The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1)

by J. Steven Butler

  The question is simple and straightforward, but I’m not willing to jump into my history.

  “It’s complicated,” I say.

  “And you carried Harbin like he was light as a feather.”

  I look away and say nothing.

  “Is it some kind of Zen, mind-over-matter thing or something?”

  “No.”

  More silence.

  “I’m sure you’ve got a concussion,” I say, “and your ribs look like somebody spray painted them black and blue”. It’s an obvious dodge.

  “Yeah,” he says with a pause. I guess he’s content to let the conversation go for now, but his expression leaves no doubt that it will come up again. “Definitely some fractures in there.” He reaches his hand up to me for help and I slowly pull him to a sitting position and hand him a bottle of water I found in the pantry. He drinks a little and asks what our status is.

  “We’re alive, obviously,” I say, “but we’re trapped for now. The Festers beat on the walls a long time before they seemed to get the idea that they weren’t going to get inside that way. I’m just glad this place is brick and not siding. All the windows and doors are boarded up tight. Found the water in the pantry, but no food. But they’re still out there. They’ve got the place surrounded. I think they’re trying to wait us out.”

  “They’re still here? In the light?” A strange expression crosses his face.

  “Yeah.”

  He stands with great effort, his legs wobbly, and crosses to the window, peering between the reinforcement slats.

  “I've never seen anything like it,” he says. His voice is tinged with concern and I know why.

  We've always been able to count on their nocturnal nature as part of our defense. The Festers had always shown aversion to sunlight, fleeing at the first rays of the sun. Those that had been captured and studied over the years corroborated this behavior, wailing and thrashing when forced into sunlight, screeching as if in pain until they were removed from it. But these guys show no discomfort at all. Granted, it's a small group compared to the hordes, but what if this isn't isolated? What if they're changing? If the Fester populace forgoes hiding during the daytime, our fledgling society could crumble under the strain of having no respite.

  “You can worry about that later,” I say. “You need to rest.”

  He shakes his head. “This isn't exactly a relaxing atmosphere.”

  “Eckert and Archer will come looking for us. For now, this is the safest place to be.”

  He comes back and sits on the bed, eyeing it dubiously.

  “Rest!” I say again. “That's an order.”

  He smiles at me. “Since when did you get seniority?”

  “Since I became the least wounded of us. Besides, if you don't, I'll break both of your legs and tie you down.”

  It takes several minutes of convincing, but he caves in and stretches gingerly on the mattress.

  I move towards the hall, but he calls me and I turn back into the doorway.

  “Thank you,” he says. “I don’t remember what happened after I fell, but I’m sure I owe you my life.”

  His cheeks grow red and he clears his throat. I can see some of that little boy awkwardness return that he’s struggled so much with.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Cray is asleep, and I stand again in front of the door to the small room at the end of the hallway. I’m drawn to this room like a magnet, and keep wandering back to it, finding myself unable to resist it and the mysteries it presents to me. I look again at the small blue sign on the door handle that reads “Riley’s Room.” I walk inside and look around. Toys are scattered on the floor along with several stuffed animals that have been shredded, I guess by the wildlife that was able to get in here, or maybe Festers. Posters of monster trucks are hung in various places, some about to lose their adhesive backing and hanging precariously.

  I’m transported back to my own childhood, and I wonder what happened to the child that used to occupy this little room. What happened to the family that was here? I whisper a silent prayer that they’re somewhere safe and at least relatively happy, but I know the odds are not in their favor.

  Stepping to the boarded up window, I find a small crack to peer through and try to see as much of the outside world as possible. There are dozens of infected in the front yard of the house, most lying there as if asleep. Some are sitting, some picking through the dirt, or roaming around the small patch of woods directly in front of the house that partly blocks the view of the street. Their behavior has me baffled. It’s contrary to everything we know about them.

  I notice the house across the street didn’t fare too well, the victim of a fire at some point, and now mostly just a burned heap of rubbish. From my small vantage point, I can see a few other average, middle-class homes spanning out in either direction, a testament to a gentler time when things were a lot better and people didn’t know how good they had it. I close my eyes and let my mind wander into the past, to the mystery that I am to myself. So many unknowns, just like this room.

  “I don’t understand their behavior,” Cray says from behind me. I didn’t hear him get up. “And I can’t figure why they’re not trying to get in here still. They know we’re inside. It’s been four hours. They could have broken down that door by now if they really wanted to, if they threw enough force against it. Sitting out there on the lawn, some of them look almost human still.”

  “Do you think there’s anything left of their humanity? What if all we know, all we’ve been told is wrong? And the way they stick together, not just these, but even the smaller groups in the cities, it’s like they have some sort of bond. They never attack their own.”

  I turn to look at him. The implication of this way of thinking makes my stomach turn. He looks at me, but his focus is somewhere else. I can tell he feels the same discomfort at the thought that I do.

  “How many Festers have I killed?’ he asks, almost to himself. “How many have I chopped down like insects, night after night after endless night, making my living from their demise? People who were once fathers, wives, somebody's child...”

  He’s quiet for a long time, his jaw muscles working. He's struggling inside, maybe more than he should be. He speaks again, his tone flat, a contrast to the emotions that are eating at him.

  “If we’re wrong about them…that makes me the monster.”

  That realization sinks in for me as well, but I don't feel guilty about it. It is what it is.

  “You didn’t know,” I say. “None of us knew for sure; we still don’t. After all these years, the docs aren't any closer to understanding them. It's not like they haven't tried…and I’ve killed more than my fair share.”

  “I wonder how hard they've really tried. When The Virus hit, we took the Festers at face value, everyone more concerned with their own fear than trying to help them.” He looks away. “And we became efficient at wiping them out. Survival of the fittest.” He sighs, and appears to regain his composure with great effort. When he turns, his expression has changed. “Speaking of which,” he says with raised eyebrows, “do I get an explanation for what you did out there?”

  Now it’s my turn to look away, way more uncomfortable than I care to be, and thrown off by the sudden subject change. I’m desperately trying to find a way out of having to explain this right now when the stillness is shattered.

  The sound of automatic weapons rips through the quiet followed by the screaming of Festers. Cray and I dive onto the floor for cover, instinctively reacting, but it doesn’t take long to realize there aren’t any bullets hitting the walls. I stand and move cautiously to the window, peering through a crack. Outside, the Festers are being plowed down by a small attack team. They try in vain to fight back, but they’re overwhelmed by the soldiers moving in on them. It takes less than a minute for the team to finish them off. Dozens of Festers litter the yard, their bodies torn to shreds.

  A man charges up the driveway while the others hold in attack positio
n covering his approach. As he gets closer to the house, I recognize him about the same time that he shouts.

  “Cray! Mira! It’s Johnson. We’re here to take you home.”

  Chapter 16

  I am a freak. Not many people know about what I’m able to do. That would be too risky. I have somewhat of a sketchy past. It’s not that I’ve done anything wrong. It has to do with where I came from.

  It's true that Eckert isn't my real father. We tell everyone I was the daughter of friends of his, Tate and Ellen Winston, and that he took me in after they were killed after The Virus hit. But they don't exist. Never did.

  So who is my real father? I have no idea. If Eckert knows, he's not saying. I know very little about my origins, and he assures me it's best that way. I've tried to get him to talk a million times, but he's only given me bits and pieces.

  That might make it sound like he's stand-offish and hasn't been a good parent to me. Neither are true. He's been amazing. Better than any father I could ever ask for. And I have no doubt that he loves me completely. Whatever he's hiding about my past, he genuinely believes he's protecting me.

  The first time we ever talked about my past was when I was eight years old. Eckert’s always been slim, but he has a wiry strength. We were wrestling around one night and Eckert wanted me to arm wrestle him like silly fathers often do. He was trying to be the cute dad and pretend I was going to beat him. It only took him a moment to realize he couldn’t budge my little arm. I wasn’t sure how the game worked, so he told me we would try again. This time he explained that I was supposed to try to push his arm to the coffee table whenever he counted to three.

  He counted off, and I pushed hard. I was shocked and terrified when I slammed his arm through the coffee table and fractured his ulna. We had to make up a story about him having an accident while changing a tire on the car. Despite my shock, Eckert showed no surprise whatsoever. That night before bed, after we spent the evening having his arm put in a cast, he sat me down and had a very serious conversation.

  He explained that I was “different”. I would be stronger than I could imagine, and fast, with the ability to control sensations like pain. He had known it was only a matter of time before theses abilities began to manifest. It had just happened sooner than he expected.

  I was the result of genetic engineering from a top secret program that had unraveled. He was there when it all fell apart, and had taken me for his own, to raise as his child, to protect me. At first, I was terrified of what I was, but his constant assurances eventually allowed me to relax and enjoy my differences – differences that he stressed were only to be used in times of absolute need. Otherwise, they were to be hidden with the utmost caution.

  No amount of cajoling ever got him to tell me more than a few basics about my origin. He said terrible things were done. Things he wished he was never a part of.

  But despite the holes in my past, growing up with Eckert was wonderful, and growing up with what amounted to powers was exhilarating. Eventually, I stopped asking questions and trusted the good man that Eckert was. Whatever he was hiding, I knew him well enough to know there was a good reason for it.

  But back to the present.

  I’ve never liked Avery Johnson. I’ve never worked with him personally before and I don’t know much of his background, but he has a reputation of being a brutal, ruthless, agent with a short temper. Not a good combination. Sure, he gets things done, but not always in the most upstanding way.

  He’s been with the government since before The Virus, and used to be CIA with Eckert, though they ran in different circles. But Eckert heard plenty of stories about Johnson’s strong arm tactics, and this was coming from people who could be pretty violent themselves.

  We’ve been in the air headed back to New York for fifteen minutes. The plane is one of those private jobs that the ultra-rich traveled around in, and I confess it’s quite nice, with plush carpeted floors, mahogany paneling, and large screen televisions mounted throughout. A single walkway runs up the middle of the plane, and on each side, luxurious cream-colored leather chairs run single file from front to back. All of the chairs swivel three hundred and sixty degrees, and I face Cray across the aisle from me as Johnson’s medic tapes up his side.

  “I’m sorry, there’s not a whole lot I can do with that,” he says to Cray, who’s working to hide his discomfort.

  “It’s all good,” Cray says through gritted teeth. The medic looked at the huge gash on Cray’s head and determined what I already knew. He has a concussion, but he’ll live. After a little local anesthetic, the medic stitched up the wound. It isn’t a pretty job, but it will do until we can get Cray to a proper doctor.

  The medic turns to me after he’s done with Cray. “Anything I should look at ma’am?”

  I offer a kind smile. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  He starts to leave and looks back at Cray once more. “I can get you some painkillers if you like.”

  “No thanks,” Cray says, slipping his shirt back on. “I don’t like things that dull my mind.”

  The medic shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He walks to the front of the plane and takes a seat, and I watch Cray for a few moments.

  “How are you holding up really?” I say, once I’m sure no one else can overhear.

  He studies me a moment and I think for a second he’s going to lie.

  “I feel like I’ve been stomped by a rhinoceros.”

  “And here I thought you were tough,” I kid.

  “So did I.”

  Johnson emerges from the cockpit and walks towards us. He turns the seat in front of me so that he’s facing me and Cray, and sits down.

  “Did Seth get you guys patched up?” he says, gesturing at the medic in the front of the plane. “So what happened down there?” he says without waiting for an answer to his first question.

  I lean back into the warm leather chair. “Everything was going fine until we got to the airfield,” I say. “We were about to board the plane when everything went crazy. The plane blew up, and a sniper started taking potshots at us, and put two slugs into Harbin. We managed to scramble into the woods.” Cray smirks a little at me, noticing I conveniently left out the part about the car door.

  “So how did you find us?” Cray asks.

  “Not too hard really,” Johnson says. “When you missed the rendezvous window, the others sent me in. We saw the damage, tracked you through the woods. Tracking is one of my talents. It was kind of a no-brainer once we saw the house surrounded by Festers. That was wild. I’ve never seen ‘em in the day before.”

  “Yeah. That’s what we thought,” Cray says, the distant look in his eyes reminding me of what he said earlier about the possibility that the Festers were more than what we had believed them to be.

  “That’s something we’ll need to get the eggheads looking into. Anyway,” Johnson says, “what happened after you guys hit the woods?”

  Cray finishes the story of our pursuit by the soldiers, Jonathan’s death, and our run to the house from the horde of Festers. “After that,” he says, “we just stayed there until you showed up. But that’s not even the amazing part.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Before he died, Jonathan Harbin said he needed to tell me a secret. He said he never worked on a new strain of The Virus.” He pauses dramatically and looks at each of us. “He said he found a cure for it.”

  Chapter 17

  My initial reaction is to laugh. The greatest scientific minds in the world haven’t been able to fix this thing. But Cray doesn’t seem so skeptical.

  Johnson says what I’m thinking.

  “You believe him?”

  “Think about it,” Cray says. “Scientists haven’t been able to come up with anything even remotely close to a cure because of the complexity of The Virus. However he did it, Damian Harbin created something light years ahead of anybody else. Whatever else you say about him, the man was brilliant. Anybody who’s studied The Virus will tell you that. If a cure was going to be found,
logically, Jonathan would be the one to do it. He probably had access to his father’s research, detailed records of what was done.”

  “But how do we explain his behavior?” I ask. “If he had a cure, why come forward and tell The Council just the opposite, then clam up? And then why not come clean when they started to torture him for information?”

  Johnson speaks. “The man was acting like a lunatic.”

  “The guy was bleeding out,” Cray says. “Why lie? And I saw the seriousness in his eyes. It’s like it was his last confession. The dude was passionate. He exhausted every ounce of strength he had left to tell me.” He shrugs. “I believe him.”

  Cray’s convincing. I’ll give him that. From the looks of it, Johnson’s feeling swayed as well.

  “I know it doesn’t make sense,” Cray says, “but I get the feeling there’s a lot more going on here than we know so far.” His tone is casual, but there’s something odd about his expression. We make eye contact and he looks away abruptly. I know that look. I’ve seen it in Eckert countless times. He’s hiding something.

  “Seems pretty sketchy to me,” I say. “Lots of unanswered questions.”

  Johnson is deep in thought, weighing what Cray told us. “It doesn’t matter. We don’t have a choice. If there’s even the slightest possibility what he said was true, we can’t afford to not follow it up.”

  He’s right. If it came down to it, we would look into possibilities far more remote than this if it meant we had any chance at all of curing the Festers.

  “I assume he didn't give it to you,” I say. The man had nothing on him but his clothes, but it is possible he told Cray some kind of formula or something. Cray could certainly remember it, but Jonathan probably wouldn't have had the time to explain something that detailed. Or maybe it wasn't detailed. What did I know about bio-engineering viruses?

  “No. He gave me a location.”

  “You know where it is?” Johnson says, his eyes suddenly looking hungrily at Cray.