Crypto-Punk
Page 17
But the moment didn’t last. Gravity finally grabbed hold and pulled Harley through the swirling clouds below.
The coaster cars plunged down the incline and all Drew could do was watch him fall back to earth.
* * *
Smoke choked the Moonclipper’s cockpit with noxious fumes that even the air freshener couldn’t mask. They’d taken a lot of damage, and though the airship was military grade, it was designed for reconnaissance and wasn’t meant to absorb such a beating.
“We gotta get outta here, Dickie!” Miss Croy coughed. “Where are the parachutes?”
“There are none,” Frost scowled, waving smoke away from his face.
She leaned in to whisper in his ear. “You gotta land this thing, Dickie, right now.”
Frost looked back at her and then at the damaged controls and knew she was right. They were leaking copious amounts of air and fuel, and he wasn’t sure how much longer they could stay airborne.
He pulled the yoke to starboard. “You’re right. Let’s get out of here.”
Thick blue smoke poured from the Moonclipper’s fatal wound. Unable to continue, the crippled airship turned and sailed silently back into the mist, disappearing into the night.
* * *
Drew waited until the deck was within range and jumped from the moving cars. He landed awkwardly, tumbling across the deck before coming to a stop against the railing.
Aftershocks from the rocket attack rippled through the coaster’s frame, and the entire structure tilted to a forty-five-degree angle before stopping, at least for the moment. He braced himself for the coaster’s imminent collapse, but it didn’t come.
The rain slowed to a drizzle and then stopped altogether. More trucks rolled onto the scene, splattering muddy water on the soldiers scurrying around the coaster base. Reinforcements poured out of the vehicles, weapons in hand, trying to regain control of an uncontrollable situation as best they could.
* * *
A retinue of soldiers carried three shrouded bodies past Molly, shivering next to Cameraman inside a running jeep.
She looked at him as if to ask, can you believe this? But all he could offer was nonchalant shrug. She tried to get a better look as they passed, but the handcuffs kept her tethered to the jeep. All she could do was watch the soldiers load the bodies into the waiting trucks and drive away, taking the evidence—and her story—with them.
“Take it easy! I’m a veteran!” Hoyt shouted, but the soldiers ignored his pleas for mercy. The MPs frog-marched him through the gathering mob and cuffed him to the jeep next to Molly.
Molly pulled the blanket around her shoulders with her free hand. “Hey. W-w-w-what’s your story?”
“Aren’t you on TV? On the news?” Hoyt asked.
“Yes…Molly Tuggle…Eyewitness News. Why are you under arrest? Are you involved with the terrorists?”
“There are no terrorists. Listen. My name is Hoyt, Wilhelm…H-o-y-t. I’m the Principal at Bixby Elementary. I have evidence that the Army has been—”
The MP silenced him with a rifle butt to the gut, leaving him flopping like fish.
“What evidence?” Molly demanded. “The public has a right to know!”
She never got her answer. The driver hit the gas, whisking Hoyt from the scene before he could say anything more.
* * *
“Ouch!” Drew winced, but the nurse ignored him and finished suturing the wound on his head.
“Don’t be a baby,” she scolded.
“Easy for you to say. You ain’t the one getting stitched up,” Drew said.
Her surgical mask covered her mouth, but he could tell by the way her eyebrows arched that she didn’t appreciate his backtalk. She left to fetch the doctor, pulling back the curtain on her way out.
Drew waited until he was sure that she was gone and then struggled to his feet. He wandered through the makeshift triage set up inside the VIP tent, checking on the others while they got the same once-over from the medics.
The staff put Clementine and Grady on one side, Newton and Spider on the other-- though keeping them there wasn’t easy. Covered in soot and coughing up smoke, they still had enough energy left over to get up and make faces at each other from across the aisle.
The medics ran back and forth, attending to the rest of the wounded—including the stuntmen who’d taken such a beating.
“Whatever those guys got paid for this gig ain’t enough,” Drew decided.
General Hyde watched the proceedings, retreating further and further to the periphery. “No way I’m gonna take the fall for this,” he muttered, fighting his way through the tent flaps. “This was Frost’s project. I didn’t know what he was doing.”
But the General’s misery wasn’t over yet, and the worst was still to come. He turned toward the buzzing sound behind him. “That’s too loud for mosquitoes.”
Just beyond the retreating thunderhead, the bomber’s wings cut through the mist and condensation, parting the clouds like a black scythe.
The remaining soldiers and VIPs turned their eyes to the sky. There was no use in running—there was nowhere to run to. So, they waited for the bomb to drop like the Times Square ball on New Year’s Eve. The buzzing grew louder and louder until they could stand it no more, and then everything fell silent.
The bomber’s belly opened and emptied its seed–and night turned to day with a blinding flash on Transylvania Island.
CHAPTER 14
“So what really happened?” the Lieutenant asked, a little louder than he intended.
His breach of etiquette barely registered with the staffers running back and forth through the Senate atrium. He pulled his pants up over his gut and nervously ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “I read the report, but what really happened?”
Captain Runyon tried to laugh, but his ribs still ached from the beating he’d taken on the island. “Just like what I wrote,” he said. “The navigator punched in the right coordinates, but the GPS was wrong. The bomb blew up just off the coast.”
“Wow…just wow,” the lieutenant muttered. He checked over his shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “How does something like that happen?”
“Don’t know,” Runyon said. “What I do know is that Pennsylvania Island exploded in a flash of black light. Lucky for us, there was nothing but toxic sludge and medical waste there—Oh…watch out. Here they come.”
The committee members shuffled back into the meeting room and found their places, the senators on one side, the soldiers on the other. Were it not for the portraits of past presidents hanging from the walls, the somber session could have easily been mistaken for a wake, and the chamber for a mausoleum.
The Senior Senator from Vermont banged his gavel, bringing the meeting to order. The silver-haired aristocrat was a fixture on the cable news circuit, where his telegenic features made him a popular guest. “Ayuh, the subcommittee will reconvene.”
Runyon sat opposite him and smiled, but the Senator frowned, his ruddy face folding up like a clenched fist.
Runyon took a sip of water, and the testimony resumed.
“Annabelle, would you read back the section where we left off, just prior to the lunch break?” the Senator asked.
The waifish stenographer scrolled through the transcript, her slender fingers searching for the point where they’d left off. She cleared her throat and read the testimony back in a high, tinny voice.
“Question: Captain, what happened to the senior staff in charge of the project?”
“Answer: General Hyde took an early retirement. Other high-level members of the project management were reassigned as appropriate.”
Then the testimony resumed.
“Now, what about the school?” the Senator asked. “Bixby Elementary, I mean.”
“Rather than risk a full-scale investigation, the school board settled with the affected families for an undisclosed sum,” Runyon said. “Which we subsidized—the Army, I mean.”
“And the test subjects? The kids who actually made the change…transformed? What about them? What happened to them?”
The Lieutenant covered the mic and whispered into Runyon’s ear. The Captain cleared his throat and looked the senator in the eye. “I’m sorry, Senator. That information is classified.”
This didn’t sit well with the Senator, who appreciated straight talk. “What about the reporter? The one that got through your security?”
The lights seemed to be getting hotter, so Runyon took another sip of water. “The local news tried digging deeper, but the settlement came with strings attached. When nobody would go on record, the story withered and died.”
“Weren’t they broadcasting live from the island?” the Senator asked, his words starting to slur. Runyon guessed whatever he had in his glass wasn’t apple juice.
“Their signal, like all others coming from the island, was jammed. We confiscated their camera and equipment as a precaution,” Runyon said.
“I find it hard to swallow the notion that the press just gave up,” the Senator said, his tone more combative. “Once they get a taste of scandal, they bite down—hard—and hang on. I speak from experience.”
His anecdote brought knowing chuckles from the other subcommittee members. “Now, what about Enzyme Seven?” the Senator asked.
“The bomb detonated on impact, as expected—though not on Transylvania Island,” Runyon said. “We’re still looking into how that happened. However, we believe enough residual radiation was released to kill any remnants of Enzyme Seven while leaving the island’s occupants largely unaffected.”
“But wasn’t the school—Bixby Elementary—wasn’t its water supply contaminated by Enzyme Seven?”
“Yes, sir, it was,” Runyon said.
“Captain, this is worrying,” the senator said. “Does Enzyme Seven really affect a small percentage of the population, or is it a ticking time bomb, waiting to be reactivated under just the right circumstances at just the right moment?”
“We don’t know,” Runyon said. “We’re still putting the pieces together ourselves. There was a lot of project information that we weren’t privy to, but we continue to monitor the situation.”
The Senator nodded, and the stenographer stopped typing.
“Is there a long-term plan to keep track of the individuals exposed to Enzyme Seven?”
The Lieutenant covered the mic and whispered into Runyon’s ear.
“We continue to monitor the situation, Senator,” Runyon said.
* * *
The first snow of the season fell near the end of November, when an unexpected blizzard blew in and covered the city in a virginal white veil. It was unusual weather for the time of the year, but Drew knew that these were unusual days.
He walked along the pristine back streets, following his shadow across the snow. The farther down the road you try to see, the blurrier things is Lazy-Eye Susan had told him. So, he blurred his eyes until the entire world faded to white, a blank sheet of paper on which the future could still be written. But it didn’t take long for the passing cars to turn the frosty powder into gray slush, so he trudged on.
He ran his fingertips along the scar above his eyebrow. The fracture he suffered on the island was healing, and whatever glimpse of the future he’d been allowed to see was already fading to a gauzy blur.
If he ever ran into Lazy-Eye Susan again, he’d have a lot of questions for her—a lot of questions.
He crossed the street and made his way to the Windmill where the others were already there waiting for him.
“Ready?” Clementine asked.
“Ready,” Drew said.
They made tombstones out of old DVD’s, like they did before.
Drew wrote Harley’s name across the top half of the DVD, and did the same for Donovan and Ramone. They buried the monuments halfway into the frozen ground next to Romeo’s grave, where there was still room.
“Anybody wanna say something?” Clementine asked, but nobody did.
Instead, they bowed their heads and paid their last respects, promising themselves they’d remember, even if nobody else did.
They grabbed their backpacks and turned to leave for school, but Newton paused. “Ya coming?”
“I’ll catch up,” Drew said.
He waited until they were gone and then reached into his backpack. He laid Harley’s old Halloween mask beneath his tombstone and headed for school.
* * *
The third bell rang just as Drew got there. He could see through the frosted windows that the other kids were already in their seats and starting class, which meant he was late—again.
He stomped through the slush and bounced up the stairs, taking them two at a time, before sliding to a stop halfway up.
“Principal Hoyt!” he blurted out in surprise.
The Old Man appeared from behind the double doors, blocking his entrance.
Drew hadn’t expected to see him out of the hospital so soon, but there he stood, propped up by a cane, his neck in a brace and arm in a sling. The MP’s worked him over pretty good during his interrogation on Transylvania Island, trying to find out how much he knew before finally calling off the dogs. Whatever he said must have satisfied them, because they let him go not long after.
A few days ago, sneaking in after the last bell would have meant a stern lecture at minimum. But that was before Transylvania Island, and life before Transylvania Island seemed like a long, long time ago.
Drew picked up his backpack and composed himself.
The Principal held the door open, inviting Drew into the building with a wave of his cane.
Drew shrugged and slung his backpack over his shoulder, and they entered the school together.
* * *
Before Mr. Birdsong was fired, science had been their favorite class, but not anymore. Now the kids sat in their seats waiting for the next substitute to arrive, having endured an endless parade of pretenders to the throne during the last few days.
The classroom door swung open, and the latest candidate backed into the room carrying a cardboard box.
All the chattering stopped, and every pair of eyeballs looked up at the exact same time with an almost audible click.
“Good morning, kids. I’m glad to see you all in your seats, ready to go,” Mr. Birdsong said. He plopped the box down on top of the desk and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows.
“I saw something on TV last night, an experiment that was really interesting. We’re gonna try re-creating that experiment ourselves and have some fun doing it,” he said, barely able to contain his enthusiasm.
The kids exchanged puzzled glances, unsure of what was happening. But Drew knew. Old Man Hoyt—Principal Hoyt—was a man of his word. And after everything they’d been through, having Mr. Birdsong back might have been the closest to normal they’d ever be again.
Birdsong reached out across his desk, drumming his fingers absentmindedly. “But first, can anybody tell me where my glasses are?”
The kids all pointed at once.
He felt around for them and found them right where he’d left them.
* * *
The hooded figures crossed a natural land bridge that spanned an ancient dry riverbed. The road they trudged along zigzagged up and around the mountain, leading to the ruins of an ancient monastery nestled in the misty Carpathian peaks above.
Miss Croy looked back over her shoulder, but she couldn’t see the Moonclipper from this distance—a good indication of how far they’d tramped since ditching the airship in a snow bank.
She followed behind Frost, stepping in his footprints and growing weary from treading through the snow and frozen mud. “I like this material. You know, they say that black is very slimming.”
“With your dandruff and your wide hips, your butt looks like all of outer space. So I have to say black is not very slimming in this case,” Frost replied.
“You’re a jerk,” she growled.
“Shut up,” she said.
“Believe me, I’ve been to space. I know,” he said.
They slogged along in silence a little while longer until she decided that not talking to him was punishing her, not him.
“What are we doing way out here anyway?” she asked.
“Ever hear of the Transylvania Brigade?”
“No,” she said. “Should I have?”
“No, I suppose not,” he said. “But this is where Dr. Grimsby…”
“Grimsby?” she asked. “Who’s that?”
“Who’s that?” Frost repeated “He’s the first one to make Enzyme Seven work.”
* * *
The Great Hall was the only part of the monastery suitable for habitation. An empty gallery formed a perimeter around a central dais accessible via catwalk, separated from the outer wall by rippling black water of an indeterminate depth.
The air was damp, and there was a bone-chilling draft, but Frost threw some logs into the massive fireplace. Soon the crackling flames warmed the room enough that they could feel their frostbitten fingers and toes again.
Miss Croy hovered nearby while Frost worked. Curious about the buzzing machinery retrofitted into the monastery, she recognized at least some of the equipment; it was identical to the machinery in the school’s bunker.
“Hmmm. So this is your place?” she asked. “Charming. Guess it’s better than the studio apartment my last boyfriend had. Who’d ya get to decorate? Count Chocula?”
He ignored her, and powered up the machinery instead.
“So, what’s next? I guess your plans changed when the kids called that reporter and ruined everything. Maybe you should update your resume or something.”
“This ain’t an episode of Scooby-Doo,” Frost said. “And they didn’t call the reporter. I did.”
He could be as petulant as a child when things didn’t go his way, but she decided to play along. “I don’t get it. You had to know she’d try to break the story-wide open.”
“That’s what I wanted,” he said. “I’ll admit things almost got out of hand when the Cryptos broke free, but everything worked out in the end.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right.”
“If I really wanted to keep a project like this secret, do you think I would have picked a public school for all this?”
She thought about it a moment and conceded the point. After all, there were far more secure locations from where he could conduct his research.