by Greg Dragon
No one could have survived that surgery, either.
Except Jamie had, hadn’t she? She’d died. Her heart had ceased. She’d stopped breathing. She had died.
And yet she’d come back.
How?
She’d woken up, that’s all. Not dead but only very nearly so. After the machine had gone off, when the power went out, that’s what had brought her out of it. The power had gone and shut off that machine in the lab, allowing her to—
But who shut the power off?
Jamie must have been the one to pull the broom out of the door. It was her in the room with Angel.
She had attacked and killed Aston and come to let her out.
When did the power go out? Who shut it off?
Norstrom?
And who had killed the helicopter pilot? It couldn’t have been either of them.
Could it have?
Angel wanted to open her eyes to erase the image, but she found that they were already open, open and staring into the endless blue. And she was alarmed by how much darker the sky had become all of a sudden. The sun was nearly gone, just a golden white fringe burning against the ridgeline, a shrinking crown of brilliant light.
She stumbled once more to her feet and tried to walk. But her legs were numb, and she fell to her knees.
Who killed the pilot?
The man had been hanging from his harness, half out of his seat, the door of the chopper swinging in the breeze, banging against his head and dangling arms. Banging. His eyes had been gouged out. Who could have surprised him like that?
Surely not Jamie. Surely not Norstrom.
Who turned off the power?
She fell, skinning her elbows and palms, and was surprised to find that she’d gotten up and was walking again. Behind her, the valley was in shadow. No factory. No smoke. No sun. The day was gone. Everything was gone.
She kept walking.
She fell.
She got back up.
And she kept walking.
* * *
”Three days,” Alvin Cheong said. He shook his head, giving her a worried look. “That’s how long you were out there on the steppe before you were found . . . .” He shrugged. “I’m very sorry about everything.”
He stood up from the chair and began to pace by the side of the bed. “You sure you don’t remember anything?”
Angel watched him for a moment. Her whole body ached terribly. She tried to flex her fingers, but even that sent a river of nausea through her.
He was clearly frustrated that she couldn’t tell him anything. Or maybe frustrated believing that she wouldn’t. He seemed to doubt her claims that the past several days were all a blank. The last thing she remembered was chasing a man to the garage of a hotel in Shanghai after he’d run out of DeBryan’s hotel room. She’d acted shocked when Cheong told her she was in a hospital in Beijing and had protested when he told her she’d been found by a Mongolian family tens of kilometers from any road.
“When can I go home?” she asked. Her throat was terribly sore and dry. Her voice came out as a whisper.
“I’m working with the consulate to get you a replacement passport,” he said, sighing. “But you’re still too weak to travel. Dehydration, malnutrition, hypothermia.” He ticked off the conditions on his fingers. “And traumatic amnesia.”
He sat down again for the fifth or sixth time. “PTSD,” he said. “That’s what the American doctor on staff here is saying. Judging by the injuries you sustained, he believes you were kidnapped, and that’s what we’re letting him believe. It happens sometimes. No, no. No sign of any . . . of sexual assault. It’s a convenient cover story. Keeps the police from asking any more questions about why you’re really here.”
“Why am I here?”
He had no answer for her. Instead, he buried his face in his gloved hands and held it there for several seconds. “I’m so sorry,” he kept saying. “For whatever happened. I shouldn’t have assumed you would— I should have known better. No, I think I did know, just not how bad it would be.”
“And DeBryan? Where is he?”
He gave her a queer look, then abruptly rose once more from the chair. “I should let you rest. You need your rest. I’ll come back tomorrow.” He stared at the IV bag on the stand at the head of her bed and refused to look at her. “Get some sleep. Maybe I’ll have the nurse sneak in an extra special treat for your dinner.” He smiled awkwardly. “I hope you’ll be able to eat.”
He turned and stepped quickly toward the door of her private room.
“Cheong.”
He stopped, but didn’t turn. “Get some rest, Missus de l’Enfantine. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
“How’s DeBryan really?”
Finally, he turned. “He’s . . . fine. Don’t worry about him.” He gave her an awkward smile. “He’s off doing whatever. You know, his photography stuff.”
“Tell him I said hello.”
“Sure.”
“Tell him it sounds like he missed all the fun.”
Cheong’s half-smile faltered. He nodded once, then left.
Angel rolled over onto her side, wincing from the pain. She extended a hand from beneath the blanket and found the plastic bag with her clothes in it in the space beneath the bedside table. And from deep within the bundle, she found what she was looking for.
She shut her eyes. Cheong was lying, about everything. She was sure of it, and she intended to figure out why. She would not rest until she knew the truth about the factory and the experiments they had done there. She would expose them all, even if it meant putting her life in danger again.
And with that, she fell asleep holding the three worn stones the old man — the same old man who’d guided her to the crash site — had given her when he found her half frozen on the steppe.
Chapter Fifty Four
. . . represent a great moral and practical threat to humanity. Their callous disregard for the sanctity of life and natural biological processes, as well as their complete contempt for both local and international laws, possibly even with the full blessing of regional powerbrokers, strongly argues that these people will continue to operate with impunity in whatever dark corner of the globe they are welcomed.
And they will be welcomed, for there will always be people willing to provide them succor, often for a price, but sometimes for little more than a promise. And sometimes for nothing at all but the terror they know will follow in their path.
They must all be stopped.
As to proof of these claims, I have none that I can offer, other than my own eyewitness testimony. There is, of course, the hazmat suit which remains where I buried it, though I now realize it is proof of absolutely nothing. My video and photographs are gone; they were destroyed when my phone burnt in the factory. And anyone visiting the crash site now will see nothing more than a scorched place in the earth where a wildfire might have raged.
The rubble of the lost village, as well, will provide no affidavit of its inhabitants, other than to simply state that a settlement had once existed there. Where they went remains a mystery, and yet they did go somewhere. I have to believe that. But these are nomadic people, and even if birth records existed for them, the Chinese government would likely deny their existence as well.
As for the factory, well, I am told it was never such a thing. The building had been used for storage for the army in the last century. Wenbai Munitions. No company by the name of Goh Li Xhia ever existed. And the place was gutted by fire years before.
So what does that leave me? Three small stones which I could have picked up anywhere and a memory of an old man who may have been nothing but a ghost or the product of my own imagination.
Someday, when this is all done, when I am able to safely say it is ended, then I will return to that place and honor the dead. For the two hundred souls whose lives were worth nothing to these criminals, nothing but a series of numbers in a spreadsheet with dollar signs pasted next to each one of them. For Jian, whose sacrifice I
hope someday to repay. And for the four hundred more, whose stories will finally be told— not by me, nor even in my words, but by their own voices. I will cast my stones upon a thousand ovoos and pray that all their souls may at last be at rest, beginning with Jamie Peters’.
But for now, I will find the people who did this to her. To them all. I will find them and I will stop them.
The future of the world depends upon it.
Angel clicked SAVE, then the SEND button without bothering to review her writing. Finally, she closed the lid on her laptop. She was glad to have finished the article, though she knew it really wasn’t as complete as it could be. She hadn’t mentioned Jamie’s dark man. She wasn’t even sure she believed it herself. It was one of those larger inconsistencies that felt like a part of a completely different story, a distraction. She figured whatever the truth about him was, it had died with the girl in the inferno.
Him, as well as all the terrible, inexplicable things Angel had seen and done in the darkness of that building as she made her escape. She could not include those nightmares, and not simply because no one would believe her. What had happened, she’d been partially responsible for it. She’d let her curiosity, her desperation, get the better of her. She’d fallen prey to the very same blasphemy she’d accused her captors of engaging in. She had dabbled in something she had no right to. She had allowed herself to wonder if maybe it might be possible to supplant the body’s natural healing mechanisms with something wholly artificial.
And it had been possible. It had.
That’s what scared her most of all.
With Aston’s horrible vision of immortality whispering at her, she slipped the laptop into her bag and stood up off the park bench. The Corniche passed before her, the Old Port at one end and the Bay of Marseilles at the other.
She had come here looking for the chateau and beach where her family had stayed all those years ago, but her memory had proven faulty, and in the end she’d been unable to decide which of the half dozen homes had been the one they’d rented. Now, as one of the many ferries passed across the clear blue water to the islands of the Frioul archipelago, taking its tourists to Château d’If, she realized that it was the same fortress that she had dreamed about that night in the yurt. The sand castle her brother Jacques had built around himself had taken its form.
She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and began the long walk back to her hotel. Bicyclists and skaters zipped past her. She watched them with a sense of disquiet and urgency. They were so oblivious. Not one of them knew a thing.
Her phone rang as she skipped across the path during a break in the traffic. She drew it out of her pocket to check the number. It was unlisted.
“Allô?”
You know you can never publish it.
The ground suddenly came loose beneath her feet. The bag fell from her shoulder to catch in the bend of her wrist. It knocked against her knee. “Quoi?”
They’ll come after you if they know you got away.
“Norstrom?”
The line was silent.
“It is you. But . . . how?”
I need you to do me a favor. Delete the article from your computer.
“But I already sent it to the New York Times.”
They didn’t get it. I intercepted it.
“You’re monitoring me, my computer?” She felt her scalp prickle. “You know I can’t hide this. It’s too big.”
You remember you promised that it was all off the record, at least for now. We’re too close to breaking this open, and your going public with it would only drive them underground again.
“Who’s we? The CIA?”
I already told you I’m not a spy. Now, listen, you asked about a group called 6X. I’ve been checking up on them. They’re the group that hired you, aren’t they?
She hesitated, then said yes.
Have they made contact with you since you returned?
Angel shook her head. “No. I told them I can’t remember anything. I said I was done with them.”
Do you have a way to contact them?
“Yes.”
Good. Do so. Tell them you want back in. Say you think it’ll help you remember, but don’t tell them anything. That should get them to bite.
She turned slowly around, suddenly positive that he was somewhere nearby, watching her.
“And if I don’t delete the article?”
She heard him sigh. I can do it right now.
“No! Wait. I— I will. Okay.”
I have a feeling they’re waiting for you to call. Whatever they ask you to do, say yes.
Angel shut her eyes. “I’m not— I don’t think I’m ready yet.”
It’s been almost two months. I just read what you wrote. You are ready. And I’ll be here, keeping an eye on you.
“I don’t even know who you are.”
It’s best that way.
Angel stopped and leaned against the railing. The bay waters were achingly blue, even more so than the sky, a stark, deep blue against the blazing white of the chateaus and the yellow of the sand. “Did you kill Aston? The pilot? Did you help me get out?”
No.
“How did you get out?”
He didn’t reply.
“Norstrom?”
Yes, I’m here.
“How did you get out?”
I . . . . To be honest, I don’t remember.
“You don’t remember, or won’t?”
He didn’t answer.
“Norstrom?”
But he had already disconnected.
END OF BOOK ONE: CHINA
BOOK 2: ICELAND AVAILABLE 2016
Subscribe for advance notice
Book 1: China 10/2015
Book 2: Iceland 04/2016
Book 3: Africa 10/2016
Book 4: TBA 04/2017
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Saul Tanpepper is a writer of speculative fiction for teens and adults. A former molecular geneticist originally from Upstate New York, he now calls Northern California home.
If you enjoyed the first book of THE FLENSE serial, then you’ll want to check out the companion series, BUNKER 12, which follows the apocalyptic events detailed in THE FLENSE. You may also enjoy his popular thriller sries, GAMELAND, an epic cyberpunk adventure through a post-apocalyptic world in which zombies are used as avatars in a twisted live action game for the amusement of the rich and privileged. You can find out more about all of Saul’s titles at his:
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ZOMBIE MANEUVERS
By
Griffin Carmichael
Chapter One
The morning the world came to a stumbling, moaning end, Janet Corwin called in sick to work. Her excuse this time was a suspected bladder infection. The truth was, she was pissing blood, and had been all night. She could barely stand up straight, her wrist was bruised and swollen, and her head felt like a Mack truck had driven through it. Twice.
In other words, a typical Monday.
Janet zoned out before the small kitchen window, sipping slowly at a cup of very hot coffee, letting the warmth seep through her body. The sun peeking over the city made her wince, and the sound of the television was pounding in her aching head.
She was about to turn the blasted thing off—she could barely stand to have it on, but Connor couldn’t get through the day without the background noise. But he was gone, at work an hour already, and while he was gone she could shut off the idiot box. It wouldn’t be in her best interest if she forgot to turn it back on, but that was a risk she was willing to take for a little peace and quiet.
The late-breaking news icon that popped up over the local morning news anchor’s face made her pause. At the bottom of the screen, text began scrolling slowly from right to left. Janet slowly lowered the remote and read the breaking news text.
Her mind didn’t want to process what her eyes were seeing. The scrolling bar was saying something that absolutely could not be real. And it wasn’t the first day of April, which ruled out Janet’s first thought, that it was some elaborate hoax.
Janet stood numb for a minute while the meaning of the headline began to sink in.
Reports of violent attacks stun officials.
It wasn’t the words (flesh-eating mobs) so much as the images that began flashing across the screen that made her finally realize this wasn’t a joke. Video from cell phones and news cameras, police dashboard cams and traffic cameras that showed the same things: ordinary people pouncing on other ordinary people, chasing other people. And ripping them to shreds.
When the footage began to replay and the talking heads began to mouth their usual useless commentary, Janet began to move. She went to the small second bedroom—once a dreamed-about future nursery and now a cluttered storeroom—and began to haul out large Rubbermaid containers. She pulled them one-by-one into the living room, roughly sorting them into categories: food, camping equipment, ammo.
The room began to fill as Janet brought in more bins, leaving very little room to walk in. She was surprised at the number of containers, actually. Connor must have added a few when she wasn’t around. Especially the ones with the weapons. There had only been four of those, and now there were ten. A small army could have been supplied from those green plastic boxes.
If what Janet suspected about the day’s events were true, an army might very well be just what they ended up needing.
* * *
Janet was halfway through checking the inventory list for the various crates when there was a loud squeal of brakes outside. She stepped gingerly around some bins to look out the side window, where she could see not only their narrow driveway, but most of the street leading into their cul-de-sac.
Connor jumped out of his truck and stalked to the tiny garage attached to the side of the Craftsman-style bungalow they rented. He yanked up the wooden door, and she could hear him cursing the fact the thing wasn’t electric. She sniffed and turned away. He was the one who had told the landlord he had no use for the garage, and didn’t want the door changed and modernized.
