to take a break when there's work to be done."

  Travis rose quickly from the upside down bucket." Pinche guero you have-"

  “Not worth it,” West said, using his hand to block Travis. "We don't have time to beat the crap out of wanna be KKK members."

  Travis cracked his knuckles. "Oh, I can make time.”

  West’s eyes remained glued to the plans spread out in front of him. "We are here and need to get to the bunker, which is here," West said, finger sliding across the map of the continental United States.

  "But we lost Steve and the others somewhere in here," Travis said circling a small area. “They didn’t answer when I called a few minutes ago, so that means they must still be in the area. We can head back and search-”

  "I know you want to search for them, but we have to stay on point. There's a bigger picture here. We may have taken out the Ambrosia, but we need to strike now while we can."

  Travis spoke softly so Jones could not hear. “West, I’m in it all the way, you know that. So that’s why I’m only going to ask you this once. Is it about stopping LIFE or getting Shanna back?”

  West noticed Jones’ eager ears hoping to pick up the confidential conversation.

  “Wherever Liz Baron is, I’m certain Shanna will be too. But to answer your question, the mission is first. Shanna, Steve, the others, they are secondary.”

  Travis frowned. He believed West but did not like the answer. “Alright, so what do you have in mind?” he asked, speaking at a normal volume.

  “Charlie and the others should have arrived at the bunker earlier this morning. Once the VP sees the President's video message, he will have no choice but to go after Liz Baron. I say we rendezvous with them at the bunker, combine our forces with the military, and finally take down LIFE."

  "I only have one concern."

  "We don't know where she is,” West answered for Travis. “That was my concern as well.”

  "She could be anywhere."

  "Agreed. Short of some dumb luck or insider information, our best hope is that someone in the government knows...what are you still doing here, Jones? Don’t you have a spa treatment or whatever rich white people do?”

  Jones blew smoke obnoxiously in their direction. "I’m still here to make sure you baboons don’t make a decision that gets me killed. And on that topic, unless you feel like driving hundreds of miles through infected country, you do know that getting to the bunker still requires a plane, correct?”

  West kept his eyes on the maps. "That is correct."

  "Then, why are you not working on the plane? To me that would seem like the first priority."

  West growled. For the sake of no more interruptions or distractions, he replied, "It is a priority, just not the first. I don't have a background in aviation mechanics, neither does Travis or Clint, but we have inspected the plane anyway. We couldn’t locate the source of the rattling, but we did discover bullets that fried parts of the electrical system and others that made holes in the frame. Since ours plane unusable, Clint is off attempting to locate another one. I deemed that a one man job, hence why Travis and I stayed behind to discuss strategy. Now, if you don't mind, we would like to get back to it.”

  “And we'll let the captain know when it's time to fly."

  “Whatever,” Jones grumbled as he walked away.

  ***

  “Here. Drink slower this time.”

  As a practical joke, Alex snapped his jaw like a dog when Jones switched out the empty glass for the refill. “Ruff!”

  Terrified, Jones shuffled backward and tripped over a coffee table; flailing arms released his glass and cigar in opposite directions. "What the hell, Alex? You think that's funny? I thought you changed!"

  "Honestly? Ya! Pretty damn funny! I almost pissed myself," Alex s
aid, laughing. "Actually, can you untie me? I think I have to pee. Too much drinking."

  "How's this for funny," Jones said, snatching Alex's glass. “Mine now.”

  "Aw, man that's not cool. It was a joke, Jonesy. You can't drink a dying man's drink. That's just not kosher."

  "Watch me.”

  After settling in his chair, Jones opted to light a new cigar rather than pick up the one that settled on the floor.

  Alex sustained another round of coughing, but with no hands to block the hacking, it looked like a violent seizure. When the spasms settled, Alex started to say, "I don't feel so good," but as he spoke the last word, unanticipated vomit spewed over his shirt, pants, and the gray carpet. "I'm not sure if that’s from the virus or the drinking...Ah, man, now I'm covered in puke and piss."

  Jones was disgusted, partially sympathetic, but mostly disgusted. "I thought you said youhad to pee?" he asked, sliding his chair back a foot.

  "Ugh, I really don't feel so good. To answer your question, Ihad to pee. I was pinching it off, but then the coughing kinda let it go."

  "Deal with it."

  "Come on, untie me. I've seen some gross-ass zombs who are covered in blood and shit. And I do mean shit, not Generation-whatever-the-fuck-we-are's meaning of shit. Wow, how'd I come up with that connection?"

  "Not my call, ask West."

  “Why would I ask West about Generation Kill? Wait, what was I talking about?”

  “Asking West if you can be untied.”

  "Come on, Jonesy, There's a shower in the men's room. I'm not changed yet. I'll be done in less than a minute. That’s what she said, but seriously, I'll be quick. That’s what she said again- damnit, I can't stop it. Mike really planted the seed. That’s what she said."

  Jones stared blankly at Alex as he talked to himself. “What? You're not making any sense. Were you dropped as a kid?”

  “Yes, a lot. And hit in the head a bunch too in my fighting days. Hey, Jonesy, can I ask you something?"

  Jones puffed a series of smoke rings, attempting to ignore him.

  "I really want some more booze. Jonesy, I know you can hear me. Damnit, Jonesy, you're a dick. I'm taking back my nickname. Now you're just Harry Jones. Maybe Harry Ballsack Jones..."