Tris glanced at Nathan’s twitching figure. Trails of crimson traced pin-straight lines down the wall to the floor, joining a growing pool of blood seeping out under Nathan’s shoes. “Goodbye, Nathan.”
Her fingernail clicked on the enter key.
The Cure’s Burn blared out of the speakers.
Head held high, she walked past him slow―without even looking at his feeble struggling. As the drums kicked in, he recognized the song, and shrieked in rage. Satisfaction spread a broad smile across her face.
“Don’t you dare leave me here, you fucking bitch!” He screamed, slapping his left hand at the wall; his right arm appeared to have gone numb. “Tris! God dammit, you worthless genetic disaster!” Nathan trailed off into incoherent random obscenities. “You think you’ve won, but you haven’t. You’re wrong. You’re dead fucking wrong! This isn’t over! I’m not done with you!”
She closed her eyes, savoring the music accented by his cries of pain and impotent rage.
At the door, she paused. The knife was for Abby. This is for me.
Tris whirled, raised the gun, and put twenty-seven rounds into his back.
Nathan gurgled, sagging over backward. She adjusted her aim, and fired a single shot into his temple, bursting the opposite side of his head open.
The ammo display on the end of the pistol showed 00.
After six seconds of dead weight hanging on the knife, it popped out of the wall and he fell, landing atop an expanding patch of blood. A ruin of plaster and cinderblocks disintegrated from where the bullets had pierced him and gone into the wall beyond.
She stood motionless, staring at him until the song ended.
“Command?” asked the Persephone.
Tris lowered her arm and gazed at the pistol, wanting to kill Nathan another four or five times, but that would have to wait until she could dream again. She turned, finding herself eye-to-chin with her somewhat older, more athletic doppelganger.
“Lead me to the Council of Four.”
33
The Council of Four
Kevin skidded to a halt on his heels and stared for a half-second at five men in ISF armor. They twisted to face him, looking as startled as he felt.
“Oh, shit.”
He flailed his arms and darted back into the corridor, heading for the nearest door to put something more solid than air between him and bullets. Of all things to think about at that moment, the way the Enclave shoes squeaked on the polished floor made him long for his boots… sitting in a locker he might never see again.
The ISF rushed into the hallway behind him.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Stop,” said a man.
Kevin barged through a door into a conference room with no other exit. Three walls of dry-erase board contained indecipherable mathy stuff, as well as stick figure doggy-style porn with the ‘receiver’ labeled Whitford and the ‘giver’ labeled Gerhardt.
A long table and twenty-two comfortable-looking black chairs wouldn’t do much for him. He whirled to face the door, raising the Enclave pistol as he backed up.
Head shots. I need head shots.
Shadow spread over the gleaming white floor from the ISF men collecting outside.
Come on. First one in wins a prize.
He fought the urge to tense up on the trigger. This is like one of those goddamn mouse thing buttons.
“You’re that Wildlander, right?” asked the same man. “We’ve been looking for you.”
No shit. He stared over the gunsights, waiting. The chaos outside had grown so loud it felt like the wall behind him would collapse under the weight of the unrest. Metallic slams suggested cars smashing into things, the occasional pop of a gunshot went off, but most of the cacophony consisted of shouting.
“Doctor Jameson has asked us to get you out of here in one piece.”
Kevin blinked. “What?”
“We’re on your side. I’m gonna look in, don’t blow my head off.” A man in his early twenties with short white hair and green eyes peeked around. Only his head and one shoulder came past the doorjamb, no sign of a weapon. “I’m Alex. We saw the whole thing… the stasis pods, the Virus…” He looked down. “We had no idea there were so many people out there. They’ve always told us they were… diseased. Mutated and rotting…”
“That’s Infected.” Kevin shifted his jaw side to side.
“We know that now,” said Alex.
Another man walked into view out in the hallway; he had a rifle, but kept it lowered. Longer black hair wavered at the sides of his head, down to his earlobes. “Yeah. That’s completely fucked up and wrong to drop bio weapons on civilians.”
Kevin went from staring over the gunsights to staring at the gun. “Umm.”
Alex raised an empty hand. “I understand you’re hesitant, but if we were trying to kill you we would’ve fiber-opped the door and shot you without exposing ourselves.”
Either way I’m fucked. He lowered his arm. “Where’s Tris?”
“What do you mean?” Alex stepped in. He had a hand on a rifle hanging from a strap, but his body language didn’t appear aggressive.
“Some of your pals dragged her outta here in cuffs.”
The black-haired man shook his head. “That didn’t go over official channels. Most of the ISF agrees with her. There’s a penis-waving contest going on between us and the military right now, and the civilians are caught in the middle.”
A third man, also white-haired but a little older, entered. “Doctor Jameson advised us to exfil you asap. There’s apparently a network of tunnels beneath the city that we can use.”
“Whoa.” Kevin raised his hands in a ‘hold on a moment’ gesture. “One, I’m not leaving without Tris. Two, ‘exfil’ sounds kind of private and painful.”
The ISF men chuckled.
Alex recovered first. “It’s short for exfiltrate… as in leave.”
“There’s still the first problem.” Kevin relaxed enough to approach them. “Where’s Tris?”
“Jameson said she’s got things under control.” The thirtyish white-haired man waved him to follow. “He said to tell you she’s found the cure… whatever that means.”
Kevin’s expression blanked. “I have no damn idea.” He blinked. “Music? Did she escape and go after Nathan?”
“If I knew, I’d tell you,” said Alex. “Come on.”
He followed the five men into the hallway. “Look. If this goes shitty, I need you guys to help me find her.”
A bald man with a face ugly enough to stop a clock gave him a severe look. He exuded the scent of recent shaving, but still appeared to have a deep beard shadow. Large trapezius muscles flowed into equally thick arms, calling into question whether or not he possessed a neck. The dude would’ve been scary even without the augmentation he no doubt had. “We got your back.”
The men walked mostly at his right side with one out front and one trailing behind, ushering him farther down the corridor than the Virus lab, which still rumbled from the distant incinerator. Kevin argued with himself about following Jameson’s idea of this ‘exfiltration’ thing. No way. As soon as we reach the outside, I’m going after her.
“Almost there,” said the bald man, who had the lead. He jogged around a left corner, barged through a metal door and fast-stepped it down a small stairwell to a landing. “This way.” A second set of switchback steps led to a door. He headed for a keypad on the left and punched in a code. “Guess we find out if the old man was right.”
A beep emanated from the panel and the door opened.
“Looks that way,” said Alex.
Small LED lights at even intervals along the upper left corner of a plain concrete hallway came on in sequence. A trail of light raced off into the distance. About sixty yards away, the corridor angled to the right.
The youngest ISF man, who looked eighteen, whistled. “Wow. Did you guys know this was down here?”
“Nah. Jameson said only First Tier and the Council had access.” The bald
man strode in, looking around at the walls and ceiling. “Some kind of emergency evacuation route.”
“Maybe they used it for all that shady crap,” said the young one. “Stuff they didn’t want anyone knowing about.”
Kevin couldn’t think about anything but Tris; the angry screams coming out of her as the other men dragged her away played on continuous loop between his ears. “Yeah. Probably. Look… I know you guys mean well and all, but… I’m not leaving without her.”
“We’re not even sure what team took her.” Alex spoke in a low tone that didn’t echo too much in the bare tunnel. “It had to be military dressed up like ISF. Probably on direct orders from the Council.”
Kevin narrowed his eyes. “Or Nathan.”
They hurried past the bend in the passageway, about a forty-five degree angle. From there, the corridor stretched off to a tiny point. Agonizing minutes passed as they jogged forward. A few offshoots led from both sides along the way. Other than the scuff of shoes, the occasional drip also broke the heavy silence.
The bald one ignored the first branch to the left, hesitated at the second hallway, which led to the right, and kept going.
Is this guy lost?
“None of you know where she is?” asked Kevin.
Alex shook his head. “Jameson said she’s not in danger. He didn’t give us any more detail than that.”
The bald one slowed and hovered at the fourth corridor leading left.
“Hey Tarl, you lost?” said Alex.
“Nah… I’m not seeing those numbers the old ghost said to look for.” His already harsh countenance hardened further. Kevin half expected to see the wall crack wherever the man looked.
“Maybe we haven’t gone far enough yet?” asked the youngest.
Great. These guys are lost. Kevin bit back the urge to make a wisecrack.
The big man jogged ahead, picking up speed while examining the walls in search of whatever markings he’d been told to find. The tunnel ahead seemed to go on for miles. Traces of tire marks on the floor near another ignored offshoot increased Kevin’s worry. If the tunnels went long enough to require a vehicle… anything could happen to Tris before he found a way out.
“This way.” Tarl pointed and cut right.
The group jogged another few minutes before the man skidded to a halt and backtracked six feet to a left turn he almost skipped. Alex gave Kevin a ‘sorry, we’re guessing’ kind of face as the group flowed after their point man.
Kevin glanced over, where a tiny black ‘42’ occupied a one-inch square tile by the corner.
“Which one are we looking for?” asked Kevin.
“Four-four.” Tarl turned right at the next hallway. “Here.”
Twenty yards or so farther, the floor angled downward into a shallow ramp. Urgency to find Tris got Kevin up to a faster jog, which the ISF men inherited. Minutes later, the tunnel leveled off and ended at a room with a single elevator and three, small, four-wheeled carts. Tarl typed a code in a panel by the elevator and it lit up.
“Wow.” Two bushy caterpillar eyebrows climbed his bald head. “Code worked.”
“Where does this lead?” asked Kevin.
Tarl’s brutal face didn’t do subtle shades of emotion well. His apparent attempt to project confidence felt more like ‘I want to break you in several places.’ “Surface. Probably near the HC port.”
“Again, that sounds painful.” Kevin closed his eyes and tried to radiate some kind of mind powers that could keep Tris alive.
“Hovercraft port,” said Alex. “There’s a canal leading out from about the middle of the Quar to the Bay. Not as heavily guarded as the primary gate.”
The elevator arrived, and opened, revealing a smallish room with walls mirrored from the waist down and polished wood grain inlaid with decorative gold accents around the upper half.
Kevin walked in shaking his head. “I’m not going to leave the Quarantine Section without Tris.” He clenched his fists and stared into nowhere. “Even if I’m carrying her body.”
Come on, Tris. You got them nanites. Don’t fuckin’ die.
Heavy glances passed among the ISF team.
Tarl patted him hard on the shoulder. “You got it, man.”
Alex entered the elevator last, and spent a few seconds staring at the controls… only two buttons. He pushed the top one, earning a soft electronic ping from the wall. “Well, that makes the choice easy.”
Kevin glanced to his right, at his reflection in the high-polished woodgrain panels, and past it at two tiny doors. Curiosity got the better of him, and he opened one. A rack held about twenty tiny bottles of various alcohols. What the hell? He shrugged and shoved the door closed with contempt. These people are ridiculous… drinks in an emergency escape elevator?
The ISF guys discussed where they expected to emerge on the surface. They couldn’t reach a consensus. Tarl kept insisting Doctor Jameson told them to take the hallway marked ‘44.’ Kevin bounced with anxiety, squeezing and releasing the grip on the Enclave pistol. The squishy rubberized handle didn’t feel right. His beloved .45 sat heavy in his pocket. Even if it couldn’t dent this armor, its presence comforted him. He stared at the digital clock on the elevator panel, watching cyan numbers tick up from 04:33:16.
One minute and twenty-two seconds after Alex hit the button, the doors slid open.
A grey floor spread out in front of them, ending at a black curtain about fifteen feet away. Strong overhead lights forward of the curtain made the space outside glow. Several men and two women’s shouts echoed as if in an auditorium.
“What do you mean the override is not working?” yelled a man with a hint of a Japanese in his English.
“Not working. The absence of working. Not functioning as intended,” snapped a woman with an accent that reminded him of the couple who’d said ‘namaste’ at him.
The first man let out an exasperated sigh. “How is it that not one of the systems is responding to our commands? Who is this person in our network?”
“The old man or the girl?” asked a calm-sounding voice reminiscent of a stern grandmother. “We’re not getting anywhere like this. What are the repair teams reporting?”
“They’re reporting that they’ve been surrounded and captured,” yelled the Japanese man. “This is an absolute disaster.”
“Do it,” bellowed an older-sounding man. “You have permission to use whatever force necessary to contain the situation. Citizens are to return to their homes.” He paused a few seconds before yelling, “Please,” and dropping back to a hushed speaking tone. “Will you give me a damn moment? I can’t record an announcement with you four bickering like children in the background.”
Kevin crept across the open space to the curtain. A few seconds of feeling around located a seam, which he pulled aside enough to peer out. About fifteen feet in front of him, four people sat at a wide shared desk with their backs to him. Rows of black seats spread out into the distance, positioned behind thinner tables lined with small silver nameplates he couldn’t make out. Larger signs overhead read ‘First Tier Administration’ near the front, ‘Second Tier Administration’ near the middle, and ‘Third Tier Administration’ closest to the exit doors.
Left of the giant desk, a tall man with neat grey hair, somewhere between sixty and seventy, stood at a podium loaded with computer displays. His thick grey eyebrows, dour, square-jawed face, and impeccable appearance made him look too perfect to be real.
If shady military government was a person, he’d be it.
A black-haired man with Japanese features and paper-white skin sat closest to the podium. He looked over sixty, and stared daggers past a somewhat younger, brown-haired Caucasian man between him and a woman with darker skin and black hair. She appeared middle aged, easily in her fifties, and pointed one finger at the Japanese man as if she wanted to ram it through his eyeball.
At the far right end, a pewter-haired woman leaned her elbow on the desk, massaging her temple. She had a hint of a tan, a subtle wr
inkling to her face, and looked also in her sixties―with a frustrated scowl as if about ready to throw her arms up and walk away. “So what you’re telling me is, there’s no way to kill this rogue process that’s opening all the pods?”
“I’ve done everything,” said the man at the podium. “Not one of the control routines are responding. The team we sent to the facility encountered resistance.”
“Do you mean they encountered Resistance or they encountered resistance,” asked the brown-haired man.
The dark-skinned woman slapped the table. “Will you stop babbling?”
“I’m not babbling!” He thrust his hands up. “I mean the Resistance or just―”
“Enough!” roared the Japanese man. He closed his eyes as if meditating for a split-second, and continued in a normal speaking tone. “Citizens were resisting reinsertion to the simulation.”
“Shit,” whispered Alex. “T-that’s the Council of Four.”
Kevin glanced back at him. “There’s five people…”
Alex gestured toward the standing figure. “That’s the Speaker.” He exhaled. “This is unbelievable. No one but the upper administrators have ever met them face to face.”
“No shit?” whispered Kevin. “These four old people are what everyone’s afraid of?”
“That’s Director Gerhardt on the right. She’s the Prime Council. Doesn’t have too much more power than the rest, but she usually gets whatever she wants. Director Khan”―he pointed at the dark-skinned woman―“she’s fairly new to the council, only about four years. Whitford’s been on it like forever. Same with Kuroyama.”
“All we ever see of them is still images and sometimes a recording,” said the youngest ISF man. “The Speaker’s everywhere. Floating head always talking. All the information the Council needs to pass to the people goes through him.”
“Yeah…” He sighed. “Tris said that. I don’t think she likes him much.”
The Roadhouse Chronicles (Book 3): Dead Man's Number Page 42
