Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2)

by Timothy Scott Bennett

  McAfee nodded toward his aide. "You heard the man," he said. Osterman saluted and left with the cat.

  William turned on the Colonel. "I'm beginning to wonder how you folks have managed as well as you have here," said William. He was smiling. The corners of his mouth were raised and there were sparkles in his eyes. But McAfee knew that he had just been threatened again.

  "We have done an excellent job of carrying out The Families' orders precisely and efficiently, Sir," said McAfee, holding William's gaze. He knew that any hesitancy or groveling on his part would only confirm that he deserved to be punished. Screw that. If he was going down, he would go down fighting. "You may have noticed that we are now operating under threat of a major storm. I dare say a stray cat is not going to mess up the Plan." He stood his ground, his chest heaving with both terror and pride.

  William flashed his eyebrows and smiled again. "Yes," he said. "I just flew through that storm." He gestured toward the door and started walking, taking McAfee gently by the elbow and guiding him along. "It's a doozy, as you Americans like to say. Quite the spectacle. The weather people should be proud of their work."

  They reached the door and stopped. McAfee slid his card and waited for the lock to click. He pushed the door open and he and William stepped into the viewing area. There, behind the glass, stood Paul DuPont, the lead Changeling Tech, and a doctor in scrubs, lab coat, and mask. Between them, lying naked on her stainless steel gurney, was Linda Travis, the President of the United States.

  DuPont came out to meet them. He nodded at William, who nodded in return.

  "You got your assistant driving the VLT?" asked McAfee.

  DuPont tried to not role his eyes. He failed. "The Summit's not in session at this late hour, Colonel," he explained, as if to a child. "No real need for the VLT. That's why the Directorate specified 8 P.M. So I could be here."

  "Right," said McAfee, turning to William as though DuPont had just confirmed the Colonel's brilliance. He gestured toward the second room. "Shall we?" William stepped in and stood near the President's head. DuPont and McAfee followed. The doctor pulled the door closed, then grabbed a hypodermic from a tray on a stand. He took his place near the IV and glanced at the clock. It was now a few minutes past eight.

  McAfee glanced at William. William looked at DuPont, then the doctor, then back to McAfee. "I believe it's your call, Colonel," he said.

  "Right," said McAfee again. He nodded to the doctor. "Go ahead, Tom," he said. The doctor, with a sigh, slid the hypodermic into the IV tube and then pushed the plunger, emptying the yellow liquid into the line.

  He pulled the hypo back out and placed it carefully on the tray. The four of them stood and watched over the President's naked body. Her heart monitor beat steadily. After about thirty seconds, her monitor began to beat wildly and Linda Travis convulsed, her chest rising violently and then falling gently, as though she'd just been shocked with electricity. Then she was still. The monitor now showed a flat line.

  William reached down and straightened a lock of Linda's hair that had fallen out of place from her convulsion. DuPont looked down at his feet. The doctor stared straight ahead, as if seeing nothing. Colonel McAfee exhaled loudly and rubbed at his nose.

  "I guess that's that," said McAfee at last.

  "Indeed," said William.

  12.14

  Linda made her way across a flat expanse of deep, dusty grit. She still hadn't figured out the workings of this strange level, where she seemed to be both body and not-body, real and not real. The footprints made no sense at all to her, and yet there they were, stretching back toward the horizon in the direction from which she'd come. She sighed. That was the least of her worries. She reached the far side of the thick dust and stepped onto a slightly rippled plain of glossy, bare rock. She kept moving. The lobster tank was not far now.

  Linda stopped and gave a sharp yelp. For a moment - she was sure of it! - her body had moved, a lurching upward of her head and chest. She shook her head and squinted her eyes, hoping to improve her vision in this strange place. It must have been some vagary of light or shadow or atmosphere, some trick of the eye. Her body looked as it had before: still and restful, lying on its pedestal.

  Linda started moving again. She'd be there in a minute now.

  12.15

  Mihos was alone in the Murk. What had happened to Grace had happened to them all. Voices had grown fainter, then disappeared altogether, as if Emily and Iain had simply walked away, or as if he had. But none of them had just "walked away." They were, indeed, being pushed. Herded. And Mihos was appalled. You simply did not herd cats.

  He'd never been so far inside of a Murk. Had no real idea how they worked. All he knew, really, is what he'd heard: most people never came back out of one. The Murk was the most powerful roach motel in existence.

  "Damn!" he muttered again.

  How he could know he was being pushed he had no idea, since he had no sensation of body, orientation, distance, location, visuals, or movement. But he knew. There was something here. Someone. And he or she was pushing him. Mihos imagined a faint drumbeat in the distance, growing ever louder, and glowing red walls and ceiling, as if he was trapped in the caves of hell. But he didn't really hear drums, did he? Or see red light? That was just imagination, wasn't it? That was too many old movies.

  Worse than being herded was the feeling that, if he let himself, Mihos might start sobbing at any moment. Which was not okay for a cat, even if there was nobody there to see him. The tears were welling up in eyes he could not feel, rising on a moan of grief he could not utter. For once, he was glad to be disconnected from his own body.

  And the urgency was gone. The urgency that had had him push them all faster and faster. The urgency that had resulted in Dennis getting pulled into the Murk. The urgency that had left them all lost here in the black. That urgency was gone. And the lack of urgency, and the thoughts of grief and tears, told Mihos that whatever it was he'd been hurrying to had now come to pass. They were too late. Too late. Here in this damnable blackness where time did not even exist, they were too, too late.

  Let them push. Let them herd him. Let them try to shove him into a river of lava. Let them beat their cursed drums. Maybe he deserved it. He was too late anyways. He was too far gone. Not even the Great Ones could save him now.

  12.16

  Mary came in through the kitchen, crossed through to the front hall, and peeked in on her father. There he sat, slouched in his recliner, snoring, just as she and D'Neal had observed through the living room windows. As quietly as she could, she made her way up the stairs, avoiding every squeaking step, memorized out of dire need and past experience. She looked in on Danny's sleeping form, then started down the hall to her room. She just needed her wallet and some clothes. If she could get those, she could go. Leave. Run away. She and D'Neal would go together. They weren't sure where. They just knew that her father would likely kill them both if he caught them.

  Maybe they should have faced him at the fairgrounds. There in the open, in the light of day, surrounded by people. Mary could have grabbed D'Neal's hand and they could have walked over to her father, proudly, chins raised, and told him exactly how things were, and how they were going to go from now on. But that was just a silly fantasy. Her father would have remained calm, there in public. But he would bide his time. He'd enjoy biding his time. And then, one day, he would lash out. It was etched into stone. It could not be avoided.

  But it might be avoided if Mary ran away. She just needed her wallet. And her father was dead drunk in his recliner, as usual. I can do this, she chanted. I can.

  The light went on downstairs. It raced up the stairway and down the hallway to slap the back of her head. Mary froze. She listened. Then she ducked into her room, grabbed her wallet, forgot about clothes or anything else, and headed toward her window. Just like times before, when things got really bad. Once, she'd sprained her ankle, falling to the ground, but other times she'd managed to climb down the porch columns, using the
pair of flag holders as footholds.

  But there wasn't time. Her father was now racing up the stairs, calling out her name in that high, wild voice he used when he was at his angriest. Her door slammed open and the light flicked on and he leapt across the room to grab Mary's arm before she could slip out the window. He dragged her back inside, clenching her upper arm so hard she started to cry, slapping her head with his other hand. "You're screwing a nigger?" he screamed, over and over. "A nigger, girl? A nigger?" He lifted her with one arm and threw her onto the bed and brought his other hand down onto her stomach like a sledgehammer. Mary screamed for breath, pulled herself into the fetal position, scrunched her eyes shut, screamed and screamed and screamed again.

  She heard a moan and opened her eyes to see Danny, standing in the doorway, watching, tears wetting his face. Her father slapped her again on the face. Again. Again. Then he put his hand.... down there. He started to push. His other hand was on her throat now, pinning her to the bed. Mary called out for God to save her, please save her, please please please save her! Her voice made no sound.

  "You like that, nigger lover?" her father said, his voice now low and menacing and full of heat. "You like that? You like that? You like that like you like that nigger?"

  And then the room filled with bright white light, trapping the whole scene in the horror of that moment, like a bug trapped in amber.

  12.17

  Marionette sat up in the darkness. She'd landed in a ditch on the edge of the tree line. The wind was howling. Tree branches lashed back and forth right behind her. Clouds stampeded overhead, allowing bits of Gridlight to sift down to the ground.

  Something moved to her left. It was Eddie, scrambling in the dark, searching for his camera. He found it, held it to his stomach, and pushed himself to his feet. Beyond him was Ann. She was kneeling over a body that lay motionless on the ground. Gordon. "He's still alive!" shouted Ann, turning back to face them.

  Marionette rolled onto her knees, then stood. She stepped forward and pulled on Eddie's sleeve to draw him in. "We've got to get him out of here!" she shouted into his ear. Eddie nodded. He handed the camera to Marionette and knelt at Gordon's side.

  Marionette surveyed the situation. Something had thrown them across the road, but she saw no sign of what it might have been. She felt unharmed, but stunned. Eddie seemed no worse for wear. Ann as well. But Gordon had a gash on his forehead. Must've hit a rock or a tree branch or something when he fell. His face was covered with blood, but he was still breathing.

  Eddie worked one hand under Gordon's neck and the other under his knees. He hugged the unconscious man to his stomach, then pushed himself to his feet. Ann grabbed Gordon's legs. Slowly, they picked their way up the ditch to the main road. It was a short walk back to the driveway, and the inn, and The Pokey Joker, but Marionette had no idea how they'd get Gordon out to the boat, with the dock in the shape it was.

  That would wait. For now, they just had to get moving. Eddie yelled into the wailing wind, a battle cry of defiance and power that was quickly snatched away by the storm. They started down the road, moving as swiftly as they could. Ann took her share of the weight. Together they could do this.

  Marionette stepped ahead to act as scout, afraid of what they might encounter. Ground troops? Little gray men? Something even worse? She wished she'd brought that damned revolver she kept in her pack. She wished she'd listened to her gut instead of Stan Walsh.

  But then a light began to glow underfoot, as if their path was lined by those little solar lights people sometimes used. Marionette looked immediately to the sky, expecting to see a helicopter, or maybe a flying saucer, about to scoop them all up. But there was no saucer, no copter. There were just clouds, lit dimly from above by the Grid, churning slowly across the sky.

  Marionette looked back down at her feet. The path light was still there, a bit stronger now, like a strip of fog lit from within and hugging the ground like a runner rug. It led them down the driveway toward the inn. She glanced behind her. Eddie and Ann were moving more quickly than ever, as if the light gave them some new measure of power and hope.

  Shivering, scanning the area for little Gray beings and finding none, Marionette led her friends down the well-lit path.

  12.18

  "I assume you gentlemen will be evacuating soon?" asked William.

  DuPont nodded. "I've got a 12-footer on the pad. Need to collect my family. Then straight to Urbem Orsus, as per the Directorate's instructions," he said.

  William looked at McAfee expectantly. McAfee stood still and smiled. He had no idea what his situation was, whether he was being invited or left behind. And he was afraid to ask directly. Best to just play it out and see what was offered him. He nodded toward Linda Travis's dead body on the gurney. "I want to oversee disposal, first, Sir," he said. He glanced at DuPont, wrinkled his nose, and then returned his attention to William. "Then I think I'll stay here and ride out the storm with my troops." He inhaled sharply. He'd just created an opening, hoping that William would clap a hand on his shoulder and say, "Nonsense, man, you're coming with me!" But he knew that 'riding out the storm' could mean far more than just this one little hurricane. He smiled at William, who simply returned the smile with a slight nod. "We should be okay here," added McAfee. "Underground and all."

  "Indeed," said William. "Brilliant."

  McAfee made for the door to the viewing area. "I guess you two will be off, then," he said. DuPont followed close behind, but William hung back.

  "If I might," said William, standing next to the President's body, "I'd like to stay a few moments longer." He glanced down at Linda's body, then back to the Colonel. "To say goodbye." McAfee nodded respectfully and ushered DuPont out the door and into the hallway, leaving William alone.

  The Fisherman placed the palm of his hand on Linda's forehead and sighed deeply, then turned and walked to a corner cabinet. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a small, brown glass vial. He opened the cabinet door and, rising on tiptoe, placed the vial on the top shelf, near the back, behind a number of other glass bottles of various sizes.

  He closed the cabinet door, then stepped once more to the gurney's side to observe the cooling corpse. There were plain white sheets folded and stacked on a stainless steel cart in the corner. William walked over, lifted the top sheet from the stack, and returned to the gurney. He laid the sheet gently on Linda's feet, then slowly unfolded it, pulling it along as he went until she was covered up to her neck. With a slight nod to the President, he headed toward the door. He crossed the viewing room and stepped into the hallway, closing doors softly behind him as he went.

  The hallway was empty. No sounds intruded from the storm blowing overhead. With an almost imperceptible smile, William headed toward the elevator, to make his way back to the surface.

  12.19

  Cole stood on the Thieving Seagull's deck, facing out to the harbor, watching for the return of The Pokey Joker. He was worried about the crew, his crew, and had tried to offer what help and encouragement he could from the mainland. He tried closing his eyes, tried seeing where they were and what they were up to, tried doing something weird or magical or psychic. But he really had no idea how the hell to go about such things. In the end, he just pictured some lights for them, glowing underfoot as they made their way around the island. He felt silly, but it was all he could think of, and he hated feeling so helpless.

  The wind had slackened off, as often happened as a hurricane approached. Bands of rain and wind, outer arms of the huge spiral storm, rotated slowly overhead. Cole was thankful for the reprieve. There had only been a sprinkle of rain so far, which meant that the eye was still far out to sea, but from the way the wind had been gusting not long ago, it felt like it was going to be a big one. How they would pull off a "media circus" in such a situation he did not know.

  He hoped that Linda's captors were prepared for this storm. Her old family getaway was a fairly rickety affair, and was surrounded by trees large enough to smash it to
pieces should they be pushed over by the wind. From the photos he'd seen on the news, they'd built an additional entrance on the back wall of the garage, and it was in there that the biocontainment unit was no doubt located. Perhaps they also constructed a whole new structure inside the old shell. They'd have had to, wouldn't they, to make it airtight and safe? That would at least put Linda in a stronger building. But who would think to build for hurricanes on coastal Maine?

  Cole sighed. Maybe they'd added some rooms underground. The military loved to do shit like that. Maybe Linda would weather this storm in some warm, underground bunker. Maybe she had good doctors and nurses, even if their bosses were members of some secret cabal. Maybe she was getting better now. He could hope.

  Something flashed brightly in the distance, lighting the churning surface of the harbor and casting the tree line of Squirrel Island in sharp relief. Cole watched as a bright ball of light, glowing orange and yellow, rose above the island, hovered for a moment, then sped away so quickly that all he could see was the afterimage it left on his retinas.

  He knew what it was. He just didn't know who was using it. He shook his head, hoping to dispel his feelings of helplessness and dread, and replace them with a more useful anger. The people involved here were not just military and medical professionals caring for their President. This had the frightening stink of hidden powers, and that Fisherman guy, all over it. And probably the so-called "aliens."

  Stendahl Banks came out through the sliding glass door and walked over to stand next to Cole. Cole glanced at the President's Communications Director and smiled. "Just saw a wok take off, Sten," he said.

  Sten sighed. "That doesn't surprise me," he said.

  "You think there's aliens out there?"

  Sten peered into the darkness for a moment. "Maybe," he said.