The Snow Swept Trilogy

by Derrick Hibbard

  “You’ve been busy,” the officer continued. “Now, I need you stand up, place your hands behind your head and follow me out of here so no one gets hurt.”

  Heather stood up and knocked over her chair, the loud bang echoing in the silent room. People jumped, and the officers flinched, their grips tightening on their weapons. She smiled wanly and raised her hands.

  “You’re not a real cop,” she said softly.

  “But you see, no one else here but you and me know that,” he replied, just as quietly. “To the rest of them, you are a dangerous terrorist and are under arrest.”

  The world seemed to move in slow motion, and she was suddenly aware of the colors and smells and sounds. The deep indigo blue of the carpet, the ivory window treatments, the gold trim on the ceiling around the light fixtures. The clothes people wore, the mugs of steaming drinks in the cafe, the smells of cinnamon and coffee, colognes and perfumes. She heard people breathing deeply, their eyes trained on Heather. The soft commands of police officers moving people back, moving them back away from Heather to keep them safe.

  Reality was so vibrant and real, and she knew these last few brushes with the world would be her last. They had caught her, fair and square, and humpty dumpty fell off the wall and broke into a million little pieces.

  How had they caught her? How had they found her? And the same soldiers who'd been at her apartment? The answers to those questions didn't matter. She had to get away. Like before, in her apartment, she would escape. Heather scanned the room for exits, noticing a hallway at the end of the bar with a glowing EXIT sign above the door, the letters scrawled with neon light bulbs. At the moment, there weren't any cops by that door, and the people who'd been in the bar were moving closer to the cafe for a closer look.

  If she could get to the bar, maybe cause some sort of distraction with the people and move the attention from her to something else, she might be able to make a run for it. Heather would have to leave the computer, and the information she'd found, but that was okay. She knew what she was looking for now and could breach the network again. She just needed a distraction, and then she would run.

  "Don't even think about it," the Sergeant said, baring his teeth in a nasty grin. He must have seen her looking toward the door. He signaled to one of the soldiers who'd also been in her apartment. The soldier left her post and ran to the door, standing directly below the neon lights, which bled color onto her helmet and fatigues.

  Heather suddenly felt the hope flow out of her, like water bursting from a dam. She was caught and would soon join the Duke and Paul in their final destinations. They had searched for truth, not for their own benefit, but for the benefit of the world, for people they had never met. For truth's own sake, they had sacrificed their lives, and now, so would Heather. She had tried, but in the same way the Duke of Darkness and the fearless reporter had failed, she would fail. The secrets she'd learned would never be told. They would be buried, and by the time any of it mattered, no one would care. The world would be thrust into chaos, and these little secrets that could have prevented the chaos, that could have saved an untold number of lives, would be forgotten and disregarded.

  At 8 PM MST, the world would change. And she had been so close.

  Maybe Ryan would stop them, maybe he would save Mae and avoid the attack. It was a hopeful thought, but she knew it was empty. They would just come back at them with more firepower, and Mae would fall back into their hands. The perfect weapon.

  "Hands behind your head," the officer commanded, his voice grating. "Do it now."

  Heather slowly began to move her hands behind her head but then froze.

  "I will kill you dead right now. Hands behind your head."

  "No you won't," Heather said, and smiled at all the people. The onlookers, the rubberneckers for violence. She dropped her hands and took a step back. A wave of gasps went through the crowd, and the soldier hesitated.

  "You don't want a scene here, not here and now, not in front of all these people," Heather said.

  "GET ON THE GROUND!"

  Heather shook her head, slowly at first and then with more conviction.

  "You're not even a cop," she said, her voice very soft. The Sergeant tightened his grip on his gun and lunged forward.

  "I will shoot! Get on the ground!"

  "You're not even a real cop!" Heather shouted back and then looked about the room as people watched the unfolding scene with growing confusion.

  "My name is Heather Gardner," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I am not whatever they say I am. This man is not a police officer. He is not with any sort of law enforcement at all. If there are any real cops here, any real police officers, ask yourself how this man came to be in your ranks. He was at my apartment this morning, trying to kill me. He is not a cop—"

  "SHUT UP!" the man shouted, spittle flying. "Shut up and get on the ground. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!"

  She could see the anger flashing in his eyes, the red rage coming to his face. People were listening to her, and it was the only way. She was pushing this man, challenging him, and she would lose. But this was the only way. She understood the Duke in that moment, and that understanding gave power to her voice.

  "He is part of secret organization. Il Contionum! Find them, stop them. They are very bad people, evil. They are planning an attack tomorrow—"

  The gunshot roared in the hotel lobby and exquisite pain exploded in her leg. People gasped and screamed but looked on. Blood splattered the floor and ran down her leg in streams, filling her shoe. Heather stumbled backwards and almost fell, but kept her footing. She stood taller.

  "That was your first warning," the Sergeant said through gritted teeth, but she saw his eyes shifting to the right and left, and she heard the slightest bit of uncertainty in his voice. He did not want a scene, in fact could not deal with the consequences of where Heather was leading him. She saw this flicker, and through the seemingly eternal pain, she smiled at him and then faced the crowd.

  "Everything is on this computer," she choked. "You have to find them, and expose them. You have to find the truth.”

  She stopped talking for several seconds, catching her breath. Light and color faded all around her. Silence danced.

  The pain was immense, but she couldn’t think about that.

  She finally understood. She realized why Paul had sought to uncover the truth, even until he was killed for even trying it. When it was all said and done, people were born, people died, but the truth remained. It was the only thing that mattered.

  “You have to find MAE EDWARDS!" she shouted. “Find her, find the truth, find Mae Edwards!”

  Another gunshot blasted through the silence, ripping a ragged hole in her other leg. She screamed and was falling, but caught herself on the table. Chamomile tea spilled as her mug fell to its side, and she smelled the soothing aroma only briefly before the smells of gun smoke and her own blood overpowered it.

  With that second gunshot, people were getting restless, pushing against the officers standing at the perimeter. Heather could see that even some of the officers were listening, hesitating before pushing back against the crowd.

  "Let her speak!" a guy yelled from somewhere behind her.

  "She's not doing anything!" another yelled. "Stop shooting!"

  "If she's under arrest, arrest her!"

  "Fight for the truth," Heather said. "Please. They are the secret combinations in the shadows. Find the truth, fight for it. Paul Freemont was right. He was right, and they killed him. YOU HAVE TO FIND MAE EDW— "

  She heard the last gunshot, this time aimed at her head, and felt the thud as the bullet pierced her skull. The room rippled, bowing under some invisible force that only she could see. The lights in the room brightened in an explosion of whites and yellows, and she heard shouts and screams.

  There was no pain in the instant she died, only satisfaction. As she fell, as the world blinked out, she saw the people shouting, rushing the man who'd shot her. Faintly, as if under
a mile of black water, she heard more gunshots, more screams. The last thought to cross her mind was truth. Not the word itself, though the word was there. She saw and felt and understood truth. It was a sensation, more than a simple thought, and the life flitted from her body with that sensation wrapping around and through her.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Night again, and the hours ticking by as Ryan kept their speed at a constant pace. Although he'd flown over these middle states, he'd never had the opportunity to drive across them, and realized that he hadn't been missing much. He couldn't believe how empty the terrain was. When he was a young kid, he'd read a book where a father and son were crossing the United States after some disaster that had thrust the land into an eternal winter of snow and ash. They had travelled along the barren wastelands, avoiding hell-bent marauders and bands of cannibals. Finally, they'd reached the ocean and found that there wasn't much on the beach either besides snow, ash, and the occasional corpse.

  Ryan couldn't remember who'd written the book, but whoever it was must have crossed the middle states in winter for inspiration. This place was sparse and barren, like nothing he'd ever seen before.

  As the night waned, Ryan began checking his mirrors for signs of oncoming daylight. Morning was coming, and still there had been no sign of the convoy transporting Mae. Ryan wondered if they weren't on a wild goose chase. He tried to remember exactly what Heather had said about the convoy heading west on I-80. Ryan knew her information wasn't solid, but still, he was sure she wouldn't send them on such a trip, and at great expense, without a better than average idea that this was the way to rescue Mae.

  Then there was Heather. Ryan had tried to reach Heather several times, but each call went directly to her voicemail. He was beginning to get worried about her, hoping that she was just taking a break, sleeping or something. He told himself that that's all it was, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. She was careful and smart, but her kidnappers had a lot of resources at their disposal. He was worried, and hoped she'd call soon.

  As if in response to his thoughts, his phone rang. He looked up from driving and was disappointed to see it was Sam. He took the phone from the dashboard stand and answered it.

  "Hey, Sam."

  "What up, bro?" Sam said in a whisper that was somehow loud and obnoxious.

  "Why are you whispering like that?"

  "Dani's asleep."

  "Long drive, eh?"

  "Much longer than normal Lit Dragon stints," Sam agreed. "What about your passenger?"

  "Adam? Yeah, he's been asleep for a couple hours now."

  "That guy's a real treat."

  "He's okay," Ryan said.

  "He's gonna steal your girl," Sam retorted loudly, and then whispered an apology. Apparently, he'd woken Dani.

  "Well, guess we'll just have to see about that one," Ryan said, and Sam was quiet for several seconds.

  "You really like her, don't you? Her name's Mae?"

  "Yeah, and I do."

  "What happened to you, bro?" Sam asked. "Last time we drove, in Chicago, you were like the lone wolf, the maverick who wouldn't tie down. And now you got this girl, and you're risking your life to rescue her from the big baddies. I mean, it's all a little melodramatic knight-in-shining-armor crap."

  Ryan's started to laugh, but stopped abruptly.

  "What, not even going to laugh?"

  "I see something up ahead," Ryan squinted and could make out several sets of tail lights, a string of red lights above the rest, like the lights on a truck.

  "I think it's them," Ryan said. "Let's get the group online."

  He hung up the phone and opened the Lit Dragon app, enabling group communication.

  "Adam! Wake up, we've got them.”

  “I’ve got them at two miles out,” Patrick said, “if that’s them.”

  “It’s them,” Ryan shifted down and pressed the accelerator hard. The engine howled and the car shot forward. The speedometer didn’t climb, it leapt as they burst forward with speed.

  “So, I know that you’re a guy and all,” Brooke’s voice came through loud and clear, “and I fully understand the guy’s need to jump into situations half-cocked, but do we have a plan here?”

  “That’s the plan,” Ryan said. “Stay close, and we take out the vehicles guarding the truck, one at a time.”

  “So in other words, we can’t even go in half-cocked with guns to actually cock, or, in other words, we’re screwed up the wazoo,” Sam said and chuckled. His car shot forward, ahead of Ryan and Adam, and pulled into the lead.

  “If we’re going down, might as well send me in first,” Sam said. “You want to actually be alive when you get the girl, am I right? Apologies to your friend, the competition.”

  “No competition with this guy,” Adam said but was grinning as he joined in the banter.

  “Okay, um, maybe let’s stop the pissing contest. We’re coming up on them fast,” Brooke said. Her car sped past Sam’s car, and she gave herself a considerable lead before pulling ahead of the pack.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “We’ve got four vehicles, coming up fast.”

  Dr. Whaler turned from the screens depicting the satellite imagery of their surroundings to the screens that showed the feed from the cameras on the truck. In the distance, he saw the headlights coming up fast and his heart leapt into his throat and stayed there, pounding wildly.

  Where was Morales? Or Harrison for that matter. He was a medical doctor, not a commander of military forces. Yet the soldiers protecting him were turning to him for instructions. He was at a loss and began pacing back and forth, wringing his hands.

  “Is the stasis tank secure? The subject’s readings within normal ranges?”

  “Yes, sir,” a nurse said.

  “Okay.” Dr. Whaler took a deep breath and returned to the monitors. He had four military vehicles escorting the convoy, armored Range Rovers that were retrofitted with the most advanced mobile weaponry, and two squad cars. He had a total of six vehicles at his disposal, with trained soldiers and guns in each vehicle. Two of the Rovers drove in front of the truck, two behind. The squad cars were in the front, escorting the pack—with police lights when it was necessary. They were well protected, and the cars coming up on them couldn’t possibly stand a chance against their firepower. Not to mention the fact that Dr. Whaler and the convoy were coming up on their destination. In less than two hours, just shy of 120 miles, they would arrive at the resort and rendezvous with Harrison at the WE-1 summit. Two hours to hold them off.

  But who were they, and why were they coming after the convoy? The only reason for the convoy was the subject, and no one outside of Il Contionum knew about the subject. Anyone who’d posed a threat had been killed or seriously injured.

  Maybe the cars had nothing to do with the subject or the convoy, maybe it was just coincidence that they were on the road at all.

  “Sir,” the technician monitoring the screens said, “what are your orders?”

  “Do we have any intel on these cars?” Dr. Whaler asked. “Could they be random?”

  “No intel, but we’ll know soon enough if they pass without incident. They are moving quite fast, sir.”

  “Any sign of guns? Any other weapons?” Dr. Whaler could barely breathe and his heart sounded so loud in his ears he could hardly think.

  “We have no signs of hostility—they’re just moving fast. Possibly, street racers.”

  “All the way out here?” Dr. Whaler wondered. It was possible they were racers moving from one city to another, but he doubted it.

  “They’re gaining on us, sir.”

  Dr. Whaler had to make a decision. He had to protect the subject, and they’d made it this far without incident. Two more hours to go, and he would be home free.

  “Move the squad cars back to cover the rear of the truck,” he said finally. The technician relayed his orders and immediately the squad cars changed lanes and slowed enough to allow the trucks and Rovers to
pass, then sped up and pulled in behind the convoy.

  Dr. Whaler checked the satellite imagery and saw that the cars were right on them. Within thirty seconds, they would know if they meant to attack or simply to pass.

  “They’re closing, sir. 50 meters.”

  His body tensed and the room grew quiet as the four cars sped up to within a few yards of the squad cars, holding that distance for several seconds that seemed to stretch on into eternity. Then, one by one, the cars began to pass the convoy. The white car was first, nimbly changing lanes and speeding fast, followed by the others. They accelerated at an incredible speed to pass the squad cars and Rovers, and Dr. Whaler got a good look at the drivers as they drove parallel to the truck.

  “Looks like their passing us, sir.”

  “How fast are we going?” Dr. Whaler asked. He couldn’t deny the relief he felt.

  “95 miles per hour, sir.”

  “They are really flying.” Dr. Whaler watched the four cars pull ahead, and his runaway heart began to slow to a more normal pace. Not hostile after all, and there wouldn’t be anything to report to Harrison. Less than two hours now, and he would be home free, the subject safely delivered. Once the planned event took place at the Summit, he would return to his labs with the subject. Life would return to normal, and his experiments on the girl would continue uninterrupted as he further uncovered her secrets.

  It only took a few seconds for Dr. Whaler to lower his guard, a few seconds of blissful thoughts of the future, his focus switched away from the four cars who’d passed. Just street racers, his mind said, but at the same time, something in the farthest reaches of his mind posed a question. If the drivers of these cars were just regular people, traveling along an interstate, why would they so blatantly pass police cars at such high speeds?

  His mind had no time to think more on the matter.

  The final car to pass was red—a deep and dark red, the color of drying blood—and it moved slower than the other three, hanging back with the convoy. When it reached the front of the convoy, it swerved deftly into the leading Rover. It crashed into the side with a thudding crunch that Dr. Whaler heard even from inside the truck. He stared in disbelief at the explosion of sparks bursting out between the two vehicles.