Apocalypse Crucible

by Mel Odom

  Joey didn’t recognize the room. He glanced at the pictures on the wall. Most of them were of a redheaded kid with a gap-toothed grin.

  He looked maybe fourteen or fifteen, but Joey had never seen the kid in his life.

  Shaking his head and regretting the movement instantly when renewed pain slammed against the inside of his skull, Joey moved toward the doorway and down the hall toward the voices and the sounds of cars crashing and guns blasting. They were video-game noises, much different than the real thing.

  During the last three days since storming out of his house in anger, Joey had learned a lot about real car crashes and real guns blasting. Columbus was filled with violence. Most of that was controlled during the daylight hours, but at night the city became a hunting ground for predators and looters and people determined to survive even if that survival meant others suffered.

  At least, that was what it seemed like. Joey had stopped living in the daylight hours and roamed the city with his newfound friends at night.

  Joey paused at the doorway of the living room. Six people sat in the large room in front of the home entertainment system. On the big-screen television, a character ran forward and blasted three aliens with a shotgun. The aliens exploded in violent bursts of orange blood. The animated figure ran between them and picked up a medpack that boosted his health level nearly back up to full.

  “Dude!” one of the guys yelled. “That was so cool! I just knew you weren’t going to make it past those guys! You were, like, in the last minute of your life!”

  “You just gotta have the eye,” the game player smirked. He paused the game and took a drag on the cigarette hanging from his lips. “The eye … and the nerve.” The cigarette tip flared orange, lifting his stark features out of the room’s darkness. His face was all bone and angles and tight flesh. “I got ‘em both. Not gonna leave anything but a bunch of dead aliens behind me in this game.”

  The game player was lanky and tall. He sat in the middle of the floor wearing only a pair of black-and-white, zebra-striped pants. Tattoos covered his arms, chest, and back. The black ink stood out starkly against his pallid skin. His shaved skull gleamed blue from the television glow. Joey didn’t know the guy’s real name. All he knew him by was Zero.

  “Hey, Joey,” Derrick Hanson called from the couch.

  Joey glanced at him. Derrick was the only one of the group that he really knew. The other five were either friends of Derrick’s, or friends of friends of Derrick’s.

  They’d fallen in together three days ago at Cosmic Quest, an arcade-and-game store in downtown Columbus. The store had been closed then, and Joey guessed it was probably still closed. Some of the businesses in Columbus had reopened, primarily supermarkets and supply stores that were encouraged to do so by city, state, and federal agencies. National Guard units worked security at those businesses, protecting the stock and making sure everyone had a chance to buy what was needed.

  A lot of small places didn’t reopen because they didn’t have protection. Despite presidential and FEMA spokesperson reassurances, panic—and looters—still filled the streets. Protesters gathered every day and every night, demanding to know what was truly going on.

  Derrick was from Fort Benning, too. His father was a lieutenant currently stationed in Germany. His mom had worked at the hospital. She’d been one of those who had disappeared. If Derrick missed her—or even thought of her—he’d never mentioned it.

  Squat and broad from power lifting in the gym, Derrick looked like a bulldog. He was broad shouldered and narrow hipped, but had short legs. Normally his hair was brown, but tonight it was green and bright orange, colored by special-effects, temporary dye.

  “Hey,” Joey replied. He didn’t advance into the room. Even after three days with them, he still didn’t feel like he belonged. They were crass and vulgar. He didn’t have a problem with that, but he remained a little uncomfortable with their behavior.

  Still, after leaving the post, he hadn’t had many choices. He didn’t want to go back to his mom. Not yet. Part of it was because Jenny might be there and he’d feel embarrassed about how that whole deal had turned out. Part of it was because he didn’t feel like listening to his mom, or being grounded when the whole world seemed like it teetered on the edge of extinction.

  And a big part of it was that Joey didn’t want to see all those strangers in Chris’s room, sleeping in Chris’s bed. Not when Chris was supposed to be there. Not when he couldn’t help thinking that if he’d been home on time that night instead of out breaking curfew, he might have gotten to see his little brother one last time.

  The sadness and guilt that suddenly coiled in Joey’s stomach made him sick. He put a hand to his mouth.

  “Dude,” one of the guys said, “don’t do that in here.”

  “If he blows,” another one said, “I’m not cleaning it up.”

  Joey got control of himself with difficulty. He swallowed the sour gorge of bile at the back of his throat. “No sweat,” he told them in a strained voice. “I’m okay.”

  “You sure?” Derrick asked.

  Joey knew Derrick didn’t really care how he felt; he just didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of the others. “I’m sure.”

  “Good.” Derrick settled back in the deep sofa.

  The others eyed Joey suspiciously. Again, that feeling of not belonging resonated within him. But he chose to ignore it. There was nowhere else to go, and he didn’t want to be alone. But it reminded him how little he knew them.

  He’d spent time with them at Cosmic Quest for months, playing with them and against them at various games. During those times, Joey had felt cool, one of the gang. Zero, with his barely submerged challenge and hostility, earned a lot of respect in the arcade center. He didn’t spend much time with many people. Getting in Zero’s crowd was something of a coup.

  And knowing that they were guys that Goose and his mom wouldn’t approve of was an added luxury. Joey didn’t fully understand the anger he felt toward his mom and his stepdad, but he knew it was their fault. They weren’t giving him what he needed. Joey didn’t exactly know what he wasn’t getting, but he knew Chris was getting it all.

  “Well, well. Lazarus lives.” Zero flashed a thin smile. He held a game pad in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Ash from the cigarette dropped onto his crossed legs.

  Joey crossed his arms over his chest. Getting Zero’s full attention was always uncomfortable. The guy had dead black eyes set deeply into his hard-planed face. Normally even within the group he seemed tuned to his own inner frequency. Since the disappearances, he’d somehow seemed more alive, more a part of the everyday world.

  “Yeah,” Joey agreed.

  “So how’s the head?” Zero asked.

  Joey knew Zero didn’t care. He hadn’t found anything yet that Zero cared about. “Hurts.”

  Zero grinned, exposing a broken left incisor. “I bet. You know what you need, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Hair of the dog that bit you.” Zero nodded to one of the other boys. “Bones.”

  Bones leaned forward and took a liquor bottle from the coffee table in front of the overstuffed couch. Stacks of plates, containers, and potato chip bags covered it. The mess matched the rest of the house, standing out starkly against the neat carpet, furniture, and overall look of the room.

  “Here.” The boy held the bottle out in a knobby fist. He was tall and gangly, with ears that flared out like sails beneath a shaggy mullet. He wore baggy jeans and a black shirt left open over a black T-shirt featuring a dragon breathing fire on a knight. His name was Jonas but everyone called him Bones. He lived for role-playing games and was a laser-blasting menace on Marauders, a popular science-fiction-based shooter video game.

  Joey held up a hand. “No thanks.”

  “Better hit it, man,” Bones said. “Trust me. It’ll cure that hangover headache right up.” He uncapped the bottle and took a swig. “Me, I’m all about prevention. Don’t ever sober up and yo
u’ll never face a hangover. That’s one thing I’ve learned.” He laughed.

  Joey shook his head and regretted the instinctive action when flashing sparks danced in front of his eyes. He held back a groan of pain with effort.

  “Want something to eat?” Derrick asked. “Still got plenty of TV dinners in the freezer. Fish sticks. Corn dogs. These people were really loaded up on stuff.”

  These people? That caught Joey’s attention. He looked around the room. “So … where are the parents?”

  “Parents?” Bones shook his head and snickered. “Ain’t no parents here, man.” He put on a pronounced Hispanic accent. “We don’ need no stinkeng parents.”

  The effort drew a chorus of laughter from the other boys. Joey knew none of them were sober. Only Zero appeared unmoved by the joke. He kept his dead black eyes centered directly on Joey.

  Of course there were no parents present, Joey realized. The house wouldn’t have been a mess and the guys wouldn’t have been smoking and drinking if there were parents around.

  “Whose house are we in?” Joey asked. Last night’s intoxication had left him blank about that.

  “Dude,” RayRay said, “ain’t every house we come to we gotta have an invitation to. We ain’t vampires.” RayRay was athletically trim with a ghost of a mustache that barely stood out against the yellow coloration of his skin. His dark bronze Afro stood up four inches.

  “Invitation,” Joey repeated. Only then, like the final number of a school combination lock dropping into place, did he realize what RayRay was talking about. They broke into this house. We broke into this house. We’re trespassing in someone’s home. Panic fired up inside him. His immediate reaction was to leave—right now, before the police showed up. But with Zero’s blank eyes on him, somehow Joey couldn’t do it. Slowly, very slowly, he forced his tense muscles to relax.

  14

  United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post

  Sanliurfa, Turkey

  Local Time 0546 Hours

  Cal Remington turned at the sound of his name.

  CIA Section Chief Alexander Cody made all due haste in his approach. He held a bulky sat-phone in his right hand.

  “I want this room secure,” Remington said to the two privates manning the doors.

  “Yes, sir.” Both men snapped into position with their M-4A1s across their chests.

  Cody read the movement at once and pulled up little more than arm’s reach from the Rangers. He spread his hands in obvious disbelief. “Captain, is this really necessary?”

  “Not as long as you respect the security I’ve placed on this room,” Remington stated evenly.

  The three men behind Cody spread out. All of them wore stone faces and kept their arms folded across their chests. Under their jackets, the weapons in their shoulder holsters were only a few inches away.

  Remington shifted, turning so he was in profile. His right hand rested easily on his hip above his holstered sidearm. He kept his eyes on Cody, but his peripheral vision would alert him the instant any of the three men made a move.

  “You’re holding one of my agents,” Cody protested.

  “I was told you didn’t convince my first sergeant of that,” Remington said.

  “My verbal ID isn’t enough?”

  “Not for me.”

  Cody cursed with enough effort that he turned red in the face. “I helped you, Captain. When no one else would lift a finger to aid you or your men along the border during the attack, I put you in contact with a man who could and did help you.”

  “You did.” Remington nodded briefly. “However, that man isn’t a United States citizen.”

  “So now you’re suspicious of him?” Cody looked like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “I was suspicious then. At that point, the satellite systems worked to my advantage. Now, when I need them just as badly, I find that I don’t have access to them.”

  “He explained the reasons for that. Surely you can understand the position he’s in.”

  Remington noted that they carefully skirted around Nicolae Carpathia’s name. “I understand the position he’s placing himself in. I don’t see that he has to be there at all.” The United Nations appearance Carpathia planned didn’t make sense to the Ranger captain.

  Cody’s eyes glittered. “There’s an opportunity there. He’s seizing it.”

  “Why?”

  Cody pursed his lips, then let out a long breath. “I can’t talk about that.”

  “But you know.”

  “I know some things, Captain.”

  “And the U.S. president supports this?”

  “He does,” Cody said. “Haven’t you been watching the news?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “So have I.” Cody leveled a finger at the man sitting in the chair inside the security room. “So have my men.”

  Remington waited.

  “Captain,” Cody said in a softer voice, “I’m as shorthanded as you are. But taking one of my men is like you losing a company.”

  “I’m at less than half my strength after the disappearances and casualties,” Remington said. “I’m stuck here, defending a city that is going to fall no matter what I do, with orders to make that loss last as long as possible.” The captain put steel in his voice. “Don’t you dare compare your situation with mine.”

  Cody held up his hands in supplication. “Captain, I don’t mean to insult in any way.”

  Remington stepped forward between the two privates, emerging from the defense they offered. He stopped when he was almost nose to nose with the CIA section chief. “What is your mission here?”

  “You know my mission here. I’m trying to recover a rogue agent.”

  “A rogue agent,” Remington growled, “that you had me risk the lives of my Rangers for. You led me to believe we were rescuing someone.” “You were. Your men did. Those terrorists would have killed him. I’m sure of it.”

  “Your guy ran. The first chance he got, he ran.”

  Cody took a breath.

  “The next day in Sanliurfa,” Remington ground on like an M-3 Bradley armored personnel carrier, “two Americans were killed. Your rogue agent was seen entering the building where their bodies were found.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Lie to me,” Remington threatened with slow deliberation, “and things just get harder.” He held up his left hand, his forefinger and thumb an inch apart. “I’m this far—this far—from having you and your junior G-men slapped into custody until I finish my mission here.”

  “That would be a mistake.” Cody’s eyes turned icy with menace.

  “Mister,” Remington declared forcefully, “just about everything involved with this situation is a mistake. Not one of those mistakes has been mine. And I won’t make one now.”

  “My mission here is very important, Captain.”

  “Prove that to me.”

  Cody blew his breath out. “I can’t.”

  “Then you step back out of my face, Section Chief Cody.”

  Cody didn’t move. “Captain, we’re working on the same side.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “I assure you.”

  “Tell me what you’re doing here.”

  Cody shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “Then we don’t have anything to talk about.”

  “Captain, you can’t do this.”

  Remington raised his voice. “Corporal Hardin.”

  “Yes, sir.” At the other end of the hallway, Corporal Dean Hardin stepped around the corner. Four men flanked him. They all held assault rifles at the ready, butts pulled back into their shoulders.

  “Show Section Chief Cody and his men to the front door,” Remington said. “I don’t want to see them in this building again.”

  “No, sir, Captain,” Hardin said, moving forward slowly with his weapon leveled on the CIA agents. “You won’t, sir. I’ll make certain of it myself, sir.”

 
Hardin was lean and wolfish. The Kevlar helmet he wore further shadowed his dark features. Bruises from the violent encounter he’d had with Goose still showed on his face.

  Goose had caught Hardin robbing American military corpses after the disappearances caused the air support from USS Wasp to crash into the hills near the Turkish-Syrian border. Remington knew all about Hardin’s self-serving ways. They weren’t noble, and many of them weren’t legal, but they were all useful. As long as Remington maintained control over them.

  “Captain,” Cody implored.

  Hardin reached the rearmost CIA agent, who wasn’t moving. Quickly and mercilessly, Hardin swung his weapon around and buttstroked the agent in the face.

  Blood erupted from the agent’s face, and he dropped to his hands and knees. A silencer-equipped pistol tumbled from inside his jacket.

  Hardin shot a foot forward and captured the pistol under his boot. He reversed his assault rifle and brought it to bear. “The next one of you doesn’t listen when Cap’n Remington tells you to hit the road, I’m going to open up and let a little daylight through. Capisce?” He glanced at Cody over his gun sights. “That goes for you too, Chief.”

  The agent on the ground groaned in pain. Blood dripped to the floor.

  “While we’re at it,” Hardin said, grinning, “why don’t you all just clap your hands to your heads. You know the drill.”

  Reluctantly, the CIA agents put their hands on top of their heads.

  “Billy,” Hardin said, “help that boy to his feet. But stay out of my field of fire.”

  One of the privates came forward and helped the dazed CIA agent to his feet.

  “Chief,” Hardin said in an easy conversational tone, “you might want to get your boy to the infirmary. The Sanliurfa citizens are still keeping theirs open. Maybe you can get some joy there. Looks to me like he’s definitely going to need some stitches. And his jaw might be busted.”

  Remington noted the gleam in Hardin’s eyes. The corporal liked the violence. During his years as a Ranger, Hardin had made it as far as corporal five times. He’d been busted down in rank each time. After getting caught robbing the dead as he had, he deserved to be broken in rank again. If it had happened during peacetime, Remington probably would have done exactly that. But here and now, with circumstances the way they were in Sanliurfa, Remington wanted Hardin in place.