Hold On! - Tomorrow (A Sci-Fi Thriller)

by Peter Darley

  She touched his cheek tenderly, and then moved toward the door.

  Tyler stepped toward them. “Yeah, this’ll look natural. The one they’d expect to go with him would be Belinda. With just Emily leaving, it fits perfectly. Emily was at a heavy metal concert. Jake’s still here. Perfect alibi. It looks totally reasonable.”

  Belinda and David came out and threw their arms around B.J.

  He broke the embrace and glanced back at his mom, Dave, Tyler, Emily and Jake—the most loving, supportive family he could ever have hoped for. “I love you guys.”

  “All right,” Tyler said. “Let’s go.”

  Twenty-One

  Explorers

  “From above the Dallas skyline, it was clear to see what happened earlier today. The Interceptor flew between ambulance workers and the police as they worked frantically to save lives beneath a collapsing high-rise. Using what can only be described as a ‘force field’, The Interceptor prevented all of them from being crushed to death, right before saving baby Chloe Greenwood after she fell into a volcanic fissure. Survivors of the tragedy are now praising The Interceptor as a beacon of hope. This is Marilyn Looms, for NBC News.”

  Jed Crane watched the broadcast from behind his desk. Heather stood beside him with his long-standing secretary, Deborah Beaumont, and his personal assistant, Juanita Fernandez.

  He noticed Heather’s eyes tearing up at what she’d just seen. It was understandable. He knew she loved B.J., who was now a fugitive because he’d taken the initiative to go out and rescue little babies. The combination of awe, affection, and rage at such an extreme injustice, was stretching Jed’s own emotional resolve to the limit.

  He smiled warmly at Deborah. She’d stayed by his side, first at SDT and then EDID. At sixty-three, she’d had every opportunity to retire, but she remained indomitably conscientious.

  Then there was Juanita, formerly an impoverished laborer in Rio de Janeiro. They’d supported one another twenty-six years earlier, when Jed fled from the corruption in his own department. Upon his return to America, he swore he would do whatever he could to help her, and soon arranged for her to come to Washington D.C. He’d quickly trained her to become his personal assistant with Director Brenham’s blessing.

  Now, the three women were all he had to keep his office afloat.

  “They’re going to be coming for me at any moment,” he said. “I’ll have my lawyers on the case as soon as they take me in, and, if we can locate him, Vice President Myers. In the meantime, I need the three of you to look into Christopher Sloane’s background and dig up anything you can.”

  “Yes, sir,” Deborah said.

  The sound of multiple heavy boots could be heard at the end of the corridor.

  “This is it.” Jed picked up a face-down strip of paper from his desk, folded it into quarters, and handed it to Heather. “Look at this later and keep it safe.”

  Heather quickly secreted the paper into her jacket pocket.

  A squad of FBI officers entered the room. The man leading them approached Jed. “Director Jedediah Crane?”

  “That’s me.” Crane held out his wrists with a defiant smile.

  The officer took out his cuffs and whispered sympathetically, “I’m so sorry, sir. I have to read you your rights.”

  “No need for that. I think I wrote ‘em.” Crane looked up as Sloane strutted into the room, his swagger and gloating eyes blatant.

  “Now, I have your ass right where I want it,” Sloane said.

  Heather stepped forward, her eyes overwrought with emotion. “How can you do this? What kind of a monster are you?”

  Sloane’s cheeks flushed with rage. “You just watch your tongue, young lady. Need I remind you, you’re talking to a United States senator?”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re the Messiah. When you’re an asshole, you need to be told. What you’re doing is sick. How many children will have to die because of your insane persecution of The Interceptor.”

  Sloane caught the attention of the FBI captain. “Arrest that woman.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Insulting a senator.”

  The captain gazed at Sloane, his expression showing his suspicion that the senator was not of sound mind. “That’s not a crime, sir. Freedom of speech.”

  “Captain, I swear, I’ll have your badge.”

  “I’m pretty close to handing it over as it is, Senator.”

  Sloane’s eyes assumed a glaze similar to the onset of psychosis. “I’ll destroy you all. I’ll have that goddamn abomination of yours shot out of the sky, Crane.”

  Jed locked eyes with the captain, and then noticed the other officers looking at one another. It was clear to all of them that something was very wrong.

  Finally, the captain spoke. “All right, Director Crane. You are under arrest for disobeying a congressional order. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .”

  After the monotonous rhetoric of Miranda had concluded, Crane turned to Deborah. “Debs, would you call Pat for me? Tell her I’ll be late for dinner.”

  With that, the officers escorted him out of the office.

  Sloane held Heather’s hate-filled gaze for a moment, and then followed the officers out.

  Once they were alone, Heather moved closer to Deborah and Juanita. “Did you see that? Director Crane wanted us to look into Sloane’s background, and we just got a good idea why. That guy is seriously unbalanced.”

  “I agree,” Juanita said. “I’ll get right on it.”

  After a pensive moment, Heather approached Deborah. “Would you have a file on any TV stations that might be sympathetic to Project: Interceptor?”

  “Not a list exactly, but I’ll be able to pick out the most likely candidates. What do you have in mind?”

  “I want to tell the people what just happened in here. I’m going to set the American electorate against that son of a bitch.”

  “Well, in that case, I think I have one already.”

  “Really?”

  Deborah’s eyes beamed. “Oh, yes. There’s one station I know of that’s been a supporter of anything Interceptor for twenty-eight years.”

  “Twenty-eight years?”

  “Yes. I’ve been a part of this from the beginning. They have a past history with Agent Drake’s father.”

  “Which station is this?”

  “Come into my office,” Deborah said, grinning. “I’ll give you all the details.”

  ***

  Woody Schuster glanced all around him while holding on to his best friend, Phil Cole, astride a sleek, silver snowmobile. The terrain seemed so alien to him.

  Phil slowed the snowmobile until he came to a stop a few yards ahead of a slight incline in the snow. Finally, he climbed off.

  “What’s wrong?” Woody said.

  Phil took off his protective helmet and his limp, fair hair fell onto his cheeks. “The milometer says we just hit thirty-six miles from where we started.”

  “And?”

  “And, the newscaster woman on that old news report said it was approximately forty miles behind her. We found the exact landscape where they were filming, and this is thirty-six miles behind that spot. It can’t be far away.”

  “Yeah, but approximately forty miles in which direction?”

  Phil looked around him. “There’s nothing for as far as I can see, Woody. Guess we’re not in L.A. anymore. The view has to go on for thirty miles in all directions, and it’s nothing but snow.”

  Woody pointed to the snow incline. “Yeah, in all directions but that one. What’s on the other side of that slope?”

  “Let’s check it out.” Phil climbed back on the snowmobile, put his helmet back on, and aimed the vehicle forward.

  Within seconds, they cleared the hill and carried on for a few hundred yards before stopping again. Woody looked around intently.

  “Dammit,” Phil said. “Where the hell is
it?”

  “Wait a second.”

  “What?”

  Woody climbed off and took a few steps forward. He squinted his eyes, certain he could make out something in the distance to his immediate right. “Do you see that over there?”

  Phil looked across to where Woody was indicating. “Barely. What do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know. It looks like it could be trees.”

  Phil pointed in the direction they’d come from. “There were trees back there too, but there wasn’t anything in them.”

  “I don’t care, let’s at least give it a shot.”

  Woody climbed back on the snowmobile, and Phil fired it up again.

  Within five minutes, a cluster of Aspen trees appeared just ahead of an extremely steep mountain.

  “Now, this is looking more interesting,” Phil said.

  They meandered around the trees for several hundred yards and then stopped.

  Slowly, Woody and Phil climbed off the snowmobile and removed their helmets. Woody brushed his limp, black, side-parted hair away from his eyes and removed his now-steamed-up spectacles.

  “I can’t believe it,” Phil said with an emotional quiver. “We actually did it, buddy. We really found it.” They walked with a mutual sense of worshipful reverence toward an isolated, wooden cabin.

  Phil took out a wafer-thin, chrome camera from his pocket.

  “Is it set to hologram?” Woody said.

  “Of course,” Without delay, Phil began filming.

  They gradually came closer to the cabin, and a thought came to Woody. “We have to be sure, Phil.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s check out the back.”

  They wandered around to the rear of the cabin and came to a clearing. Woody’s heart raced the moment he noticed a snow-coated protrusion coming out of the ground. He ran over to it and cleared the snow away with his gloves.

  Seconds later, a headstone was revealed with an unmistakable engraving etched into it:

  Brandon Drake

  “The All-American Hero”

  1985-2016

  They sank to their knees before the gravestone, overcome with awe.

  “I bet we’re the only ones who’ve ever found him,” Woody said.

  “You’re right. I’ve got to get some shots of this.” Phil proceeded to film the gravestone and carefully panned the camera around the clearing. “This has got to work. For three years, they’ve passed me over. But I’ve never heard of anyone who’s actually been to the home of the original Interceptor. This is the real deal, Woody.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Seeing his birth year—nineteen-eighty-five—really brings it all home,” Phil said. “That was the Dark Ages. Nothing was even digital. Music and movies were on some weird kinda tape stuff. You couldn’t have a phone conversation with someone unless you were inside a house, and on some big, wired-up phone with a crazy dial. It was so primitive. Like another planet.”

  “I never thought about that. You think we should see if we can get inside?”

  “Nah. It’d be locked, anyway.”

  “You never know.”

  Phil ultimately conceded and they made their way around to the front.

  After stepping up onto the porch, Woody tried the door. It came open. “Well, what do you know?”

  Phil continued to film every moment with meticulous care as they entered.

  Woody took in the musky scent of the cabin and the dust-shrouded interior. A leather recliner set, an old-style TV and satellite equipment, and an equally-retro music system remained in position, as though awaiting a warrior’s return.

  Excitedly, they explored the kitchen, the bedroom, and the master bathroom.

  “I can’t believe we’re actually standing in The Interceptor’s home,” Phil said. “This is our day in the sun, Wood. I can feel it.”

  “Yeah. We were endorsed the minute the new Interceptor made his first appearance, but this is the icing on the cake.”

  “Not quite.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If only there was some way we could get an interview with someone connected to it all. That would be the icing on the cake.”

  “We can dream.”

  Woody smiled with elation. It had taken Phil two years of research, studying old newsreel footage in the library archives, to figure out the location of the cabin. They’d spent a year saving up enough money to make the pilgrimage to Aspen.

  After filming all they could, they decided to head back out.

  Woody took a last look at the living room, his own sense of wonderment adding a type of magic to it that perhaps wasn’t really there. “Awesome.”

  They carefully closed the front door behind them.

  Tyler gingerly pushed open the trap door from the cabin’s basement steps and peeked through the crack. “I think it’s clear now.”

  Emily and B.J. came up behind him and climbed up into the living room.

  B.J. stared at the front door with concern. “Who the hell was that?”

  Twenty-Two

  Apocalypse . . . when?

  B.J. walked slowly through the three rooms of the cabin, absorbing every moment. Tyler had left thirty minutes earlier to buy food, cleaning materials, and other essentials.

  As B.J. stepped into the bedroom, his gaze fell onto the bed. His father’s bed.

  “You know, I think you were conceived in that,” Emily said from behind him.

  He looked at her, slack-jawed. “You know what, Aunt Em? I really didn’t need to know that.”

  She touched his cheek, chuckling. “Oh, sweetheart. You are so cute.”

  “Oh, boy. Have I really got to put up with all this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You is what I mean. And what is all this heavy metal stuff about, anyway?”

  Emily rolled her eyes. “Just put it down to old Aunt Em still trying to find herself.”

  He gently held her shoulders. “I know who you are, and all of this retro biker stuff just isn’t you. I love you the way you are.”

  Emily tilted her head pensively, but she didn’t seem upset.

  B.J. stepped out of the bedroom and into the living room. “I can’t believe I’m actually here. I’ve imagined it a million times, ever since my mom first told me about it.”

  “And what do you think?”

  He looked out the window and spotted his father’s grave, held transfixed by it for a moment. He then turned around and surveyed the cabin’s interior. “Well, it certainly needs a clean-up. It’s as dusty as hell.”

  “We can fix that,” she said. “It shouldn’t take long. But I want you to talk to me. I always know when you need to talk, and right now it’s oozing out of you.”

  He came closer to her and smiled. “Thank you. I love you, you know.”

  “I love you too. Talk to me. What’s been happening?”

  He was about to answer when he became distracted by his father’s music system. “A compact disc player? This place is so . . . yesterday.”

  “Of course it is.”

  He glanced below the stereo system and saw a rack of drawers. He pulled open the first drawer to discover it was filled with original AOR CDs. “Wow!”

  “What?”

  He took out a handful of the CDs and began to sift through them, his heart racing. “No way. I mean, no fu . . . freakin’ way.”

  “What is it, honey?”

  “It’s AOR, is what it is. This is my favorite type of music. What are the odds my dad was into it too? Do you have any idea how much this collection has to be worth?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He showed her a few of the pristine jewel cases. “Look at this. Original edition albums of Foreigner, Journey, Night Ranger, Def Leppard, Bon Jovi, Vega . . .” He rummaged through the drawer, eagerly. “Damn, he even had H.E.AT., Free Spirit, and Harem Scarem’s first albums. My dad was as much into it as I am. This collection is a goldmine. You should t
ry listening to it sometime. It’s far more civilized than heavy metal.”

  Emily smiled. “OK. Put one of them on.”

  While B.J. figured out the operations of the archaic equipment, Emily asked him again, “So, what’s been happening.”

  Still focused on the CD player, he replied, “A few days ago, I had a call.”

  “From whom?”

  “I don’t know. It was some girl, but she knew who I was. She said the disasters were happening because a cult called C.O.T. was trying to bring about the apocalypse.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “I had no choice. She knew I was The Interceptor, and no geologist has been able to make sense of this. Then, that asshole Sloane closed us down, and the only way I could do anything to help anyone was to become a fugitive.”

  “Oh, my . . . Thor.”

  B.J. laughed out loud. “For an ex-nun, you’re a riot, Aunt Em.”

  “‘Ex’ being the operative term,” she said with an uncharacteristic hint of aggression.

  B.J. finally figured out the play button and the music started up. But he was perturbed by Emily’s anger. “What is it?”

  She gave a somewhat sad smile. “Oh, don’t mind me, dear.”

  “No, I’m serious. Tell me all about it. I’m intrigued. Do you think the apocalypse legend is true?”

  They brushed away the dust and sat down on the sofa.

  “The apocalypse,” Emily said, “was a subject that got me into a lot of trouble when I was with the Carmelite order.”

  “How come?”

  “Nuns were always discouraged from reading the Bible.”

  He frowned, puzzled. “What? That makes no sense.”

  “Actually, it does. It’s a very controlling environment. We were always told to ask the priests or the bishops if we had any questions.”

  “Yeah, that is controlling,” he said.

  “Anyway, I had a bible, and I kept it hidden under my mattress. I read it every night. It took me a couple of years to read it from beginning to end, but it wasn’t what I thought it was.”