Marcus peered in his general direction, tapping on his ear. Shit. He can’t hear what I’m saying. Hassler pulled the thermal cover away and stood on the boulder next to him, emphatically signaling for Marcus to move down the fence. The ex-Ranger glanced at the swarm of abbies and nodded, urging the group west. As soon as they started running, the abbies adjusted their trajectory, jumping onto the electrified barrier. Sparks cascaded to the ground, obscuring his view of the slaughter.
Several abbies from the group continued for the gap, crashing through the damaged section like cannonballs. Tracers and bullets fired from the vehicle-mounted machine guns riddled their bodies before they could turn and pursue Marcus’s group. With the Humvees and MTVRs covering the gap and the rest of the abbies frying themselves on the fence, the situation quickly stabilized. Less than a minute later, the flow of abbies stopped, and one of the Humvees raced toward the breach.
“Upshaw, this is Hassler. Looks like everything is under control down there. Can you make sure nobody shoots me on the way down?”
“The westernmost vehicle has you in sight, and everyone can hear this transmission.”
“Roger. As long as they don’t have me in their sights. Coming down now.”
Hassler took a deep breath and grabbed the rope at his feet, wondering if this was a mistake. He’d never fully trust Pilcher, but if they wanted him dead, Mustin and his team would have punched a six-inch hole through his back by now. He threw the line behind him and rappelled until he reached solid footing.
Chapter 61
David Pilcher raised his head off the ground and spit several woodchips out of his mouth. He rose to his knees with an alien feeling. Absolute fear compounded by a complete loss of control. He had no idea what was going on around him—only that they had somehow survived. His ears still rang from the explosion, and the voices around him sounded distorted.
Pope helped Pam toward the fence, a sight he never expected to see in his lifetime. He urged the security officers forward at the same time, sweeping his AK-47 back and forth to cover them. Resentment washed over him. The story of Pilcher’s “last stand” at the hatch would be overshadowed by Pope’s heroism at the fence. Marcus kneeled beside him and yelled in his ear, the words subdued by the damage to his eardrum.
“Mr. Pilcher, the Humvee is waiting.”
He stared at the scorched break in the fence, his eyes drawn to the abby corpses piled on the other side. Playing dead wasn’t beyond their devious intelligence capacity. With the casual swipe of a talon from the ground, one of them could open his femoral artery.
“Maybe we should open the gate on the other side of the valley and have the Humvee pick us up on this side.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea, sir. We made a lot of noise out here,” said Marcus, aiming his rifle at the tree line behind him.
Pilcher turned his head and stared at the wall of trees to the south. Marcus was right. Paralyzed by fear, he wasn’t thinking straight—and everyone knew it.
“Time to go, sir!” said Marcus, reaching out to grab him.
And now he was being manhandled like a child! Pilcher pushed himself to his feet, glaring at Marcus while he brushed the dirt and wood shavings off his jacket and shirt.
“Is the fence deenergized?” said Pilcher.
“Temporarily, sir,” said Marcus, guarding their retreat.
“And Hassler?”
“He’s on his way down, sir.”
Pilcher stopped in front of the fence, contemplating the unthinkable. Hassler couldn’t return to the superstructure. Not after this. It would be simple to justify given the hell he had unleashed on the construction team this afternoon. Tensions were high, and if Mustin’s team saw Hassler aiming a weapon at him or pulling out a brick of explosives—an honest mistake might be made.
“Marcus, I need your handheld radio.”
“Let’s get to the vehicle first, sir,” said Marcus, taking several steps in his direction while scanning the forest.
They didn’t take his orders anymore?
“Marcus, give me the radio.”
His external security chief removed the radio from a cargo pocket and threw it three-quarters of the way to the exposed tree line.
“You’ll thank me for that later, sir,” he said, tapping his headset. “We still have a big audience.”
He’d forgotten about the broadcast. Pilcher slumped his shoulders and stumbled toward the Humvee, afraid to glance down at the grey bodies under his feet.
“Mr. Pilcher! This way!” said Pope, holding the rear passenger door open for him.
Pam sat on the other side of the compartment, pressing a white compress against her left thigh. She extended a hand through the gunner’s suspended legs, gripping Pilcher’s wrist and pulling him into the vehicle. Blood seeped from the turret hatch, but the gunner seemed fine, shifting in the harness seat. Pope slammed his door shut and jumped into the front seat. Behind them lay the wounded security officer, holding his bloodied shoulder.
“What about Marcus and the other officer?” said Pilcher.
“They’ll stay with the Humvees and secure the breach until we can repair the damage,” said Pope.
“Very well then,” grunted Pilcher. “Get us the hell out of here.”
The driver eased them into a turn, the suspension bouncing over abby carcasses. Pam winced, hissing through her teeth as they hit the bumps.
“How deep is the cut?”
“Deep. I’ll be fine,” she said, grimacing.
Pope turned in his seat. “What about Hassler?”
“Fuck Hassler. He can walk back,” said Pilcher.
The Humvee suddenly stopped, flinging Pilcher into the back of Pope’s seat and knocking his glasses off.
“What the hell is wrong with your driver?” screamed Pilcher.
He felt around for the glasses. When his hand brushed against the wire-rim frames in his lap, he quickly jammed them into place to see why they had stopped. Hassler stood in front of the Humvee with a hand on the hood. The other hand held a half-consumed bottle of champagne, which he casually raised for a long swig. Jesus. He looked insane.
Hassler tossed the bottle over his shoulder and walked down the passenger side of the vehicle, stopping at Pilcher’s door. Pam eased her pistol out of the holster on her uninjured thigh and pointed it at the door. A cough drew his attention to the turret hatch above him. Ragan’s blood-caked face stared back at him.
“That won’t be necessary, Pam,” he said, pushing the pistol barrel to the side.
The door opened, revealing the man Pilcher had tried to kill twice.
“Welcome back,” muttered Pilcher.
“Good to be back,” said Hassler. “Mind if I hitch a ride? I’d walk, but I’m kind of hungry. Can’t wait to see what Chef Tim can whip on short notice.”
“Chef Tim?” Pilcher chuckled. “We’ll put together something in the cafeteria for you.”
Hassler smiled and shook his head slowly. “I understand things got a little hectic on your end, but you agreed to grant me a wish.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not a genie,” insisted Pilcher.
“I’m not asking you to return me to 2013. It’s something much simpler.”
“Theresa Burke is not coming out of suspension. That’s off the table,” said Pilcher.
“Even simpler than that,” he said, leaning forward to whisper in his ear.
Pilcher contemplated his demand for a moment, stunned by its audacity. Never in a million years, or eighteen hundred years, would he have guessed Hassler’s wish. They’d have to work out the finer details of the arrangement, but he could live with the request.
“Granted.”
Chapter 62
Ted Upshaw sat at his usual table, in the far right corner of the cafeteria. Nobody sat with him anymore, including the other operations specialists. Upshaw didn’t blame them. He wished he could vanish too, but his soul already belonged to the devil. He kept his
head down and shoveled some carrot-flavored slop into his mouth.
A shadow loomed over him, owned by a pair of torn camouflage pants and a strong urine smell. He caught a whiff of campfire through the ammonia-like odor.
“Hassler,” he said, before looking up from his tray.
“Was it that obvious?” said Hassler, holding a tray.
“Campfire and urine. Pope might have pissed his pants a few times out there, but nobody stuck around at night to roast marshmallows. Glad you made it back,” said Upshaw, motioning for him to take a seat.
“That makes two of us—in total,” said Hassler, greedily spooning a grayish brown, chunky mixture through his dirt-caked lips.
“It’s chicken-something. I guess you won’t be getting that special meal?” said Upshaw.
Hassler mumbled while eating. “I declined the meal.”
Upshaw felt sick to his stomach. He’d detonated a pound of C4 explosives meant to kill this man. Didn’t he know?
Hassler looked up from his food. “Hey, I want to thank you.”
“For what?” said Upshaw.
“Can we talk in here?” said Hassler, scanning the ceilings.
“For now.”
“Were you on duty last night? Late?”
“Maybe,” said Upshaw, taking a sip of watered-down apple juice.
“I hope you buried your tracks,” said Hassler.
“What tracks?” he said, smiling.
Hassler studied him for several seconds before standing up with an empty tray. “Lots of cracks in this foundation. I don’t see it ending well.”
“Neither do I,” said Upshaw, but Hassler had already started to walk away.
“Hassler!” he said, drawing a few stares from the nearest table.
The grizzled ex-soldier walked back to the table and whispered, “No need to apologize, Ted. He used you, just like he used me. That’s what Pilcher does. That’s all this is. We’re all pawns in his big game.”
“Even a pawn can check a king,” said Upshaw.
“Not by itself,” said Hassler. “And not while it’s surrounded by loyal subjects. I recommend we sit back and enjoy the good life—while it lasts.”
“The good life indeed,” said Upshaw, swirling the runny pudding.
Chapter 63
Adam Hassler packed the remains of his personal effects in the single suitcase he’d brought to the superstructure on New Year’s Eve in 2013. His smart phone, loaded with a few thousand songs, was the last item to be stuffed in one of the outer pockets. The device was more or less useless outside of his extensive playlist, but of all the items carried forward over two millennia, the phone was his most valued possession. Besides the music, it contained several voice messages left by Theresa Burke over the period of Ethan’s disappearance. He knew it was creepy to treasure these messages, most of them the sad pleadings of a desperate and estranged wife—but they were all he had to remember her.
He glanced around the sparse living quarters again, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, an old habit formed over hundreds of hotel stays during his career as a Secret Service agent. Closing the door behind him, he pulled the carry-on-sized bag across the checkered linoleum floor. He stopped at a featureless door and removed a key card from his right pocket, waving it over a small, rectangular card reader next to the inset door. A few seconds later, the grey panel slid open, revealing a familiar elevator car. He stepped into the car unobserved and swiped the card across the reader positioned over the buttons. The doors closed and the elevator ascended to the top floor.
He stepped into Pilcher’s posh residence and turned right, walking toward the unoccupied wing built for Pilcher’s wife. Hassler’s detailed investigation into Pilcher’s private life uncovered a long-established rift between Mr. and Mrs. Pilcher. The two hadn’t lived under the same roof for nearly a decade prior to 2013. It seemed logical that Pilcher would have constructed a separate residence for his wife, who was obviously not among the superstructure’s residents. Requesting the residence had been his final “wish.”
Chef Tim stepped out of the shadows with a gracious smile. “Welcome, Mr. Hassler. Can I start dinner for you?”
“That sounds fantastic, Tim. Thank you,” he said, sensing the chef’s hesitation.
“Can I prepare anything in particular?”
Hassler winked at Chef Tim before nodding at the sullen figure in Pilcher’s salon. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
The End
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Steven Konkoly is the author of The Jakarta Pandemic, The Perseid Collapse, Black Flagged, Black Flagged Redux, Black Flagged Apex, and Black Flagged Vektor
About the Author
Steven Konkoly is the author of apocalyptic bestsellers The Jakarta Pandemic, The Perseid Collapse, Event Horizon and Point of Crisis. His popular Black Flagged series, a gritty, covert operations saga, frequently tops the charts: Black Flagged, Black Flagged Redux, Black Flagged Apex, and Black Flagged Vektor
Steven graduated with merit from the U.S. Naval Academy, receiving a Bachelor of Science in English Literature. He was one of sixteen graduating ensigns selected for the elite Naval Special Warfare program (SEALs).
He served the next eight years on active duty in various Navy and Marine Corps units: From leading Visit, Board, Search and Seizure (VBSS) operations as a boarding officer in the Arabian Gulf, to directing Close Air Support (CAS) as a Forward Air Controller (FAC) assigned to a specialized Marine Corps unit, Steven's "in-house" experience with a wide variety of regular and elite military units brings a unique authenticity to his writing.
His first novel, The Jakarta Pandemic (2010), explored the world of "prepping" well before television and books popularized the concept. Hailed as a "grippingly realistic" family survival story, The Jakarta Pandemic introduced thousands of readers to the unfamiliar concept of "survival in the suburbs," motivating many of them to take the first steps to better prepare themselves for a major disaster. His recently launched series, The Perseid Collapse, continues Steven's legacy of engaging (and informative) post-apocalyptic (SHTF) fiction.
Steven lives with his family in coastal, southern Maine, where he wakes up at "zero dark thirty" to write for most of the day. When "off duty," he struggles to strike a balance between a woefully short sailing season and unreasonably long winter.
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