The Cygnus Virus

by Terry Zakreski

  “Great, darling. Look, we should be okay here for a while, okay?”

  Tammy’s big smile turns into a frown and she walks away.

  “Dylan, I need to steal your truck and for you not to report it for at least six hours to give me a head start.”

  “Shit. You can just take it.”

  “No. I can’t do it that way. For this to work, you have to report it stolen. I don’t want you involved in any way. I just need to take your truck without you knowing about it. When you get home just call it in. I only need six hours.”

  “4284.”

  Andron stares back.

  “It’s the code to my house, bud. There won’t be anyone home because Carol’s at her aunt’s. I’ll make sure I don’t come home until late. The keys are on a corkboard in the kitchen. You need any cash?”

  “No, I should be fine. Fuck, I’m sorry to ask this of you. I wouldn’t if I wasn’t in such a jam.”

  Dylan chews on his fries looks down at his plate. He looks up.

  “You’ve gotten me out of many jams before. Don’t worry about it, bud.”

  They both eat.

  Andron clears his throat.

  “Dylan…there’s a couple of other things I guess I should tell you.”

  They both stop eating.

  “They’re going to try to to pin that murder on me and I didn’t do it. It’s one of the reasons I have to get away.”

  Dylan wipes his mouth with a napkin.

  He looks straight at Andron.

  “Do you need a gun?”

  “No, I should be okay. I guess the other thing is I’m sorry.”

  Dylan doesn’t ask him what for.

  “Whatever you have to do, bud, I’m sure you’ve got a reason.”

  Andron puts his napkin on his plate to cover the crumbs of his last meal in his ordinary life.

  Tammy comes around. Not right away when Andron waves at her, but when she gets around to it.

  Together or separate?

  “Together.”

  She returns with the bill. Andron snatches it.

  “My turn.”

  He pays the bill and leaves Tammy a twenty.

  She’s smiling again.

  Dylan grabs his coat and they walk outside. The sun is warm, but there’s a tinge of cold in the wind. Leaves are blowing along the ground.

  “So I guess I’ll see you later, bud.”

  “Yeah. And do something about that face of yours, too, maybe plastic surgery or something, I don’t know.”

  Dylan flashes his silver tooth.

  Andron turns away and heads to his car. He has a tear rolling down his cheek.

  Leaving is never easy.

  Andron gets his cell phone and some duct tape from his car and looks for the right place to leave it. The logo “Chariot Logistics” catches his eye. He looks around as he walks up to it. There’s no one around there are no windows from the truck stop that can see it.

  Andron tapes the phone under the trailer, above the rear wheels. He makes sure that it is good and secure.

  He gets in his car and drives to a strip mall, grabs his backpack and walks to a payphone.

  They used these things a lot, back in the day.

  Chapter 26:

  The Chariot

  Andron gets out of cab near Dylan’s acreage.

  Getting into his house is easy with the code. Right through the front door.

  He searches the house and finds what he’s looking for, Dylan’s passport. The photo has little resemblance to Andron, but he’s counting on a border guard not looking at it carefully.

  Dylan won’t be happy about that. It’s part of the plan.

  He finds the keys on the corkboard and heads out to Dylan’s garage.

  He walks up to the truck.

  It’s a large Chevy half-ton. It looks sturdy and well-suited for a long journey. A perfect getaway ride.

  And he walks right past it.

  Instead, he walks up to a shining 1968 Shelby Cobra GT500-KR. It’s onyx black with a white stripe on the bottom and black leather interior. Showroom condition. Car of their youth.

  428 Cobra Jet Ram Air engine. It was rated at 335 horsepower. But that was a joke. Everyone knew the number was north of 400. Plenty of twist onboard. Four-speed standard.

  Andron knows lots about the engine. He and Dylan worked on it many times. He can find the sparkplugs. Find them, take them out and gap them. He can adjust the timing, with a timing light gun and by twisting the distributer. Not with a computer like they use these days.

  KR stands for King of the Road.

  Kids these days are into Toyoko Corodos. They even like the four-door version, the Corodo Interceptor that the cops like to use. Still, everyone likes these old muscle cars. He wonders if Earth has one. He doubts anyone else could have come up with something as cool.

  He fires it up. The engine thunders to life and settles into a throaty burble. Ready to twist. Ready to unleash hell if called upon.

  He knows that Dylan is going to be pissed about this. Real pissed. He’s counting on that, too. He doesn’t want him involved.

  He’s driving down the road now, gripping the hard big brown steering wheel and shifting into third. It has comfortable slippery leather seats. The interior’s otherwise mostly hard plastic and sharp corners. There’s no airbag, ABS or stability control. There’s only a lap belt for a harness. Car safety followed a simpler strategy back then.

  Kill the other guy.

  He’s on the open road, shifting into fourth and the engine is purring.

  Off the grid now.

  King of the Road.

  One fill-up and four hours later, he’s only miles from the border. It’s getting dark. He hopes that he’s rehearsed enough and told enough lies in order to pull this off. After driving, waiting and anticipating, it is coming down to these crucial minutes. He wants to turn around because his plan seems incredibly stupid to him now. Only he can’t.

  He’s too far off the reservation.

  The line at the checkpoint is thin. Andron picked a low-volume crossing that likely had folksy border guards. After he passes the Kanada side, and is pulled over on the Amerigo side, it seems like he has gotten his wish. The portly older border guard that approaches him is adjusting his belt and looking at his Cobra.

  “Sorry to break it to you, but I’m going to have to confiscate your car.”

  “Well, darn it anyway. I guess that means I have a long walk ahead of me.”

  “Ha-ha. We’ll see what we can do. What is the purpose of your trip?”

  “Pleasure. I have the pleasure of driving down to a Show and Shine down in Lincoln.”

  “Well, you’ll win for sure with this. What year is she?

  “1968”

  “Engine?”

  “428 Cobra Jet Ram Air.”

  The guard whistles, takes a look the inside.

  “Well, she sure is a beauty. How long are you planning on visiting?”

  “Just the weekend.”

  “Passport.”

  Andron hands Dylan’s to him. The guard takes it inside. He’s taking too long. Andron is trying to recall as many details about it as he can as well as Dylan’s background, address, previous trips, and everything else he could think of Dylan-related.

  Andron hopes that the car has been enough of a distraction that the guard only glanced at the picture. Whatever sophisticated computer analysis and scanning to which a passport can be subjected, it is no substitute for the simple act of physically comparing a photograph to a face.

  The guard returns with Dylan’s passport in his hand. He hands it to Andron.

  “Enjoy your stay. Good luck at the show.”

  He’s waiving Andron through.

  Over the border.

  After seeing the border crossing disappear in his mirror, Andron pats the Cobra on its dashboard.

  Fifty miles in, he reacts like he’s driven over a rusty nail.

  There’s a state trooper ahead with the Chariot
Logistics semi-truck and trailer pulled over.

  Fuck

  He tries to calm down. He slows his car to an appropriate speed. The state trooper is walking back to his car, watching the Cobra. As he passes, the trooper looks straight at Andron, tightens his lips and his eyes all but bulge out of his head.

  Andron keeps driving. He looks in the mirror hoping that he saw the trooper’s normal lemon-face look and not the glare of a brainwashed assassin.

  He sees the trooper’s car in his rearview. And he’s closing fast. Even the Corodo Interceptor looks pissed. No lights. That tells Andron all he needs to know.

  Andron floors the Cobra. It roars to life. It still as plenty of punch at 60 miles per hour.

  The road is straight, nothing for traffic. It’s a blessing. The Cobra might have been a road warrior back in the day, but it was more of a green-light machine. There’s more play in the steering than before. The steering also feels vague and he knows it likes to plow around corners.

  The Interceptor is still closing. He knows he’s down on power, agility and driving skill. First corner and it’ll be over for him and his Cobra. And there’s one approaching.

  Fast.

  Flash thought.

  He has weight and there’s Michaels v Manitow Springs Police Service.

  In Michaels he represented a widow of a man killed in a police pursuit where they botched a PIT. Police Immobilization Technique. A dangerous and a last resort. Catch the inside rear bumper with the outside nose, induce a spin and then drive straight in T-bone style to pin the car against a wall, guardrail or something else solid.

  Andron calculates that the hotheaded trooper will go for a PIT if the opportunity presented, in order to cause maxim injury.

  He’s at the corner.

  He takes the corner high, exposing a vulnerable rear flank. The trooper bites and aims for it. But Andron brakes hard, twists the wheel and slams down on passenger rear of the Interceptor with all the Cobra’s heft.

  Lightning quick shift into third and hard on the gas.

  The Interceptor goes into a spin and flies off the road and rolls and rolls.

  The Cobra is sideways.

  Dontbrake…dontbrake

  Stayonthethrottle

  Dontovercorrect.

  As the Cobra grabs traction, it straightens and shakes its tail.

  Still King.

  Andron has the cover of night. Two headlights in the dark, same as everyone else.

  He figures that Cygnus would have him heading south toward Pecado. That’s why he plans to go east.

  He’s fighting sleep. Twenty hours straight. Where’s Hector when you need him? He could use a blast of ice water right now. He rolls down the window instead. It’s not helping. He nearly dives off the road.

  He’s been lucky with his fill-ups. All night gas stations. He tries to keep out of sight. The Cobra is less of a distraction, with front-end damage.

  Yawn.

  …Yawn.

  ……Yawn.

  Now he’s down to a quarter. The Cobra isn’t exactly an economy car. Luckily, he’s only ten miles outside Otto.

  He gets off the highway and onto grids. Gravel dust is covering up the Cobra. He makes a suburb. The brighter lights wake him up as does the twilight. He’s driving around a nice neighborhood looking for something.

  He finds it.

  It’s a cab.

  He follows it, keeping a block away. He stops when it stops. He smiles. An older couple is standing on their step with suitcases.

  An early morning flight, not likely to be any kids at home. They are checking the door and have left on a light. Perfect. He notes the house and does a U-turn.

  He drives to a nearby apartment block. He parks the Cobra in visitor parking and bids his chariot farewell. He thinks for a moment, takes out a pen and scratches Las Pecado Data Centre on a piece of paper, crumples the note and tosses it in the Cobra’s floor.

  “Can’t hurt.”

  He slings his backpack over his shoulder. It now has all his worldly possessions.

  Under the cover of pre-dawn darkness and the quietness of Saturday morning, he breaks into the home through the garage. Kicks the door open. It hardly makes a sound.

  The door to the house doesn’t set off an alarm either. Huge blessing.

  He goes in looking for keys.

  There’s a lingering smell of toast and coffee, family pictures on the wall and the echo of of a friendly couple. Andron was used to being in places like this as a welcomed guest rather than a prowler.

  He relieves himself in the overly-decorated clean bathroom. He pokes his head in the living room. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for or what he’s doing. He sits on the couch and reflexively picks up a magazine.

  The metallic clank of the front mailbox receiving the Saturday morning newspaper jars him awake.

  He doesn’t know where he is at first but awareness soon returns. He’s now dangerously ensnarled in an awakening suburb. He can’t leave now. A neighbor will see. He decides to wait it out and gamble on a house-sitter, a neighbor or family not coming by.

  He brazenly helps himself to a shower and some food. He then makes for the basement to hide and sleep until nightfall.

  No one comes. It is early evening. He’s thinking about the trooper that he likely killed. He feels sick about it.

  No going back now.

  He logs onto to his hosts’ computer. Searches for data centers near Las Pecado and then directions to each. He makes sure the pages are left open. He thinks then looks up news from home.

  Sure enough.

  Suspect in Murder Case Flees.

  Nothing in there about Dylan or a stolen car though.

  “The stupid bastard probably didn’t even report it.”

  He’s angry at Dylan. Now a trooper is likely dead and his friend is about to come under suspicion as an accessory. That wasn’t the plan.

  He’s about to look up what he can about the trooper and has another sickening thought.

  Cygnus is likely monitoring traffic to the website hosting the story and will run a DNS trace on anyone visiting from outside the country.

  He better get the fuck out of there.

  He grabs an apple and heads out to the garage with his backpack.

  He opens the door to his new chariot.

  It’s a 1995 minivan.

  He stops at an airport and swaps plates with another minivan of the same make.

  He’s on the highway now. Heading east.

  He’s the long arm of vengeance. The analog Shaman Slayer. He’s mankind’s best chance. Its last line of defense against an alien invader who intends to highjack an entire religion and use it for his twisted ends.

  He’s Andron Varga.

  A washed-up, middle-aged lawyer.

  And he’s driving a minivan.

  Chapter 27:

  The Rodeo

  “Well, Cowboy, I think it’s time you spill.”

  Dylan is in an interrogation room with Detective Chris Fehrer. He’s sitting with his arms folded and Detective Fehrer is leaning forward across a small desk, open file in front of him and sitting too close.

  “That cop in the States is in critical because of your car and witnesses put the two of you in Peppers Grill at noon. I’d say you should call a lawyer, but it seems your lawyer has skipped town and left you holding the bag.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to add.”

  “Where did he say he was going? C’mon, Dylan, work with me here so I can help you.”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “So you’re saying he wanted to borrow your car and your passport to skip town.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Well then, you tell me again, in your own words ‘cause so far what you’re saying ain’t holding together.”

  “He told me, he needed some things and I said to take what you need.”

  “He never mentioned your car?”

  “Nope.”

  “So he just stole it.�
��

  “Never said that.”

  “He said he killed Nathan?”

  “Never said that either.”

  “He said he needed to get away and you said you’d help him?

  Dylan just stares back with his arms crossed.

  “I have a witness that says you two talked the whole time you were there. Okay? So why don’t you cut out the crap right here and right now and tell me what the hell you two talked about?”

  Detective Fehrer knocks over his chair standing up.

  “I dunno, the weather, I guess.”

  “The weather. That’s what you’re going with? You talked about the weather?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay, smartass, what about the weather did you talk about for a whole fucking hour?”

  There’s a long pause before Dylan answers.

  “That it was fall.”

  Dylan is released the next day. No charges are laid. There isn’t enough to pin an accessory after the fact on him since they can’t prove that he knew Andron was involved in Nathan’s murder or that he was helping him escape.

  Had he reported the Cobra stolen, Andron would likely be in custody.

  “Looks like they’re bringing your car back.”

  Carol is looking out the front window.

  Dylan puts on his corduroy jacket, grabs his hat and goes outside.

  An orange tow truck is towing the Cobra down the road. It’s followed by a black sedan. He recognizes the tow truck. He doesn’t recognize the sedan. He wonders if it got separated from a funeral.

  Two men get out of the sedan. A taller one and a shorter one. The shorter one walks up to him while the taller one stays back. The shorter one’s white dress shirt is untucked and his sleeves are rolled up. The taller one is wearing a dark suit and sunglasses.

  “I’d sure be pissed if my friend did that to my car.”

  Hector is pointing backwards with his thumb.

  “I suppose that’s between him and me.”

  “That so…well, where are my manners? My name is Hector Sanchez and this is my associate Walter Lang.”

  Dylan nods to them both.

  Hector wipes his hand on his pant leg and walks the rest of the way, hand extended.

  Dylan obliges. Hector tries to give Dylan’s hand his signature twist, but he can no more twist it than a seized driveshaft.