I almost feel bad when the first rounds I squeeze off make a terrible mess of the man. I spray down the side of the heavy plane with gunfire, ripping massive holes in the side, and disabling the closest engines before turning the gun back and peppering the lowered ramp to keep convincing whoever is inside not to come out.
Unfortunately it’s not enough, and I can see movement on the far side where soldiers are disembarking. I try to shoot at their feet under the plane, but the angle isn’t good enough. I can hear loud popping sounds, and realize holes are appearing on Johnson’s plane where the men are raining a hailstorm of bullets into it.
Mira moves the plane forward now, rolling out and around the other one, but there’s still no hatch on the side from where she kicked it out, and several soldiers run towards it. I start to open fire on them, but something pings off metal near my head, and I drop as bullets riddle the tower. Someone’s gotten into a place where they can target me, and I curse in frustration. If Mira can’t get her speed up quickly enough, some of the soldiers may be able to board the plane, and either way, she has to move around the back of the other aircraft and right into the line of fire of however many soldiers are still taking refuge inside.
I wrack my brain for something, anything, when I hear it. An unnatural, guttural shriek rips through the cacophony of noise. I peek my head over the backside of the tower as bullets whiz by, dangerously close. There, on the other side of the electrified fence stand eight or nine feline creatures strongly resembling saber-toothed cats with slightly shorter incisors, pacing angrily back and forth, drawn by the ruckus.
An abstract part of my mind marvels at what Damian Harbin must have done to them to make them react in such an unnatural way, being drawn to the noise instead of fleeing from it, but I’m not complaining. I reach one hand up, turn the huge machine gun until it’s facing the fence, and squeeze the trigger, moving the gun in an upwards and downwards motion. I hope and pray it’s enough.
Behind the tower, sparks and smoke fly as the bullets rip into the fence. I risk a glance over the side again, and see with satisfaction that the powerful gun has gouged a moderate-sized hole in it. The cats have moved backwards from the gunfire and explosions, but now that it’s stopped they start making their way forward again, jaws working, screeching like banshees, and slip through the hole. It’s not quite large enough, but they muscle their large bodies through, widening the opening with sheer force, and take off in a blind sprint for the runway. If there was still power to the fence, it didn’t faze them.
I realize bullets aren’t crashing into my tower anymore, probably because the soldiers who were shooting at me can’t believe what just came through the fence. I risk a look and watch with devious satisfaction as a hippo-sized cat slams into the two soldiers chasing down Mira’s plane. The others veer off in every direction, several making for the men on the other side of the larger plane, and a few charging up the ramp to the inside.
The airfield is permeated with the sounds of gunfire, screaming, and snarling, and I’m grateful for my high perch. Now I just have to find a safe way onto the plane.
Mira maneuvers around the mayhem, and comes straight towards me, turning to the left just in time to extend the right wing beside the tower.
Clever girl.
I leap over the side, bracing for the impact from the ten foot drop, barely managing not to slide off as my feet slam into the wing, then I’m up and scrambling across the top until the open hatch is below me on the far side. Mira’s not waiting, and we’re moving faster and faster down the runway, the wind rushing and threatening my grip on the smooth surface of the fuselage.
I’m about to angle my body over and swing into the open door, when I see one of the large cats giving chase. It’s dangerously close. I only have a fraction of a second to get inside before it will be close enough to snatch me when I swing over. I hold my breath, and start to slide, my mind amping up to take in everything at super speed.
As my legs slip out from the roof, I arch my body, grab the inside of the doorway, and yank myself inward, landing hard on my back on the floor of the plane. My adrenaline is so high I don’t even register any pain from the impact. Outside, the creature’s jaws snap shut mere inches from my head, and for a fraction of a second I can smell its rancid breath. But now we’re moving too fast and it begins to fall behind. In less than ten seconds we’re in the air, angling safely up into the sky away from the bloodbath below. I run forward and burst into the cockpit where Mira is smiling radiantly.
“That was cutting it a little close don’t you think?” I say.
She laughs mischievously. “You haven’t disappointed me yet.”
Chapter 33
I sit in the passenger seat of the compact jet, gazing at the horizon where the sky and ocean meet, forming an almost seamless whole of dazzling blue. In the pilot’s chair, Mira leans back, sleeping easily, the autopilot flying the plane for us. Her hair is matted, dirt smudges her face, and her clothes are stained with blood and grime. Despite it all, she still manages to look gorgeous.
We were lucky to find the plane fueled and ready to go. I guess I have my dad to thank for that. I presume he had fuel stored somewhere at the airfield, and Johnson just helped himself. Otherwise, this would have been a really short trip.
We were able to raise Archer and Eckert.
They’d been searching frantically for us ever since we disappeared and were both thrilled to find out we’re alive, especially Eckert, who burst into tears at hearing Mira’s voice. We didn’t tell them much because we were on an open channel, but they know enough to expect us at a private airstrip just outside of New York, and they’ll be there waiting to pick us up.
This whole adventure has rocked my world. Everything I thought I knew about myself, The Virus, and my family, has been turned inside out. Now that I’m not fighting for my life, the reality is starting to sink in.
My real dad was a psychopath and a murderer who carried out heinous experiments on unsuspecting humans, and the most amazing girl I’ve ever met is dealing with the knowledge that she had no real parents at all; she’s the product of my dad’s genetic tampering. On top of that, the members of The Council are psychopaths, and the government has been infiltrated by at least one traitor that we know of, and maybe many more.
I’m having a hard time seeing a silver lining at the moment. The only thing that will make this worth it all is if we can locate the cure and begin restoring all those who’ve been ravaged by the Fester Virus. But even that plagues me, because according to the information log we found in the bunker in the tunnels, Jonathan didn’t create the cure. Someone else did, and that means there may be yet another mysterious person out there somewhere, lurking in the shadows with terrible knowledge and skills.
I feel like I’ve been swallowed into a bizarre alternate reality where nothing is as it seems. I naively believed that through the government and The Organization, we were rebuilding the States into something good – into a place where, far into the distant future, our ancestors would be able to live peaceful lives. But the terrible truth is that we may be farther from that than ever before.
After a while, Mira wakes up, and goes into the cabin to look for food and supplies. She comes back with a couple of sodas, some stale bread, and a bottle of vodka. We eat, and then she uses the vodka to re-clean our wounds until we can get back to New York and get proper medical attention. I’ve never looked so forward to seeing Dr. Stanton in my life.
She’s as gentle as possible, but I’ve reopened the cuts on my back, and the vodka burns like acid. She blows softly on the wounds like a mother would a child, and her cool breath gives me a chill that starts in my back and tingles all the way into my fingers and toes. I turn to her and we gaze into each other’s eyes for a long time, words incapable of expressing the emotions of all we’ve been through in such a short period of time. In the end, she holds out her arms and enfolds me, careful this time not to put pressure on my back, and I sit that way, warmed by her
heat.
I’m surprised to realize how calm my mind is – no racing thoughts, just quietness and tranquility. It seems as if I’ve found the one thing in this screwed up world that can give me true mental peace. I sit there, unexpectedly blissful, even in the wake of all the chaos, until I can no longer keep my eyes open, and fall into a deep sleep.
Chapter 34
I’m in a large warehouse, the lighting muted, the smell of decay and filth prevalent. From somewhere in the darkness, Mira screams for me, a desperate, pained yell, and I search frantically for her. She cries out again and again in agonized wails, but no matter how many times she calls, I can’t hone in on the location of her voice. I grind my teeth in fear and frustration.
Strange beasts utter low growls at me from the shadows. I know that any moment one will spring at me, teeth and claws shredding my flesh and crushing my bones. Mira continues to call, her shrieks growing more panicked and desperate, and my heart races. If only I could find her!
At long last I round an old storage crate, and my heart tightens sickeningly as I behold her lying in a pool of blood, her face distorted in the crazed grimace of a Fester. She rises, her clothes torn and soaked in crimson, and comes at me slowly, hands clenched into fists, teeth bared, eyes both dulled and filled with fiery hatred at the same time.
I take a step back, unsure what to do. I can’t kill her. To kill her would be to kill myself. A cure, there’s a cure, I suddenly remember! But where? What it if isn’t real? What am I to do right now?
I continue to back away. She continues to follow when suddenly her voice echoes through the massive room, and I realize that the Mira in front of me hasn’t spoken. I look to my left, and there, down a storage aisle, another Mira stands, this one just as demented and frightening as the first.
I’m still trying to process all of this when I begin to hear her from all corners of the warehouse, multiple voices all calling out to me at once, cries for help, pleas for protection, curses of hatred, all rolled into one cacophonous symphony of dreadful sound.
I turn in every direction only to find that I’m surrounded. She’s everywhere I look, all moving in on me, and I begin to feel like I’m suffocating. They all start chanting, and I can’t make out what they’re saying at first. But the closer they move, the more intelligible they become, their voices a monotone droning. My head pounds, my pulse in my ears like a sledgehammer.
“Trust no one,” they say, “trust no one,” intermingled with “save us, save us.”
“I don’t understand,” I scream, “this can’t be real, this can’t be happening!” I try to scream for help, for sanity, for anything, and suddenly I’m jarred awake, my body jerking violently in the co-pilot’s chair.
Reality comes crashing back in, and I force myself to relax, surprised at how rapid my heart beat is. I’ve gone into the dark crevices of the city night after night to fight the living nightmare of the Festers, but nothing has ever spooked me as badly as that. There was something eerie and discomfiting about the dream, something dreadful. A knot forms in my stomach.
“Good morning sleepy-head,” Mira says from the pilot’s chair. I look over, half expecting her face to be scabbed and scarred like a Fester, but instead, her angelic countenance is back, her lips full and enticing as she smiles at me. I notice that her comment about morning was tongue-in-cheek because it’s nighttime outside the windows.
I smile back, starting to regain some semblance of sanity, and notice the downward movement of the aircraft.
“We’re almost there,” she says.
I lean up to peer over the nose of the jet, and see a small illuminated airfield ahead of us, looming ever closer. I can just make out the shapes of a couple of vehicles parked off to the side of the runway, three or four small figures forming shadows in front of the headlights.
“That must be Archer and Eckert,” I say. The cobwebs from my dream fade, and a feeling of warm calm flows over me.
A minute passes and our wheels touch the runway, the plane jarring gently as we settle onto the ground, and that’s when I feel it. The peace of knowing that despite the wild ride of the past few days, I’m back in the familiar. I’m home.
Mira hustles across the airfield to the waiting men while I drag behind. I can make out their smiles in the darkness. Mira runs to Eckert and locks him in a crushing embrace. He whispers to her as she assures him she’s okay. I walk up to Archer, and he throws out a huge hand to shake mine vigorously, causing my wounds to throb. He sees me wince and stops.
“Sorry, kid.”
A medic moves in without invitation and starts to check us out, asking about any injuries we have, poking and prodding. I guess it’s obvious from one glance at us that we’ve been put through the ringer. By unspoken agreement, none of us talk about anything other than our current condition. Details can be discussed later, when we’re in a safer place.
Although Mira brought the plane in low, there’s still the chance we may have been picked up on radar, and we need to clear out as soon as possible.
“We need to go,” Eckert says, mirroring my thoughts, and Archer nods. As we move towards one of the waiting sedans, Archer speaks to one of the other men.
“Get rid of it,” is all he says, and one of the men takes off at a sprint to Johnson’s airplane, I assume to hide it or destroy it. Either way, it’s a large piece of evidence that we don’t want certain parties in the government to discover.
I’m about to get in the rear passenger door when I hear a scream and look up to see a lone Fester careening towards us, drawn by the lights and the commotion. Before I can react, Archer has his Desert Eagle .44 Magnum leveled at the incoming creature. I start to yell for him to wait, but I’m too late, and a shot rings out at the same time the word leaves my mouth. The bullet passes cleanly through the Fester’s head from fifty yards.
Even as its body collapses to the ground, Archer looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What’s wrong?”
I stand there looking at the lifeless body, suddenly repulsed at the thought of ever killing one again. Rather than a monster, I see a sick man, a man who may have one day been saved. A man who may even have a family and loved ones that have survived.
“Cray?” Archer says again.
Mira and Eckert stand on the other side of the car watching my reaction, and I can tell from her eyes that Mira is experiencing the same conflict of emotions that I am.
“Nothing,” I say to Archer, who is still looking at me incredulously. His expression shows only curiosity and concern for my outburst. “Let’s just get out of here,” I say climbing into the back seat. There will be time to talk later.
We spend the ride back to the Soho in relative quiet, most of the little conversation taking place between Mira and Eckert, typical father-daughter banter. My entire body hurts, and my head feels like it’s going to split open. We’re both half-starved and weak. Well, at least I’m weak. I don’t really know what weak means for Mira.
As we walk through the checkpoints into the front lobby of the tower, we’re met by Dr. Stanton. Archer’s obviously given him the lowdown on our situation, and has also told us we’re not to do anything else until Doc has thoroughly examined and treated us.
Dr. Stanton is a kind-faced man in his late fifties with slightly thinning blonde hair cropped close to his scalp, and a gray flecked goatee. He’s an ex-military doc with battlefield experience and years of cleaning up my hide after nasty run-ins with Festers. He whistles low as we approach, and raises his eyebrows at our appearance.
“Rough week, huh Sweep?” he says in a lilting southern drawl. He’s always shortened my job title to that. He’s never called me Cray, and I would remember if he had. He shoos us onto the elevator, and we disembark on the second floor, the medical ward, while Eckert and Archer promise to meet up with us later.
I insist that Mira be examined first, but when Doc goes to examine her leg, the bullet wound is almost fully closed.
“How old is that wound?” he asks her.<
br />
“A few weeks,” she lies. “Afraid I reopened it a little.” She catches my eye, and I look away to hide my smile.
After a thorough cleaning and a few stitches on her hands, Doc sends her on her way. She offers to stay with me, but I refuse. She needs to go ahead and get cleaned up and find some food. Besides, Doc takes one look at my back and sends me straight to the shower.
“There’s too much grime and ick. We need to get you cleaned up before we start stitching up those gashes.” I feel like a toddler being coddled by his mommy, but Doc actually follows me into the shower and watches from the outside as I gingerly wash my aching body, to ensure I don’t unnecessarily pull open the wounds any more than they already are.
I take a moment to relish the hot water cascading over my sore muscles and glance over at Doc sitting on a stool outside the shower stall.
“I know this mission you went on is top secret, but I’m curious. Can I at least ask what did that to you? You look like you’ve been whipped.”
“Honestly Doc, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He looks at me expectantly, wanting a better answer. “It was an animal. A big one.”
“Ouch,” he says. I can tell he wants to ask more, but he doesn’t. He’s a professional and knows not to pry too much into matters that don’t concern him. It was probably just professional curiosity to find out what made the marks that pushed him to ask in the first place, but he’s a good guy, and I throw him my most charming smile.
“So, listen Doc, you’re already getting to see me naked, but you’re going to have to at least buy me dinner if you expect to get to first base.”
He laughs. “You wish, Sweep.”
Once I'm done in the shower, he covers my back in antiseptic, and puts more stitches in it than I care to count. There’s no way I’m putting on the filthy rags I was wearing before, so he tosses me a pair of well-worn scrubs that are a little too small for my frame, but at least they’re clean and smell nice.
The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1) Page 16
