Awakened

by James S. Murray

  She shouldered her Commando, aimed outside, and took rapid single shots. The bullets slammed into creatures’ bodies, checking their stride. Headshots took them down.

  A few of the cops unholstered their weapons and fired out the sides through the open doors and broken windows.

  The train pulled farther away from the chasing pack and approached the final bend leading to the Jersey City station.

  Thirty seconds.

  Cafferty turned to search for the first signs of daylight. He finally allowed himself to believe that they might make it.

  A claw reached inside the gap, clamped around North’s arm, and wrenched him out of the car. Cafferty dove down, reached for his legs . . . and grasped nothing but air.

  “No!” Bowcut screamed as North’s body tumbled along the track, entwined with a creature. “David!”

  She stopped firing and went to leap from the train. Cafferty grabbed her chest rig, stopping her suicidal rescue attempt.

  “Let me go, goddamn it!”

  “No! These people need you! What would David want you to do?”

  Bowcut growled and thrashed, but Tom was damned if he was going to let go. He had almost lost North once with a weak grip. He wasn’t going to betray his best friend by releasing Sarah’s rig and letting her kill herself.

  Ellen focused her light on the head of security, and they watched out the back of the train as North fired while he rolled, shredding the creature to pieces.

  North rose to his knees, gave Bowcut and Cafferty a single firm nod, and twisted to face the screeching mass. He fired, keeping his finger depressed against the laser trigger, and the red beam lanced through a tide of writhing black bodies he had no chance of stopping.

  “Jesus Christ,” Bowcut whispered.

  Cafferty couldn’t even speak. He also couldn’t take his eyes off the scene: his selfless head of security, fighting with his last breaths to hold back the creatures, giving everyone else a chance at freedom.

  North disappeared into a black blanket of snarling chaos. The laser continued to pierce bodies, and Cafferty could see the red cutting back and forth on all parts of the tunnel.

  Then it went out, and he let out a deep sigh, his grip still on Bowcut’s rig. Silently, Ellen wrapped her arms around both of them.

  A hush filled Cafferty’s head, only to be replaced by Bowcut’s quiet sobs.

  And then an explosion rumbled from deep inside the subway system.

  Then another.

  And a final one, closer to them.

  The ground shook, jolting the train.

  Breaking free, Bowcut yelled, “Everyone get down!”

  A wall of smoke and water rocketed up the tunnel. Chunks of concrete dropped from the ceiling, crashing against the roof of the car.

  Ellen grabbed Cafferty’s hand. “Come on, Tom. I’m not losing you today.”

  Cafferty spun and ducked next to Ellen under a seat. The train powered around the bend toward the station.

  He tensed, waiting for the shock wave to hit. From across the aisle, Bowcut had tucked herself under the opposite seat, staring at him with a mix of fury and sorrow.

  Somehow that felt even worse.

  Cafferty closed his eyes and thought about keeping them closed forever. But then bright light flooded the train. Daylight. He pulled himself out from underneath the seat.

  Hundreds of uniforms and vehicles packed a distant police line, weapons aimed at the speeding train. He had no idea if they were a safe distance from the blast, but he also knew there was nothing he could do about it now as the train thundered past the platform and headed for the maintenance shed.

  Glancing through the rear of the car, Cafferty watched in awe as water, smoke, and debris exploded out of the tunnel’s mouth as the Hudson River retook the Z Train.

  An earsplitting boom ripped through the air as the tunnel simultaneously exploded and imploded, knocking Cafferty back down. Ellen reached for him and they wrapped their arms around each other, squeezing tight.

  The force of the blast lifted the train, and for a second, Cafferty felt weightless. The diesel engine lurched to the right, dragging the car with it. He braced for impact as well as he could.

  The train smashed into the ground and crashed through two concrete bollards, and the wheels screeched over the deserted pedestrian zone, heading directly at the center of the police line . . . and the Z Train Exhibition Center’s shimmering pyramid.

  Soldiers and cops scattered.

  The diesel engine pounded two police cars to the side, slowing its momentum, though not enough . . .

  They rammed through the Exhibition Center’s front entrance, sending glass flying in all directions, flattening the reception desk, and driving through two more walls. The engine and car eventually groaned to a halt inside the main hall, surround by broken display cases.

  For a moment, finally, there was a welcome silence.

  All energy drained from Cafferty’s body and he slumped on the floor.

  Sirens began to blare in the distance.

  Hundreds of uniforms rushed over from all sides with weapons raised.

  Cafferty could barely find the strength to care about any of it.

  Eventually, though, he surveyed the train’s path of destruction and wondered how he had come through so many dangerous situations in three hours and lived to tell the tale. It seemed a lifetime ago since he stood on the Pavilion’s stage.

  “We’re alive,” Ellen said. “I can’t believe it. Tom, we actually made it.”

  “I’m never letting you go again. I’m so sorry for everything.”

  “I’m sorry, too. I love you.”

  They embraced tightly.

  Some survivors shook their heads in disbelief. Others exited and headed between the obliterated exhibits for the shattered entrance.

  Cafferty led Ellen out through the rear set of doors. A model of the Z Train extension lay by his feet, broken into hundreds of pieces, much like the legacy he had intended to leave for the city. It seemed so small, considering the legacy of people like Arnolds. Like Dumont. Like David North.

  Fresh air had never tasted so good, but he felt numbness, not relief. Everything was too much to comprehend.

  Only thirty had made it out of the Pavilion.

  It was staggering to think not only of how many people had died, but that this many had survived. Again, though, he thought back to the dead—one in particular. Because while Cafferty knew he shouldered some of the burden for the tragedy, Lucien Flament’s organization nagged in the back of his mind. The Foundation for Human Advancement.

  The creatures did the killing, but the Foundation’s silence had let them. Further, it could have prevented it but instead was willing to kill everyone down there . . . just because.

  All to preserve this secret.

  Cafferty was a driven man. He had fought and struggled and begged and compromised to make the Z Train happen, and it had almost cost him everything. The one thing it hadn’t changed, though, was his ability to accomplish his goals. And now he had a new one.

  No matter what it takes, I will not let my friends die in vain. One way or the other, the Foundation will pay for this.

  Bowcut approached, and for a moment the two just stared at each other.

  “Sarah, I’m so—”

  “Don’t, Mr. Mayor. Not right now. Maybe not ever. But right now, I have to keep doing my job and debrief my bosses. I—I have to keep doing what I know how to do, because otherwise . . .”

  “Otherwise it seems like this was for nothing,” he said quietly.

  Bowcut simply nodded.

  “It’s won’t be for nothing, Sarah. I promise you.”

  “I hope so. And when you’re ready, you know where to find me.”

  “Same for you.”

  Bowcut turned to Ellen. “Mrs. Cafferty.”

  “I owe you my life.”

  “We all owe David.”

  And with that, Sarah Bowcut slipped around the front of the train and dis
appeared.

  Cafferty stood there for a moment, his heart aching for her. She would need time to heal—as they all would. But he had meant what he told her. This wasn’t over. And by the look in her eyes, he was pretty sure she was more than willing to take this to the very end.

  Leaning on Ellen, he made his way toward the diesel engine. As he approached, the cabin door flung open. Sal climbed down the steel ladder and helped his shaken colleague descend. He spun toward Cafferty and his eyes lit up.

  “You’re one crazy asshole,” Cafferty said. “We’re here thanks to you.”

  “Come ’ere.” Sal grasped him in a tight bear hug, only letting go when he gasped from the pain. “Sorry, Mr. Mayor. But it wasn’t just me and Mike. You’re the crazy asshole going into the tunnel with spotlights . . . Holy shit—Diego!”

  Munoz picked his way through the wrecked center, followed by soldiers and cops. He broke into a run, grabbed Anna from behind, and lifted her in the air. The surviving members of his command center team surrounded him, relief and joy plastered across their faces.

  A smile cracked Cafferty’s.

  “Diego,” Sal called out, “get your crusty ass over here.”

  Munoz broke away from his group, grinned, and approached Sal, Cafferty, and Ellen. “How’d I guess it was you who took the engine down?”

  “I couldn’t let you take all the glory. Where’s the president?”

  “They whisked him away five minutes ago.”

  “I never thought I’d be pleased to see you.”

  “Likewise.” Munoz eyed Cafferty and his smile dropped. “We need to talk, Mr. Mayor.” He motioned his head to the shattered display cases. “In private.”

  They left Sal and Ellen busily chatting about the escape.

  “What is it?” Cafferty asked.

  “Reynolds’ head of security was a double agent for a shadowy organization—”

  “The Foundation?”

  “You know it?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Munoz leaned closer. “Not as long as mine. I’m sworn to secrecy by the president ’cause I heard things you wouldn’t believe. But I’ll be damned if these assholes get away with this.”

  “They won’t, Diego,” Cafferty said, watching the cops and soldiers closing in. “We’ll make sure of it, won’t we?”

  Diego and Cafferty stared resolutely at each other, and finally Munoz nodded.

  Cafferty walked back to his wife. Seeing her there, talking with Sal, looking so beautiful and composed and alive . . . it was enough for him to want to take her as far away from here as possible and never look back. But he knew he couldn’t do that. Not after what he’d seen. Not after what Bowcut and Munoz had gone through to get them all out of there. He might not be fighters like them, at least physically, and his political career was definitely over. But he had a new ambition, a new steely resolve: to avenge the memory of those who died today, to unravel the conspiracy, and to take down the Foundation for Human Advancement.

  Ellen saw Tom coming and smiled, both warm and nervous. He shook his head quickly and took her in his arms, letting her know that the only thing that mattered was their future. Reluctantly pulling away from each other, they locked hands and headed through the front of the Exhibition Center into the brilliant sunshine.

  Chapter Forty

  Albert Van Ness spun his electric wheelchair away from the BBC World News broadcast at the far side of his penthouse office. The footage of the president being ushered from the scene confirmed the failure of the New York mission, not that he needed telling. He glared down at the message from Reynolds on his smartphone and his hands balled into fists.

  The Foundation for Human Advancement had a zero-tolerance policy for failure. Ultimately, it was all part of a giant mechanism created by his father and continued by him, fueled by cash from national governments. If components like Samuels and Flament died, they had their bank accounts stripped and his recruiters identified new targets. If a fuel source soured, like Reynolds and his country’s funding, he had to be removed for someone with better compliance.

  What angered Van Ness most about this public screwup was the previous work the Foundation had carried out to get the ungrateful Reynolds elected. Dark sites in multiple locations bombarded social media using thousands of bogus accounts. Online opinion polls were stuffed in his favor. Hackers broke into electoral systems and manipulated data, and they left believable trails of evidence for his opponent’s fake affair with a prostitute. They had needed to shift public opinion only half a percentage point. By his team’s estimation, they managed to double their target, and this wasn’t even the Foundation’s primary mission.

  And now the fool had sent a threat to the man who made him.

  Van Ness needed a moment to calm himself before dealing with his executives.

  His father once claimed the key to success was stripping all emotions out of the decision-making process and to always use the cold, hard facts. An SS-oberführer would say that. The old guard had no idea when it came to juggling politics and business, didn’t have a clue about the concept of an iron fist in a velvet glove.

  Van Ness rotated his chair toward the bulletproof glass window. He peered at his weak reflection, wearing a perfectly pressed gray pin-striped Kiton suit made of vicuña wool. His shoes rested on the foot platforms at odd angles, and his knees buckled inward. Most never guessed the true power behind his frail figure.

  Twenty stories below, hundreds of tourists walked along the Parc du Champ de Mars toward the Eiffel Tower. So many people, oblivious and naive. They would live, work, breed, and die without ever knowing they owed their survival, their very existence and place at the top of the food chain, to him, the all-knowing, all-seeing benefactor and puppeteer of the world. Protecting humanity from itself and these creatures wasn’t a mission from God; it was God’s mission.

  Van Ness spun his chair back toward his polished walnut desk and tapped the pad on his left armrest. The office’s two glass walls transformed to gunmetal gray. He knew various government agencies watched him like a hawk from distant buildings, hoping to catch a glimpse of his inner world.

  He pressed a button on his desk. “Send them in, Henrietta.”

  “Right away, Mr. Van Ness.”

  The door smoothly swung open with an electric grind.

  Werner Schulz, his tall, ambitious number three, entered first. His grandfather had served with Van Ness’ father, and nobody was more committed to the Foundation’s principles.

  Allen Edwards, his shorter, dark-haired right-hand man, followed. He drove the projects with a strong fundamentalist belief that even Van Ness found mildly creepy, though lately he had become careless.

  The sweat on Edwards’ top lip told Van Ness he knew it, too.

  The men stood motionless, waiting for Van Ness to speak. He stared at them, drumming his fingers on the desk. Neither moved or dared to break eye contact. He decided to get the trivial business over with first.

  “Werner, what’s the latest on the UK election?”

  “Our favored party has a two-point lead going into the live debates.”

  “How are you mitigating a poor performance?”

  “We’ve got four news stories of varying severity ready to run in the national papers. I’ll let you know which we deploy. The nuclear option is to engineer a terrorist attack in Canary Wharf, but we won’t need to go that far. Not this time.”

  “Everything used to be so simple. Governments paid and we carried out our work.” Van Ness breathed out a heavy sigh. “We live in a cynical world today, gentlemen. A cynical world indeed.”

  Edwards pulled a handkerchief from inside his jacket pocket and dabbed his face. The Londoner had worked at the Foundation for the best part of twenty years as Van Ness’ number two, but Van Ness knew age had caught up with him. Edwards’ mistakes were becoming more regular, his excuses more outlandish.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Van Ness,” Edwards said. “I take full responsibility for New
York.”

  Van Ness tossed him the smartphone. “At least the creatures are under control. But this?”

  Edwards read the message and his face turned a paler shade of white.

  “Sir,” Schulz said, “may I offer a suggestion?”

  “You may.”

  “I’ve prepared a contingency plan and it’s ready for implementation, with your approval. It’ll achieve our original objectives within twenty-four months.”

  Schulz placed a report on Van Ness’ desk.

  “Excellent work,” Van Ness said, thumbing through the pages. He switched his focus back to his number two. “Do you have a contingency plan, Allen?”

  “I’m working on our alternatives.”

  “So you don’t?”

  “Not yet, but I will.”

  “I see.”

  Van Ness scrutinized Edwards’ face. He was facing nothing more than a tired old boxer, taking his last desperate swing before his punch-drunk body smashed against the canvas. It saddened him, but everyone had a shelf life.

  “Sir,” Edwards pleaded, “give me another chance. As you said yourself, things are harder nowadays.”

  “Don’t misquote me. I can’t tolerate failure, old friend.”

  A bead of sweat rolled down Edwards’ cheek.

  Van Ness glanced at an iris-activated sensor on the wall, which instantly lit up red. He immediately switched his focus above Edwards’ eyes.

  At the last moment, he shifted his glare to Schulz, his number three.

  A red laser beam shot from the front of Van Ness’ desk and drilled a perfect hole through his forehead.

  Schulz rocked on his heels, staring vacantly ahead.

  Van Ness eased back in his wheelchair, steepled his fingers, and watched with morbid curiosity. He had once heard a severed head retained consciousness for several seconds, and he searched his number three’s eyes for signs of recognition. “Are you still there?” he asked.

  Schulz collapsed. Blood pooled around his body.

  The sensor deactivated.

  “Without loyalty, what do we have left?” Van Ness said introspectively.

  “I told you we couldn’t trust him,” Edwards said. “He wanted to lead the Foundation and wouldn’t let anything stand in his path. I’ll get working on a real contingency plan right away.”