“Let’s take a look, why don’t we.”
“You mean . . . break it open?”
“Why the hell not?” I ask. “I’ve had plenty of experience back in the Boy Scouts, breaking into homes and locked cellars.” From my assault pack I take out the awl and screwdriver from the diner, and go to work. In a few seconds the plastic security strap is broken, and after that, so goes the lock.
Serena stands closer as I open up the case, me thinking about Mister Manson and how he had died so grotesquely to see it get delivered. Inside the case is a yellow cardboard folder. I take the folder out and it holds a sheet of thick creamy white paper, with the seal of the Governor of the State of New Hampshire at the top. Below is a handwritten message. I read it aloud.
“’Tess. After our last phone conversation, it seemed the signal faded in and out at a convenient time for you. So I’m trusting my most valued aide to bring the message to your personal attention, so there is no misunderstanding.’”
I pause, see Serena staring intently at me. I read more aloud. “So let me make this is as clear as possible. If you want my support and that of my political organization for your boss in the first in the nation primary, I want out. Get it? I’ve been to the Capitol. I’m an old man. I’m tired of living here in Concord with little power, oil lamps, and crappy food. Get me in the Administration as a cabinet secretary, a special assistant, or czar. I don’t care. Get me to the Capitol and I’ll give your boss my state when the ballots come. My aide will wait for your answer, but don’t wait long. Jack.’”
Serena says, bitterness in her voice, “Nice to see our political leaders putting the people first.”
I replace the paper in the folder, put it into the dispatch case. “Yeah. What a surprise.”
I pick up my assault pack and gesture to her brother. “Well, now we know why the train was attacked. It was your brother. He was the courier with the vital message. Not one political hack bringing a demand to another political hack. Buddy was the one that was going to get killed, from an apparent Creeper. Nice set-up. Who would question that? Which explains something else. Tess Conroy interrogated me a while ago. Most of her questions were about you and your brother. Not the dispatch case.”
Serena’s shocked. “But . . . but why? In God’s name, why? What Buddy has—”
I interrupt. “What Buddy has is something to screw up the official story, that by destroying the orbital battle station, the war was won. Maybe the Creepers don’t agree. Maybe there’s another damn stealth battle station up. I don’t know. But with the official story being the war’s been won by this President and his Administration, it clears the way for a third term for these folks. Maybe power is more important than a clear victory.”
“Randy . . .”
“No more,” I say. “Captain Diaz told me the Creepers might attack the Capitol tonight. We’ve got to go. Now!”
I open the door, look both ways. Corridor is empty.
I turn back and Serena is there, holding Buddy’s hand. Buddy looks as blank as ever. Serena’s face is pale.
Time to go.
We’re halfway down the back set of stairs when we hear sirens coming from outside.
We blunder through some rear corridors, past maids and hotel workers who are bustling around. We go through a large kitchen and the smells of the cooking food almost compel me to stop and grab something, but I keep on moving. I’m scanning, looking, thinking, and there’s a rise in conversation by the hotel’s employees as we pass through.
“. . . maybe it’s just a Civil Defense drill . . .”
“. . . my brother sent a courier over, told me to get the hell out of the Capitol . . .”
“. . . but it’s been safe here for years, why now? Oh God . . .”
There’s a short hallway up ahead, crates piled up on either side. The door there leads to the outside and a rear parking lot, and from there—
From behind the boxes, a pissed-off Riley emerges, steps forward, and punches me hard in the chest.
I fall back against some crates, choking, coughing, trying to breathe, trying to catch my breath, failing at everything, my legs spread out, my back hurting where a piece of broken wood is pressing against my spine. Riley strolls up, kicks me in the ribs, and I cry out, roll to my side, eyes closed, everything hurting and burning and throbbing. I can’t see Riley, but I hear him speak.
“Stupid boy,” he says. “Like I told you, once I was in the Afghan mountains, chasing and killing Pashtun tribesmen whose ancestors had fought off the Russians, the British, and the armies of Alexander the friggin’ Great himself. And you think you’d be able to get away?”
That earns me another swift kick in the ribs, but I hurt so much I can’t say anything else. His hands are on me, stripping my pistol away and my boot knife. “Don’t care how many medals you got or how many ribbons . . . you’re just a damn boy, pretending to do a real man’s job.”
I snap out with my right hand, with luck hitting his face, and he only laughs. “Once went hand-to-hand with two Taliban on a mountain trail. Their bones are still bleaching in the sun, and you think you can hurt me?”
I hear him get up and I roll over on my back, and he’s standing over me, grinning, holding my weapons in his hands. “So now I’m taking your girlfriend and her retarded brother to where they belong.”
I kick out and get him in the left shin, and even with the fog of pain and the tightness in my chest, I’m happy to see him bounce back, pulling up his left leg. A flash of pain across his face and he ignores me, stepping past. I turn my head and Serena is there, on her knees, going through my assault pack, probably looking for a weapon, and her brother Buddy is standing with his back against the hallway.
“Come on, princess,” Riley says, grabbing her shoulder. “Time to go meet your betters.”
Serena tries to pull away and he grabs her again, harder, and pulls her up to her feet. My ribs ache, my chest is still so tight I can hardly breathe, and I pull myself up on my hands and knees, and then push off and throw myself against Riley’s legs. I grab them and bite his rear thigh, and he curses and spins around, slamming a fist against my head, pain shooting out from my neck and shoulders. I’m back on the floor and Riley says, “Shit, kid, stay down or I’ll slit your damn throat.”
I hurt all over. The sharp tang of defeat is in my mouth. My dad worked with Serena’s dad to get Buddy somewhere important, to stop a war that had killed so many, and I was failing the mission. I was failing my dad. I was failing . . .
Serena screams. Riley curses again, “This way, little girl, get your retarded brother lined up or—”
Another scream. A thud. Another thud.
I open my eyes. Serena is sitting down with her back up against the wall. Riley is on the floor, on his face.
Buddy is standing over him, holding a bright red fire extinguisher in his hands.
Serena’s brother then leans down and smacks Riley once more time against his head.
His sister says, “Enough, Buddy. Enough.”
The fire extinguisher slips from his hands, clangs on the floor, bottom stained with blood and hair.
Sirens outside are sounding louder and I slowly get up, weaving, my breathing easing up. Serena comes to me, holding out my Beretta and knife. I replace them, woozy, a wave of nausea rolling through. “Your brother is full of surprises.”
She says, “He’s not retarded. He’s very, very smart. And loyal.”
“He sure is.”
I try to pick up my assault pack and it falls out of my hand. Serena grabs it and says, “I’ll help you out but you’re right, we’ve got to get moving.”
She takes her brother’s hand with her free hand, and we go down the hallway, pop open the exit door and we’re outside, in the rear lot of the hotel. The sirens are sharp in the night air and in the overcast sky, I see flares from other parts of the city rising up and disappearing into the clouds, brightening them briefly with flashes of orange, red and yellow.
The lo
t is nearly empty, save for abandoned cars that have been pushed to one side. Serena bumps into me, dropping my pack. “Oh, God, Randy . . .”
“The Capitol’s prepping for an attack,” I say. “It’s going to be hell out there on the streets.”
Serena says, “Randy, what are we—”
I grab my assault pack. “Let’s roll,” I say. “Follow me.”
The door behinds us slams open a couple of more times, as male and female employees of the hotel race out. I move quickly out from behind the hotel, looking around, trying to think things through, recalling my training: adapt, adjust, overcome. Nice words to use out in the field when you’re tracking a Creeper, but here, in an urban environment? Not many options. Not many avenues of escape. Plenty of places to hide, but we weren’t going to hide. Somehow we were going to get the hell out.
What to do?
Around the corner, we come to a street. A crowded two-horse carriage rattles by. Another set of sirens starts howling. More flares sputter up into the air, sending messages to Civil Defense cadres and Army or Marine detachments out there, prepping for an attack. From all of my training and experiences, I should be linking up with an Army or National Guard unit to do my part, but not this time. Outside forces are at work, are plotting, are making life and death decisions for the country and the whole damn planet, and this quiet boy and his beautiful sister are key to whatever those decisions are going to be.
To stop all this fighting and dying and burning.
A Chevrolet Impala is roaring down the street, one headlight burnt out, and I say, “Hold on, Serena. Keep Buddy still.”
I step out into the street, Serena yelling at me, and I pull out my Beretta and draw down on the speeding car, quickly firing two shots. The Chevy screeches to a halt, slewing sideways, and I get to the driver’s door, yank it open. A man in a dark tan suit and wearing thick black-rimmed glasses looks up at me and screams, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Requisitioning your vehicle,” I say.
The man says, “I know my rights! You can’t steal my car without a writ or warrant!”
I push my pistol against his cheek. “My writ is signed by Mister Beretta. Good enough for you?”
“Damn Army,” he says, swearing at me, and he gets out and says, “I hear the damn bugs are attacking. You know what you’re doing? You’re gonna kill me by stealing my car.”
“Then get in the back and shut your mouth,” I say. “I won’t leave you behind.”
“What? So you can drive me into a damn ambush?”
Serena says something and like a fool, I turn. Out of the corner of my eye I see the driver grab something from his coat pocket. I whirl back and he has a small automatic pistol in his hand, coming up to me, and I slam my Beretta down on his hand. He shouts and grabs his hand, and I kick his pistol under the car.
I lower my Beretta, push the muzzle against his chest. “You had a chance. You’ve lost it. Get running or I’ll drop you right here.”
He starts crying. “Damn Army . . . you’re gonna get me burned . . . damn Army . . .”
He sobs more and turns and runs, his gait awkward and clumsy. Serena says, “Randy, you should go after him. Make him come with us. After all, we’re stealing his car and—”
“Specialist, shut up,” I say. “I gave him a chance. He didn’t take it. Get in the front. Get your brother and my assault pack in the rear. Move!”
She pulls the driver’s seat forward and gently propels Buddy into the rear, followed by my assault pack. I get in the front and she races around, opens the passenger’s side door, and climbs in as well. The interior smells of old smoke and wet leather and dirt. There’s a loud sound of something hitting the pavement over and over again and a brown and white horse races by, its eyes wide in fear, the empty saddle bouncing on its back, stirrups flying.
I run my hands over the steering wheel. I feel the hot breath of danger on my neck. The engine is idling. The keys are still in the ignition. There’s a shift stick on the column. I look under the steering wheel. Three pedals are lined up on the floor.
Serena says, “For God’s sake, what are you waiting for?”
“Trying to remember how to drive this damn thing,” I shoot back. “Do you know how to drive?”
“How in hell would I know how to drive? Don’t you?”
“Had a lesson or two last year, and that’s it.”
Another flare launches up into the air, followed by another.
I take a breath. Think, think, think. That lesson had been given by a master sergeant who was an expert mechanic in the motor pool, and who insisted that everybody should know the ins and outs of driving. Knowing that driver’s licenses were awarded each year by lottery once you turned sixteen, I didn’t think I’d ever find myself in this position, sitting behind a steering wheel.
“Well?” Serena demands.
“It’s got three pedals,” I say desperately. “That means it’s a standard, not an automatic.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Automatic is a hell of a lot easier,” I say. “Just shift and press the accelerator and go. But most of the cars and trucks that survived the 10/10 attacks were standards. A lot more confusing.”
She turns and looks out the rear window. “Randy . . . looks like there are people out there. Breaking into a couple of stores.”
“So?”
“So stop lecturing and get driving!”
I grab the shift handle, try to move it. Something starts grinding.
“Randy!”
The pedals. Think. One to the right, the skinny one, that’s the accelerator. Makes you go. One in the middle is the brake. Makes you stop. And the one in the left . . . helps you change gear, that’s the one, that’s . . .
“Hey!” A fist is pounding on the glass. “Get out of the car! We want it!”
I just see a clenched fist and thick wrist. I shove the clutch down with my left foot, work the shift lever, push the accelerator, and—
We’re off!
“Damn,” Serena whispers.
The speed goes up until there’s a high-pitched whining, the engine laboring, and Serena says something and a rock or brick bounces off the car roof, and a bit of memory comes back to me, and I shove the clutch in again. The engine whines. I move the lever. A grinding noise. I push the clutch in harder, shift, hit the accelerator and now we’re moving right along.
I turn to smile at Serena. “All comes back, Specialist.”
“So glad to hear it,” she mutters, still looking out the rear.
We’re driving along now and I manage to work out how to shift the gears, using the brake, clutch and accelerator, and it’s an incredible sensation, having the power of the Chevrolet under my control. The roads are filled with people moving, people running, people on bicycles, a few other pre-war cars and trucks sputtering along, and a number of horse-drawn wagons. A couple of steam-powered Army trucks roar by as well, going to whatever rally point they were assigned to. I check the street signs as we speed along and after a few minutes, Serena says, “What’s the plan?”
“To get the hell out of the Capitol,” I say. “Then find a safe place for you and your brother.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“One thing at a time, Specialist,” I say. “Need to get out of town first.”
She stays quiet for two blocks, and says, “Aren’t we deserters, then?”
“No.”
“Randy, please—”
“My uncle’s in on it, isn’t he.”
Another pause. I’m sure the almighty God of OPSEC is fighting to keep her mouth shut, but she gives in and says, “From the start.”
“Thought so,” I say. “That’s why I was assigned to protect you. Not Mister Manson. You.”
“That’s right,” she says. “But that was back then.”
“No worries,” I say. “I got a note from him a while ago, telling me to keep on with the mission.”
“Really?
He really said that?”
I swerve sharply to avoid a roadblock of tree limbs that’s being built at an intersection by some young boys and girls. A couple more rocks are thrown at us as we speed by. “In a manner of speaking,” I say. “The note said I was his ‘dear nephew,’ and that my dad was his ‘dear brother-in-law.’ I know my uncle. He doesn’t believe that for a moment. But he told me in the note to fulfill my duty. Not my duty to deliver the package to Tess Conroy. My duty to protect and escort you. And that’s what I’m going to do.”
We drive on for a while longer, passing two more Army trucks and three Humvees, one flying a Marine Corps flag. Serena says, “You’ve passed a couple of interstate exits that would have gotten us out of the Capitol.”
“Good eye,” I say.
“So why didn’t you take those exists? We could be miles away by now!
“I have something important to do,” I say.
“Important?” She swivels in her seat and nearly shouts, “My brother has the key to maybe ending this war, getting us all peace and stop the burning and dying . . . what could be more important than that?”
Her words stab at me. I know she’s right. I should be focusing on the mission, focusing on getting Buddy Coulson and his sister out to safety. That’s my mission.
I speed up some more.
But there’s one other thing that must be done.
The tires make a high-pitched screeching sound as I brake and go into a bumpy parking lot. The sound is just like you hear in those old black-and-white Bogart movies. A small wooden sign flashes by as we approach the building: HERO KENNELS.
Serena’s voice is even sharper. “Your damn dog? You’re dragging your feet getting us out of the Capitol to save your damn dog?”
I brake again, the car coming to a halt. “I am.”
“Hell, a few minutes ago you stole this car from some guy that might be killed later because of you. Now you’re putting us at risk to drive to a damn kennel. Randy, he’s just a dog!”
Dark Victory - eARC Page 28
