Surviving the Dead (Book 4): Fire In Winter

by James Cook

  I looked up. “Yes. I would.”

  “Then you understand. You know why I’m working so hard. Why I’m sharing classified information with a man I barely know so I can get a few copper wires and have a shot at finding power lines and insulators. Because I will do anything, anything, to protect my family. They’re all I have left and will not let anything happen to them. I will protect them, or I will die trying. That’s why I’m here. That’s what I’m working for. Are you happy now, Gabe? Is your curiosity satisfied? Can I have my computers now so I can go fix your goddamn power grid?”

  I nodded wordlessly, feeling like the world’s most thoroughly accomplished bastard. In my office, I opened a little safe and took out a notepad, a rubber mallet, a pen, and a unique hand-carved seal fashioned from a cylindrical piece of granite. I wrote a bill of sale on the pad, signed it, placed the stamp over the lower right hand corner, struck it with the mallet, removed the note, returned everything to the safe, and locked it. Back in the storeroom, I handed the slip to Jutaro. He snatched it from my hand and looked it over.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to thank you,” he said.

  “No, I don’t.”

  He left without another word. I sat behind the counter for a few more hours, helped a few more customers, made a few more sales. At a quarter to four, after not seeing anyone for nearly half an hour, I closed the store and left.

  On the way home, I watched the snow crunch under my boots and thought back to the last days of the Free Legion. I thought about General Phillip Jacobs, head of Army Special Operations Command, and my last meeting with him. I thought about the dossier he had shown me, the one marked as top secret. Not typical behavior for a high-ranking military officer, but I had done a great deal to earn his trust. Also, the dossier was twenty-six pages long, written in boring, mechanical military terminology. He had only let me look at it for a few minutes, five at the most. Probably thought I would scan the documents within, get a general idea of what I was looking at, and be duly impressed. After all, there was no way I could memorize a document so long and detailed in so short an amount of time, could I?

  The thought put a smile on my face.

  I often wondered how General Jacobs would react if he knew he had shown that dossier to a man with an eidetic memory. If he had, I doubt his attitude would have been quite so cavalier.

  Truth be told, much of the information I pumped out of Ishimura was just to confirm things I already knew. Perhaps it is paranoia on my part, but it had occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, Jacobs was aware of my memory trick. Maybe he fed me bogus information to fool me into thinking I had won him over. Maybe the detailed information about the Phoenix Initiative contained in the dossier had been a smokescreen. He made it clear he wanted to recruit me back into the military, after all, and it was possible the dossier was just a ruse to win my trust. Dangle a little highly-classified information in front of me, pique my interest.

  That particular doubt had been nagging me a lot lately, and the knowledge I could find out for sure one way or the other was what led me to turn the screws on Ishimura. It might have cost me a small fortune in computer equipment, but now I knew for sure Jacobs had been telling the truth. And in light of my conversation with Jutaro, I decided I had given the general too much credit.

  He was not so clever as all that.

  *****

  Elizabeth was waiting for me when I got home. She smiled and stood up on the porch, arms outstretched.

  “Come here.”

  I went. The arms were as warm and strong as ever, and so was the woman attached to them. Her fingers went to the back of my neck, toying with my close-cropped hair because she knew I liked it.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been around,” she said. “It’s been busy at the office. This big junkman with pretty eyes brought a bunch of insurgents to town. Said they were leading a big horde of walkers. Had explosives and everything. Scared folks half to death.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. I’d rather they be scared than dead. Thank you.”

  “Least I could do.”

  She kissed me then, taking her time about it, hands in motion, hips pressing close against mine. It had been over a week since we had spent the night together, and we were both feeling pent up. I started walking her toward the front door, one hand fumbling for the keys in my pocket. She stepped backward, following my lead, urgent little noises breaking loose from her chest. I had just gotten the key in the door when, to my dismay, I heard the sound of tires crunching over gravel. Elizabeth heard it too, and stopped what she was doing to look over my shoulder. I turned around to see the sheriff’s department’s only working patrol vehicle—a blue Nissan Leaf with hand-painted decals—pulling into my driveway.

  I could have chewed nails and spit out horseshoes.

  It rolled to a stop a few feet from the porch, the electric engine nearly silent. Deputy Reid stepped out looking equal parts tense and sheepish. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Garrett, but the sheriff sent me to find you.”

  The woman in my arms pushed gently away from me and stepped down from the porch. In the space of half a second, she transformed from Elizabeth, the warm, funny, passionate woman I was falling for, into Mayor Stone, the stalwart, confident, steely-eyed captain of the ship called Hollow Rock.

  “What’s the problem, Quentin?”

  “You might want to come too, Mayor. We found a body.”

  “A body? As in a dead body?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She shot me a questioning glance. I shrugged and held up my hands.

  “Do we know who it is?” she asked.

  “Sean Montford. He runs a pig farm outside the east wall, about two miles away.”

  Elizabeth’s face drew tight, the worry and tension lines returning. “Dear God.”

  “You know him?” I asked.

  She nodded. “He volunteers for the fall festival every year. He has a family, Gabe. Kids.” Her attention shifted back to Deputy Reid. “What happened to him?”

  Reid tried to speak, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again.

  “It’s bad, Mayor. Real bad.”

  *****

  Deputy Reid was right.

  It was bad.

  The man who had once been Sean Montford, a mid-fifties pig farmer who had braved marauders, thieves, the Free Legion, and swarms of undead, who had protected his family and somehow kept his farm going despite incredible hardship, had been stripped naked and suspended from the stout branch of an oak tree, dangling by his ankles.

  There was no question he had been tortured. Cuts, bruises, and horrific burns marred nearly every inch of his skin. His genitals were missing, as well as several of his fingers and toes. The deputies at the crime scene had done their best to locate them, without success. But as awful as it was, that wasn’t the worst part.

  The worst part was, despite being dead, Sean Montford was still moving.

  “I’m sorry Sheriff. We can’t find anything.” Reid said, emerging from the treeline.

  Walter nodded wearily, his tired eyes not moving from the still struggling Montford.

  “Whoever did this must have taken them. Or maybe they killed him somewhere else and moved his body.”

  “Actually, I don’t think it was either of those things,” I said.

  Walter tore his eyes away from the body and looked at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Look at his mouth.”

  The sheriff stepped closer, eyes narrowing. He dropped to one knee, being careful to stay out of reach of Montford’s flailing arms. I moved behind him and pointed. “His mouth is bloody. All his wounds were inflicted antemortem, meaning he had to have been restrained. I don’t think he attacked anyone.”

  “Then where did the blood come from?”

  “Look closer.”

  The sheriff reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. Tilting his head up to peer through them, he leaned in a bit farth
er. First came a sharp intake of breath, then the blood drained from his face, then he stood up, turned away, and ripped his glasses off, breathing heavily, hands trembling on his knees.

  Sarah hurried over and clutched one of the old lawman’s arms. “Sheriff, are you all right? What happened?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. I just need a minute to breathe is all.”

  She turned to face me. “What is it Gabe? What did you see?”

  I had to swallow a couple of times before I could say it. “There’s a fingernail lodged in his teeth. I think it’s his.”

  Reid took a few steps closer, brow knitted in confusion. “I don’t understand. How would his fingernail get…” Realization dawned on his face. He ran to the edge of the clearing, hunched over, and was violently sick.

  Sarah didn’t look much better. “You mean they…they fed it to him? His…”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m thinking they tortured him first, infected him somehow, and waited for him to turn. Then they fed him the parts they cut off.”

  Sarah made it a few steps farther than Reid before she lost it. Elizabeth was pale but composed. She turned away and walked to the gravel road, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

  “Sheriff, I’m as sickened by this as you are,” I said. “But I have to ask. Why am I here? I’m not a cop. Never was one. What do you need me for?”

  He gathered himself with a few more deep breaths, stood up straight, reached into a pocket, and produced two pairs of rubber gloves. “Here, put these on and help me.”

  I didn’t move. “Answer my question first.”

  “That’s what I’m doing.”

  Confused, I did as he asked. We approached Montford’s corpse together, the sheriff circling behind. “Do something about his arms for me, Gabe.”

  One side at a time, I caught his arms, applied a straight armbar, and broke them at the elbows. They dangled limply, the upper arms still flailing from the shoulders. It was hard to look at, but at least his hands were no longer a threat. Walter grabbed the legs and spun the body around. I understood immediately why they had sent for me.

  On the dead farmer’s back, carved deeply into the flesh, were four words:

  GARRETT

  DRAGONFLY

  TWO GRAVES

  I kept my expression neutral, allowing none of my reaction to show on my face. A cold feeling started in my stomach and spread outward into my arms, creeping up my chest. My pulse quickened, heart struggling under an onslaught of adrenalin, a classic fight-or-flight response. I did not move. I breathed slowly and evenly, willing my legs not to shake. My hands became tight fists in the pockets of my jacket.

  I could not let them see. I could not give myself away, not here, not now. Concentrate on your face, I thought. Control yourself. You know what to do. Slowly, gradually, I knitted the eyebrows, pursed the lips, turned down the corners of my mouth. My pulse began to slow, leaving me feeling weak. But it allowed the tension in my shoulders to drain.

  “Any idea what this means?” Walter asked.

  I shook my head. My voice came out much steadier than I felt. “None whatsoever.”

  “You sure about that? Last I checked, your last name is Garrett. Looks to me like somebody’s trying to send you a message.”

  I shrugged, hands concealed, still shaking my head. “I’m sorry, Walt. I don’t know what this means.”

  “Is there anyone you can think of might have a grudge against you? Maybe someone from the Legion? A few of them escaped the fighting last year. Maybe they found out who you are and want revenge.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes, Walt.”

  His eyes hardened. He stepped around Montford and squared off with me, voice growing in volume. “That’s your name on his back,” he said, pointing. “And a bunch of other nonsense that might not be nonsense. This man was murdered, Gabriel. He was tortured to death. He died scared and hurting, and whoever killed him desecrated his body. When I’m done here, I have to go tell his family what happened to him, and then I have to find out who’s responsible. If you know anything, anything about who did this or why, you damn well better tell me right now.”

  I kept my voice calm and level. “Walt, I want you to listen to me, okay? I. Don’t. Know. If I did, I would tell you. Did it occur to you that everyone in Hollow Rock knows who I am? Instead of looking at me, you should be looking at Montford. Find out if he had any enemies, anybody who owed him, or if he had any unpaid debts. Maybe whoever did this is trying to throw you off their trail. I think it’s a little early in your investigation to be jumping to conclusions. Don’t you?”

  He stared hard, unconvinced. “You better not be lying to me, Gabe. Because if I find out you are, or if anyone else shows up dead with your name carved into their back, you and I are going to have a very long talk. And I will get the truth.”

  I stared back for a moment, then turned and walked away, shaking my head. The very picture of wounded indignation. “Deputy Reid, you mind giving the Mayor and me a ride back to town?”

  He wiped his mouth and spit into the snow. “Be right there.”

  I stepped behind Elizabeth and wrapped my arms around her. She went rigid and gently pushed me away. “Not now, Gabe. Please.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s not you, I just…”

  “I understand. Come on, let’s go home.”

  As Elizabeth climbed into the car, I cast a glance back over my shoulder at the sheriff. Sarah stood poised with her pocketknife in one hand, ready to cut the rope binding Montford’s feet. Before she did, Walter drew his .357 and took aim. I saw his eyes close and his lips move in a brief prayer.

  Forgive me, Lord, for what I’m about to do. I ask you to bless this poor man, and his family, and comfort them in their time of need. I ask you to forgive Sean Montford’s soul for all his sins, and grant him peace and rest for all eternity. I ask you to help me find whoever did this, and bring them to justice, for the sake of all mercy and goodness left in this world. I ask you to lend me your strength that I might persevere, Lord, and I ask for your guidance on the path before me. Amen.

  And then he pulled the trigger.

  THIRTEEN

  One the drive back to town, Elizabeth laid her head on my shoulder and clutched my hand.

  I focused on staying calm, keeping my breathing steady, not letting my muscles tense. Waves of anger, guilt, sadness, and regret washed through me, burning me up inside. My teeth wanted to grind. My fists wanted to clench. A scream wanted to rip itself from my chest. And that old beast, that battle-urge, that red-stained, howling monstrosity, begged for release.

  I wanted to let it go. To give in. But I couldn’t. Not while Elizabeth was with me.

  It wasn’t easy, but I stayed relaxed. A warmth spread on my shoulder, soaked through my jacket, my shirt, into my skin. I closed my eyes and bent all my will to feeling that warmth, those tears of despair, of anguish. I put my arm around Elizabeth and drew her close, holding her tight. She sobbed gently, quietly, curled fists clutching me, clinging like a woman lost at sea, tossed in a storm. I held her, and stroked her hair, and did everything I could to fight the panic mounting within me.

  As we passed through the gate, I had a sudden urge to confess. To tell her who had killed Sean Montford, and why. But the time for confessions had passed. Soon would be the time for action. Soon would be the time for retribution, and consequences.

  The sheriff was right. Someone was sending me a message. They wanted to draw me out, flush me out of hiding. And they had chosen the perfect means to do so. I stared out the window at the passing countryside, feeling dread grow stronger by the second. The truth was obvious.

  I had no choice.

  I knew who hunted me, and he would not be denied.

  *****

  Eight years ago,

  New York City

  My control arranged the meeting in the bar at the Mercer Hotel.

  He was fond of those kinds of clichés. Sometimes I wondered if they were his sole rea
son for joining the CIA, to live out some boyhood fantasy of being a character in a spy novel. It would not have surprised me in the least.

  I took a seat next to him and ordered a drink. A ridiculously expensive drink poured by a stingy, condescending bartender. It never ceased to amaze me how much good money people spent on bad service. Not that I planned to pay for it out of pocket, mind you. Tolliver could put it on his government credit card.

  “Nice work you did in Munich,” Tolliver said, not bothering to look at me. “Eight sanctions, was it?”

  “Nine. Our guy was dirty, just as you suspected. He’s not a problem anymore.”

  “You’re nothing if not reliable, my friend. Even if you are a jarhead.”

  “Spoken like a true squid, Lieutenant Commander. Now tell me, is there any special reason you made me come all the way to Manhattan? You know I hate this place. I’m assuming you have an office in DC. We couldn’t just meet somewhere in Georgetown?”

  “I have another job for you.”

  I put my drink down and looked at him. “That was quick.”

  “It’s a dangerous world we live in, Mr. Garrett. Teeming with enemies foreign and domestic. Are you up to the challenge?”

  “I’m here aren’t I?”

  “That’s what I like about you. You have an excellent work ethic. Come on, let’s retire to my office.”

  His office was a loft studio two floors up overlooking Prince Street, replete with the Mercer’s famous high ceilings, spacious interior, and understated Christian Liaigre design, starting at a mere $975.00 a night. America’s hard earned tax dollars at work.

  I crossed the room to the large windows looking beyond the building’s Romanesque façade to the bustling, brightly lit summer night beyond. On the street below, hordes of cabs jostled for supremacy among the waifish, high-heeled, Valentino and Louis Vuitton clutching socialites waving them down. Then there were the hipsters, the SoHo crowd, the not-so-fashionably-dressed artsy types with their insolent faces, and wise-to-the-world eyes, and their tremendous efforts to look as if they didn’t give a damn about anything or anyone. A stark contrast to the carnivorous packs of Wall Street executives with their five-thousand dollar suits, impeccable grooming, and Ivy League class rings, out for a piece of moderately tipsy, elegantly fashioned tail. And surrounding these disparate factions, so much a part of the landscape they were barely noticed, were the homeless, the destitute, the people who lived in alleys and doorways and hidden places no one ever looked. The ones who couldn’t make it in the big city but lacked the imagination or sanity to pack it up and try again someplace else.