“Bullshit,” Riker said at once.
Not sold on the story, but wanting badly to see the building behind the reporter, Tara set the remote on the coffee table. She ran a hand over her tight braids, rose, and approached the thirty-two-inch flat screen.
“If there were an active shooter, the dumbass reporters would already have a chopper up from Muncie and giving the SWAT team’s positions away for all to see … shooter included,” insisted Riker.
“Look here. And here.” Tara pointed to the walk in front of the building. Then she put a finger on the windows fronting the walk and tapped. “Here’s my kiosk pushed into the windows”—she traced her finger down the screen, zigzagging between little splashes of yellow—“and these are bodies draped over the planters. These are, too … the ones sprawled on the walk here and here.” When the camera pulled out, she counted them and ended up with nearly two dozen tarp-covered bodies, quite a few of them leaking blood, the shiny black trails meandering across the cement squares.
“All of that shooting and none of the glass is starred or blown out,” Riker said. He finally lowered his frame to the low-slung second-hand sofa.
“Still think I’m on drugs?”
He shook his head. “Not at all, Tara. And I’m sorry I even went there.”
“Then what do you think happened?”
“My gut says something went sideways in the microbiology part of the school. Where’s it located?”
Tara gave him a quick tour of MU, pointing out areas of interest on the image frozen on the screen.
“He could have come from the lab area upstairs.”
“I think so, too,” said Tara agreeably. “What should we do now?”
“Wait until dark and go anywhere but there,” he said. “We should probably stay indoors until we move out just in case whatever affected the kid is airborne.”
“If it is,” Tara said, grimacing, “then we’re both already dead. I was so close I could smell the blood … it was like, like … metallic, or something.”
Recalling the sight and stench of his own blood and soiled fatigues from the day he’d died the first time, Riker crinkled his nose. “We’re alive now,” he said. “We need to gather as much information as we can before dark.”
“Then?”
“Then we get the hell out of Dodge.”
Tara gestured at the television with the remote. “Let’s keep it here and see what the mayor has to say.”
“That’s a problem right there,” said Riker. “He … or she should have been on already … with a prepared speech, calming the community. What time is it?”
Tara said, “Mayor’s a he. Bill Weston.” She poked her head in the kitchen and glanced at the green numbers on the microwave. “A little after noon.”
“So it’s been ninety minutes and still there’s no mention of any measures being taken by the higher-ups. Nothing from the chief of police. Not a peep out of the mayor. Governor must be under a rock up there in Indianapolis to not have heard about this. Hell, that school shooting in Dover … the bodies weren’t even cold yet and the entire anti-gun crowd and the President were on in record time and blaming everything but the crazy drugged-up kid who did it. Why the silence now?”
Tara said nothing. She thought: You’re ranting now, Bro. So to spare him—and her ears—the anguish, she muted the news lady and made her way to the tiny galley-style kitchen.
“Got any coffee?” Riker called.
“Hardy har har,” she countered. “You want soy milk? An extra shot?”
“Oh duh,” he called sheepishly. “Of course you have coffee. I’ll take a cup of whatever fell off the truck.”
“My moral compass doesn’t swing that way, Bro. This coffee is paid for.”
The shrill whirring of a machine grinding beans started up. It lasted a few seconds. Once it subsided, Riker said, “You’ve got a degree in design, Tara. Why are you still working the coffee stand?”
She briefly poked her head out of the kitchen. “Because somebody had to go off and play war and get himself blown up. Which meant somebody had to stay close to the aging mother. Who was already a widow. And who also was fighting the big C for the first time.”
“I’m sorry,” said Riker. “You sacrificed a lot for her. For me, too.”
Tara made no reply.
Just the sounds of coffee being poured.
“I saw you got some new ink,” he called. “Looks nice. Girly, too.”
“Thanks,” she called back. “I got the inspiration for them from Mom’s urn.”
Chapter 17
Tara came back with two mugs full of steaming, inky-black Arabica. Voice soft and low, she said, “Why don’t you ever answer your phone, Lee?” She offered him one of the mugs. Tone taking a quick one-eighty, exasperation clearly evident, she asked, “Which begs the question why the eff do you even lug one around with you in the first place if you’re not going to answer it?”
He shrugged, accepted the mug, and sniffed the steam. “Good brew.”
“Phone?” she pressed.
“Check yours, smarty. I did call you.”
She dug her phone from her bag and checked the call log. Seeing the missed call, she noted the time, did the math in her head, and then stuck her tongue out.
Riker arched a brow and shot her a look as if saying, I told you so.
“My bag was behind my seat. Phone was in the bag. Twenty minute drive home took forty-five minutes because the police were setting up a cordon.” She feigned a smile. “So bugger off, Bro.”
“Cordon? Were they checking cars for the shooter? They check yours?”
She snickered. “My car has no back seat.”
He said, “It used to. And why aren’t you parking in your usual space?”
Tara opened a bag of Double Stuf Oreos, her favorite, which up until now had had no ill effect on her athletic figure. She took two for herself and passed the package.
“My car is out there,” she answered, taking a bite. “My new car”—crumbs rained on the coffee table as she spoke—“named her Tee.”
The Type A personality in him coming out, Riker brushed the black crumbs into his hand. “You finally broke down and bought a new car?”
She smiled. “Just getting a little bit ahead of the inheritance curve. You’ll see it when we leave.” She cast a glance at the gym bag that looked more like a lunch sack in proportion to him. “Good thing you packed light.”
Riker wolfed down an Oreo, wiping the crumbs on his Levis. When he looked over at Tara, she was fiddling with her phone. Then he felt his eyes, heavy from lack of sleep, no thanks to the Cat Lady, begin to flutter. He glanced at his half-empty mug and decided to stop fighting it. He rolled his pants leg up and removed his prosthesis and the damp sleeve covering the six-inch stump protruding below his knee. He stuffed the sleeve in the prosthetic and set the aluminum-and-carbon-fiber number on the floor by the table. He massaged the aching nub of fibula, pressing the thick slab of reddish-pink scar tissue for a couple of minutes.
“Why don’t you lie down. Just rest your eyes for a bit,” Tara suggested. “I’ll keep tabs on what’s happening on the tube.”
Riker said nothing. Simply stretched out across the sofa and closed his eyes.
***
Six miles northwest of Tara’s apartment, a root-beer-brown Chevy Volt was pulling into the drive of a single-level ranch-style house. The brake lights flared then went dark as the driver cut the motor.
Seeing this, a man in black coveralls and wearing a like-colored hardhat stepped from a white van parked on the curb across the cul-de-sac. A canvas satchel was slung over one shoulder and he carried a clipboard in his left hand. While the Volt’s driver was exiting his car with a briefcase in one hand and a porkpie hat in the other, the man with the clipboard had crossed the oval of asphalt and took up station on the sidewalk bordering the curb cut.
Holding the clipboard before him, the man from the van called out from a dozen feet away to get the Volt driver�
��s attention.
No inflection in his voice. “Are you Professor Fuentes?”
“That’s me,” replied the bespectacled man. He shifted the hat from his right hand to his left and turned to face his caller. “How can I help you?”
The man from the van said nothing, Nor did he look left or right or behind him. He was focused only on the professor’s face as he reached inside the satchel and came back with a suppressed black pistol clutched in his gloved right hand.
Though his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, the man from the van didn’t flinch when he aimed for the professor’s left eye and pulled the trigger. He stood there still as a statue as his victim crashed vertically to the sloped driveway, the glasses he had worn now a yard away and twisted like a pretzel.
The shooter’s mouth retained the same grim set as he approached the fallen body and calmly pumped another round from the pistol into the other eye.
Expression unchanged, the shooter knelt and yanked the wallet from the corpse’s pants pocket. Opened it up and quickly confirmed the dead man’s identity. Satisfied, he rose and policed up the spent shell casings.
The shooter’s retreat was made in the same manner as his approach: slow and measured as if he answered to nobody. Which in a sense was true.
Along the way, the shooter jammed the suppressed pistol into the satchel and dumped the casings in a pocket.
At the van he opened the door, tossed the satchel across the seat, and climbed inside.
As he wheeled around the cul-de-sac and nosed the van toward the single egress, he thumbed his secure satellite phone alive and dialed a number from memory. Once the hand shake was complete and encryption enabled, the man said, “It’s done,” then promptly ended the call.
***
Thinking the thick comforter draping his body was a piece of flaming wreckage from the destroyed Land Cruiser he’d just been thrown from, Riker came to, swinging. As the latent memories jumped synapses, he sat up straight, breathing hard, sweat beading heavily on his forehead. Still acting on the supposition gleaned from the nightmare, he swung his good leg hard off the couch with the stub following and knocked his mug over with it, sending the cold coffee cascading off the tabletop and onto the carpet.
“You okay, bro?” Tara looked up, the soft glow from her phone lighting her face.
Groggily, Riker asked, “What time is it?”
“You’ve been out for hours.”
He pointed at his bare wrist. “Time?”
“Quarter to seven.”
“PM?”
Tara nodded. “Looked like you needed the sleep. So I let you.”
“Was I …?”
She nodded. “Yep. Fighting a whole damn army in your sleep.” Her chair clattered as she rose from the kitchen table. Her tennis shoes chirped on the linoleum as she approached the couch, phone in hand.
“Take a look,” she said. “Told you I knew what I saw.”
“What is it?” Riker asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He looked up to take the phone and saw Tara’s eyes locked onto what was left of his left leg.
“Sorry,” she said, quickly looking away. “It’s just that … I’ve never really seen it up close.”
“Just a hunk of tough skin, that’s all,” he said, patting the mottled pink nub contrasting greatly with his mahogany-hued skin. Then, without checking for a reaction from her, he grabbed his fake lower leg off the floor and deftly snugged it on. Looking up and smiling, he smoothed down his pant leg and added, “Besides, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”
Changing the subject, Tara pointed at the phone, saying, “While you were out I was going over what I saw in my head. Walking myself through it like I was on the stand and Matlock was grilling me.”
Riker thought: She likes Matlock. In that moment, he realized he didn’t know his grown little sister as well as he’d thought he did. He said, “And?”
“At first, not one of the arriving students or teachers stepped forward to help the guy I told you about.”
Finished lacing his boot, Riker hinged up and asked, “What did they do?”
“They watched … gawked is more like it. But so did I. However …” She pointed a finger at Riker. “I didn’t stoop so low as to record the guy as he was dying”—she tapped her chest—“and it didn’t even cross my mind once he started to come back to life.”
“But everyone else was?”
“Some of them. Most … actually.”
Riker looked toward the door where his bag was sitting next to a daypack bulging with who knew what. “Human nature sucks,” he said, nodding. He cast his gaze back to Tara. “Did it make the news yet?”
She shook her head side-to-side and extended her arm, phone in hand. “And that’s the weird thing. Just hit the play button. It’s the opaque arrow.”
Taking the phone from her, he said, “This isn’t my first rodeo, Sis.”
Chapter 18
Riker swiped the iPhone’s glass screen, cradled the thing in his palm, and watched through a few different clips, the audio especially chilling. The screams started a skin crawl near his scrotum that worked its way up his back until his chest was going tight. “How did this get on your phone?”
“Once the television screen locked up with a gray ‘stand by’ message, I did a search on YouTube. People load … never mind. That footage was what people in the lobby were recording when I abandoned my kiosk.” She shook her head. “YouTube already took them all down. And the news channels are just now dropping their original lone shooter story and speculating some strain of rabies or a released virus is responsible for the ‘shooter’ and the guy I saw in the lobby. The Number 9 bus I saw from a distance when I was getting away—.” She went quiet.
“Yes,” said Riker, standing and cupping her shoulder. “Go on.”
“It was nearly full. Twenty or thirty people on it … a handful of kids among them. Most of them are unaccounted for as of the last report. Channel Six showed the blood on the windows. They zoomed in on these”—her voice cracked and she paused—“tiny, really tiny hand prints on the glass. And they just had to show a little body, one shoe sticking out from under a yellow tarp.”
Speaking softly, Riker asked, “Were there any survivors?”
She nodded. Swallowed hard and said, “One. A teenager who hid in the back of the bus. He blabbered on for a second to the reporter about dead people getting back up and walking away after dying in pools of their own blood. The reporter finally calmed him down and when he started going on crazily about a drunken cannibal starting it all—”
Riker finished it for her. “They cut him off.”
“Not the reporter. She was hanging onto every word. Some soldiers in black uniforms whisked him away. They just came up and grabbed him while he was still talking.” She took a deep breath. Took the remote from the table. Pointing it at the television, she said, “We have a decision to make.”
Riker watched the screen light up and saw a man in a navy Brooks-Brothers-type of suit speaking straight into the camera. As the frazzled, middle-aged guy gesticulated with his arms, making the official-looking badge on a lanyard around his neck bob up and down in front of his loosened tie, Riker stopped listening to the words and keyed in on the body language. The man was scared. Petrified, actually. Something was keeping him from bolting from in front of the camera, of that Riker was certain.
The less-than-convincing man in the suit breathlessly urged anyone who had been in or around MU during the events of the day to relocate to one of three locations in Middletown, where witness statements would be taken and proper inoculations administered. The feed ended abruptly and the gray screen Tara had mentioned was back. It was frozen in place and loaded with all kinds of information fully endorsed by FEMA. It stayed unchanged while a crawl moving slowly along the bottom of the screen listed addresses to Middletown’s largest hospital, the city’s only mental health facility, and a local high school.
Riker shook his head. “Run right into the
lion’s den. Seems pretty smart to me.”
“Sarcasm, much?” she said.
The windows rattled and a bass-heavy chopping sound filled the room. The noise increased and then its source moved off to the northeast, taking the cacophony with it.
Riker snugged his cap down tight. Shrugging into his parka he said, “Black Hawk.”
“A what?”
“A helicopter. Probably National Guard—.” Riker’s voice trailed off.
“What makes you think that?”
Riker told Tara about the Guard convoy that passed the bus on the interstate. The sight of which took him back to his last day in the Sandbox. Then he detailed how the roadside IED stole his leg. He talked about lying on his back on the ochre sand, the remains of his shattered leg taped to his chest during that fifteen-minute wait for the dust-off bird to arrive. He stressed how his life was saved that day by a crew of Air Force aviators and a trio of Air Force Pararescue men who worked on him and a fellow soldier during the entire flight to the field hospital. “So that others may live,” he said solemnly.
“Their motto?” she asked, her voice low.
“Yep. And that sound you just heard. To me … that sound represents survival.”
On cue, another chopper passed overhead. Much louder, and more than one, judging by how long it took for the vintage aluminum window behind the sofa to stop banging around in its channel.
“Chinooks,” he said, “followed by more Black Hawks.” He rose from the sofa. “Let’s go.”
“I already packed.”
“I noticed,” said Riker. “Where’s Mom’s urn?”
“We’re going to take it with us?”
“Her,” he corrected. “The same her that put Band-Aids on our boo boos. The same wonderful woman who stuck up for me in fifth grade when some of the boys were calling me King Kong and Sasquatch.”
Riker's Apocalypse (Book 1): The Promise Page 7
