by Dan DeWitt
When all was said and done, he figured they'd both end up on probation and he'd pick up their no doubt hefty fines.
Money well spent, as far as he was concerned.
On the other hand, Trent being on the loose was a real problem. Trager provided security wherever he could, but if Trent really wanted to get back at any of the Holts or that girl from the bank, he would. Trager figured that he had bigger ambitions at this point, and that was a terrifying thought. Trent would be a ghost until he resurfaced, presumably with a big, horrifying, deadly bang.
And there was the memorial. Memorials. Orpheus, the national hero. Jameson, his own long-time pilot. The soldiers at the school.
The island itself.
The Whale was a lost cause, there was no doubt about that anymore. Trager had managed to delay the bombing for the time being, but only after anthropologists and biologists and virologists worldwide had begged him to. He'd convinced the Senate that this was a once-in-a-lifetime learning opportunity. They had an entirely self-contained zombie ecosystem to study. Thanks to drone technology, there was literally no risk to any humans. He'd bought a few months, at most. This was a particularly bitter pill to swallow, as Trager's preference was to just sink the entire thing ASAP. But even though he'd been wearing an administrator's hat for far too long, he was still a scientist at his core.
His secretary knocked on his door. "Your mail, Martin." She had stacked the packages according to size, some personal correspondence on top, then FedEx packs, and finally a cardboard box on the bottom.
He motioned to the corner of his desk. "Right there's fine."
"Yes, sir." She placed the stack neatly on his desk and turned it so he could read the labels. "Anything else?"
"No." She turned to leave. "Yes. Hold up. Karen, how long have you worked for me?"
"Outside of your time on the island, eight years."
"Have you enjoyed it?"
"Sir?"
"That's a serious question, not a trap."
"More often than not, no, but ..."
"Thought so. I know I can be a shit."
"You didn't let me finish, sir. What I was going to say is that this second stint has been a different story. You came back different."
"Slightly less of a shit?"
She laughed and held her finger and thumb close together. "Slightly."
"What day is today?"
"Thursday."
"Knock off for the rest of the day. Take a long weekend, too. Life's too short, you know."
"Are you sure?"
"Go before I change my mind. I'm mercurial."
"Yes, sir. Thank you." She left immediately. He heard her log off of her computer, grab her purse, and leave inside of sixty seconds. Martin Trager didn't hire fools.
He grabbed the stack of mail and thumbed through the letters and bills. There was nothing that couldn't wait. The two FedEx packages contained contracts that he'd have to look over with his lawyers, so he put those to the side, as well. He picked up the box and gave it a little shake. The box had some weight to it, but he had no idea what it held. The return address was in Scotland. The shipping alone must have cost a fortune.
He grabbed his letter opener and punctured the packing tape. When he opened the box, he was greeted by a dense collection of bubble wrap. He cleared out the top layer and pulled out something cylindrical. It was surrounded by at least an inch of bubble wrap. He cut the piece of tape that held it all together and unrolled it on his desk. He hadn't completely removed the wrap before he knew with certainty what it was. He could see enough of the label to recognize it. He had, after all, once seen that Macallan 1928 label staring at him from his shelf every day.
Every day, that is, until Cameron Holt had liberated it.
Trager just stared at the bottle, unable to say anything, even if there had been someone else in the office to say it to. He couldn't be sure how long he just sat there, stunned. When he finally spoke, he just mumbled to the empty room, "Has to be a prank. I told that story at the gala. It's just some wiseass trying be funny."
What would be the point of that? It wasn't signed, there was no one trying to take credit, there wasn't even a hint of agenda.
But there was that other thing.
He'd never said what kind of Scotch that Orpheus had taken. He also doubted that anyone would drop so much money on a prank.
But Orpheus was dead. The witnesses included his own family.
But.
But, but, but.
He picked up his phone and paused, unsure of who to call. He settled on the last person to ever see the man alive. He was scrolling through his contacts, cursing himself for not committing Thompson's phone number to memory, when it began to vibrate in his hand.
Thompson.
"Your ears ringing?" Trager said. "Good. I just received a package and I ne-"
"We got a beacon."
O
For the second time in an hour, Martin Trager was struck into silence.
"Did you hear me, Marty? We got a fuckin' beacon."
"When?"
"No way to tell yet. I just checked them on a whim. Could be two minutes or a week, because that was the last time I checked."
"Meet me at the pad ASAP."
"Already in the car. Ten minutes."
Trager ended the call, grabbed a bottled water and called his pilot. This pilot, much like her predecessor, was on-call 24 hours a day and elected to live in the building. Trager paid her enough to make it worth it. "Are you ready to go?" The question had a double meaning.
"Absolutely."
He stopped only once along the way, and that was to take a piss, yet somehow the pilot had beaten him to the pad and was already running the checks. He strolled up to the pilot's door and said, "Jesus, even faster than your dad."
Renee Jameson smiled. There was a definite sadness behind it, but she said, "Younger legs. We'll be ready in a few."
Thompson arrived on the roof a few minutes after that and climbed into the helicopter. As soon as they were airborne and buckled in, he produced a printout and showed it to the pilot. "The docks," he said, pointing to the paper for emphasis.
"Got it."
Trager placed a call to his contact at the Coast Guard, advising them that they were going to do a flyover. "We need eyes on that Rhino at the school. Yes, I know that you'll inform Ralston. That's why I'm telling you." He hung up and said, "How many ass-kissers work for that guy, anyway?"
"All but two, as far as I can tell."
Renee asked, "What's this about?"
"Oh, right, you wouldn't know about the beacons," Trager said. "The Rhinos are all equipped with emergency beacons. In case something went wrong with the vehicle ... for example, a collision ... the beacon would go off and help would be dispatched."
"Copy that. I don't see the big deal about this, though."
Thompson said, "Well, the satellites confirm that this vehicle has been stationary since the exodus."
"And the beacon, it can be triggered manually?"
"Now you're getting it," Trager said.
"We're there," she said. She advised the personnel on their Coast Guard escort chopper. "Proceeding to the school."
"Copy that. We'll follow you. When we arrive, peel off and give us room. Fair warning, Mr. Trager," the Coast Guard pilot continued, "if confirming the source of the beacon necessitates boots on the ground, we will likely abort."
"Understood," Trager said. I'll go down there myself if I have to.
"Here we are." Renee maneuvered the helicopter to a good vantage point and held it steady. "I think I see the problem, sir." She pointed to the Rhino on the ground. As high up as they were, it was still impossible to miss the tree lying across the Rhino. It was hard to gauge the damage from that distance, but it looks like the Rhino's outer shell had held up admirably.
"Shit," Thompson muttered.
The Coast Guard chopper flew in closer. A rope ladder spilled out and two men entered the vehicle through the roof hat
ch.
There were no communications for over a minute.
"Come on, come on," Trager said.
One of the Coast Guard personnel transmitted "It's empty. No signs of recent occupation. Had to be the tree."
Thompson said, "We'll have to confirm that with the engineers, but I think that would trigger the beacon."
"Damn," Trager said, crestfallen. "Never should've gotten my hopes up." He gave the okay for the Coast Guard to extract, and Renee took them back to the base.
Back on the pad, Renee did her post-flight checklist and Thompson walked Trager to his office. "It was worth a shot, Marty."
"Yeah. But goddamn. Now I know how Kickoff Charlie Brown feels." Thompson left, and Trager sat at his desk with the intent to type up a briefing for Ralston, but he couldn't get his fingers to cooperate. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the leather journal that Thompson had given him. Holt must have slipped it into the reporter's pocket when he knew that he wouldn't be leaving the cabin. Up until this moment, Trager had figured that for Holt's final gift. He flipped through the pages. There were many answers there, just not for the questions that Trager most wanted answered. He put the journal back into the drawer and just stared at the Scotch.
That damned Scotch.
He picked up the bottle and caressed it for a moment. "I've missed you, beautiful." He opened it and poured himself two fingers' worth. He held the glass up in front of him and, before putting it to his lips, asked, "What are you trying to tell me?"
Epilogue
Trent stumbled across the street to his car, wondering what the fuck had just happened. He was blinking as rapidly as possible in an attempt to clear whatever that chick had doused him with. He had his key fob in his hand but couldn't remember the exact position of the "unlock" button. By the time he'd found it, he'd already relocked the car twice and popped the trunk.
He collapsed in the driver's seat and frantically tried to start it up. He got lucky and jammed the key into the ignition. The engine had barely settled down when he threw it into drive and took off.
He drove with his left hand and assessed the damage. The gunshot wounds hurt, but they felt superficial. He was more concerned by the stab wound in his side. He had no way of knowing what kind of internal damage Holt's wife may have done. He searched around for the bottled water that he knew was on the floor. Some of the liquid had dripped into his mouth, and he recognized the taste.
Wing sauce? She took me out with fucking wing sauce?
He could hear the bottle rolling away from him as he drove. He leaned farther down, screaming at the pain in his side, but he finally got a few fingers on it. He drove with his knees while he opened it, and he blew through a stop sign before he realized that it was there.
Shit, he had to chill out. He was making himself a target by driving so recklessly.
He couldn't let himself get caught.
Not when he was so close to the fulfillment of a dream.
He dropped his speed. When he was relatively sure that he had the time, he poured the entire bottle of water into his eyes. It didn't solve the problem, but it made it a hell of a lot more bearable. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed what he already knew. His eyes were an angry red. If he had to stop anywhere (or, worse, was stopped), he'd be instantly memorable, either as a demon or a pothead.
He saw a familiar sign on his right. He pulled into the parking lot of a big box store and found a nice spot to wait it out. He believed that he had put enough distance between the Holts' house and him to eliminate the possibility of an unlucky traffic stop. Now, they would have to look for him.
He knew that it would only be a matter of time before the missus was able to give a good description to the cops. She even had a first name, and that might've been bad, if it had been his real name at all.
He couldn't believe how quickly she had turned it around on him. He had been so careful with her. Treated her with caution, kept his distance, and watched her like a hawk. And still she'd fucked it all up.
She had to know that the guest was coming. For two hours she had played dumb and waited patiently. Two fucking hours.
It made him hate Holt even more. Bad enough that Holt had killed his half-brother. In his more honest moments, he recognized that Ricky had done it to himself. He had become obsessed with Holt, and it had driven him to do stupid things. He didn't have the details, would never have them, but Trent had no doubt that his brother's death had come at the hands of Holt. That was just how the universe worked sometime.
Even if Holt hadn't killed him directly, it would've been one of his minions.
That was still on Holt.
And now the guy's wife had beaten him, nearly killed him. He'd never planned on the guest, and she'd played him.
It was fucking embarrassing.
He needed to make a call. Get fixed up. Then?
He hoped the other chick was dead. He knew that he got a good one off, at any rate. He really wanted to get another crack at the wife, but he figured that wiping out the entire town would be a good consolation prize if he didn't.
TO BE CONCLUDED IN
"ORPHEUS: WRATH"
A Word from the Author
I took my first stab at writing a novel about two decades ago, when I was in my very early twenties.
It sucked, and it died an early, well-deserved death.
In the ensuing years, that book gathered significant company. I’d start writing a novel, then abandon it shortly. I had plenty of good ideas, but I was lacking a few skills, such as, I don’t know, skill and discipline. You know, minor stuff.
Then, about six years ago, I finally got serious. I buckled down, finished, and published ORPHEUS. I felt that, at the very least, I could say that I’d finished writing one damn novel in my life.
Then an unexpected thing happened. Some people read it. I made lunch money. Most surprisingly, the general consensus among readers was that it was actually pretty good. Many expressed interest in a sequel for which I’d left the door open (literally).
Who knew?
What happened during the five years since then? Well, another kid, for one, but also a series of excuses born of a genuine fear that I wouldn’t be able to write another novel as well-received as the first. I can’t imagine I’m the only writer who has ever experienced that, but I should have done a much better job of self-motivating.
Thankfully, I got over it, as I’m now putting the finishing touches on the book you’re holding. If you’re reading this, thank you. If you came back to read this after reading the first one, I love the shit out of you.
The good news for you (and me) is that there’s going to be one more primary ORPHEUS novel, and you won’t have to wait five years for that one. As of this writing, I’m about halfway through the first draft, and I know where I’m going with the rest.
Once that’s done, who knows what I’ll do next?
I’m kidding. I know the next six books I want to write, I just have to figure out the order. We’ll just have to wait and see together how it plays out. The one thing I do know is that I’ll be putting zombies on the shelf for a while. After WRATH it’ll be time to try something new.
See you in the apocalypse.
Dan DeWitt
May2016
More from Dan DeWitt
Novels and Novellas
Orpheus
Orpheus Born (prequel)
Short Stories
Underneath: Short Tales of Horror and the Supernatural
It’s Not Really Halloween Until it Gets Dark, Anyway
Table of Contents
Foreword
Reunion
Instant Celebrity
Running Errands
Unwelcome Invitation
Party Animal
Slammer
Back in Uniform
Bon Voyage
Trial by Fire
School's Back in Session
Settling In ... Again
Jackie Gets Her Gun
Understandings
Good Start
The Hangover
Torres
The Cure That Doesn't
Trending
Back to business
Crisis at Home
A Lead
Homecoming
House Cleaning
Picket Fence
The War at Home
Missing Pieces
Prodigal Son
Ethan's Birthday Gift
Walking Wounded
Last Stop
Goodbye, Again
Hostages
Cheers
Epilogue
A Word from the Author
