Fatal Error

by F. Paul Wilson

Before he got rolling again, he checked his watch: ten after eleven. Already late and these jerks had slowed him even more. He called Gia’s cell with little hope of hearing her voice.

  Yep. No answer. No surprise. If she’d landed she’d be calling him as soon as allowed.

  He found the American Airlines number in his call history from earlier and hit that. Went all the way through the damn voice tree again only to be told that no flight information was available. He thumbed 0 until he reached a living, breathing human being who told him what he’d already guessed: The airline’s computers were down.

  “So, you don’t know if the plane landed or is still in the air or crashed?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know the gate number?”

  “I would need the system up for that, sir.”

  He noticed the batter rolling onto his belly.

  “Well then, how about calling one of your gates at the airport and asking them to check if three forty-six is in?”

  “I can’t do that, sir.”

  “Even if I say ‘Please’?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  He noticed Buford trying to rise onto his good knee.

  “Uh-uh!” Jack told him.

  The guy ignored him and kept rising.

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “You’ve got two knees. Nature deplores asymmetry. Want me to even them out?”

  Buford blasted him a look of pure hatred and lowered himself to the ground.

  “Sir?”

  “Sorry. Talking to someone else. Look, how about giving me the number and I’ll call.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Jack felt steam rising. She couldn’t help the computer snafu, but she could do something about this.

  “Hey, look—”

  The phone went dead. Had she hung up on him?

  He checked the cell’s display: no bars . . . no service. But just a moment ago he’d had a strong signal. That could only mean—

  Shit. Ripples from the botnet were seeping into the communications systems.

  He resisted an urge to fling the phone and pocketed it instead. Service would be back up sooner or later. Probably later. But this meant no contact with Gia until he reached the airport.

  If then.

  He realized with a start that her flight might have been diverted. Well, that didn’t change anything. Until he learned otherwise, he had to assume she was landing at LaGuardia, and so that was where he had to be.

  He gunned the engine and got rolling again. He followed the Triboro viaduct above onto Ward’s Island, which used to be separate but had been joined to Randall’s by landfill. He rode across a soccer field and found a path that dead-ended near a baseball diamond at the water’s edge. At no point had he seen an access ramp back onto the roadway that coursed directly above.

  Jack sat on the bike and cursed as he stared across the water at the lights of Astoria . . . the northwest corner of Queens. And along Astoria’s eastern border lay LaGuardia Airport.

  Narrow here. Not a thousand feet across. The far shore looked close enough to swim to, but not here, not even in summer. This strait, a branch of the East River known as Hell Gate, was famous for its treacherous currents and occasional whirlpools. Jack didn’t know how much of that was real and how much myth, but even if it were all myth, here and now he’d never make it across that frigid water.

  Still cursing he began to turn the bike. He was halfway around when he saw lights in the sky to the east . . . a plane . . . coming in for a landing.

  All right. The airport was still functioning. Gia could be waiting there now, wondering where he was. Trouble was, she’d have to go on wondering for a while. Because Jack was going to have to go back and find a way past that pile-up—even if he had to pick up the bike and carry it over those jammed cars.

  He glanced left and saw another bridge. He gunned in that direction and stopped under it. Above, silhouetted against the light pollution from the city, were what looked like slats.

  Then he realized what they were.

  Train tracks.

  A train trestle. Couldn’t belong to any of the mass transit lines. None of them ran this way. So it had to be a freight line. Of course. Trains ran all the way from New England into Queens across the Hell Gate trestle. If he could find a way onto those tracks, he had a route across the river.

  He just had to hope the tracks stayed empty.

  He raced back toward the on-ramp to the viaduct. As he was approaching the spot where he’d been jumped he noticed a sign that brought him to a skidding halt.

  Queens Pedestrian Ramp

  A closer look revealed a covered walkway running up to the viaduct. How had he missed that? He guessed his attackers had distracted him. More they had to answer for.

  He gunned the bike. The pedestrian ramp was about to become a motocross ramp.

  17

  Kewan sat in the borrowed car, sipping lukewarm coffee and listening to the news while he waited for word. He’d parked on a little-used stretch of asphalt off the rural county road that led to the IXP. He’d tuned in to a Cleveland station and couldn’t help grinning as he listened to news of the chaos. The city was paralyzed. Nobody could get anywhere.

  He pumped a fist at the windshield. They’d done it—they brought down the system.

  He checked his watch and a tingle ran through his chest. Less than a minute to go. He checked his cell phone. He’d been told to keep it handy in case Bridger called to tell him plans had changed, but that wasn’t going to happen. The phone’s window read No Service. Fine with Kewan. He didn’t want to hear from Bridger. Didn’t care much for the guy and got the impression the feeling was mutual. But he didn’t have to like the guy. What mattered was with no service, there’d be no message telling him to walk away. No message meant it was Go for blow!

  Timing was important. No sense in breaking up the infrastructure before the Net was down because that would actually save some routers. No, they wanted everything fried before the charges added icing to the cake.

  He started the car and pulled up to the four-lane blacktop of the county road. He paused there and sorted through his collection of seventeen garage door transmitters on the passenger seat. Each had a piece of white labeling tape on its cover, and each tape was labeled with a number. He found number 1 and opened the battery compartment. He slipped in two AA Energizers, then turned onto the empty road. Keeping an eye on his rearview mirror, he pressed the button.

  A column of flame exploded from the center of the pavement, sending the manhole cover into orbit.

  He laughed and pounded the wheel as he drove on. One down, sixteen more to go. Much as he liked to watch them blow, being there was risking getting his ass caught, the last thing he needed. He wanted to be out and about when everything fell apart, not in a jail cell.

  But these transmitters didn’t have much range, so he had no choice.

  Maybe that was for the best. No worry then about someone passing a spot when it exploded. He was an evolutionary, not a revolutionary—a Kicker, not a killer. He didn’t want innocent blood on his hands. Guilty blood, okay, but he wasn’t no goddamn Arab. Anybody who got in the way of the evolution had to go down, but a mom driving home to her kids from a late shift . . . no way.

  He kept to the speed limit as he drove toward the next spot.

  18

  “Hey, you gotta come with us,” the guy said for what seemed like the thousandth time. “Jake’ll be here any minute—lives like a mile from here—and then it’s party time.”

  Gia kept a tight grip on Vicky’s hand and stared straight ahead at the empty baggage carousel. After the nightmare plane ride, why did she have to be saddled with these two low-rent Lotharios?

  For a while up there she’d been afraid the plane would never land. The pilot had announced that computer problems were slowing landings at all the New York airports and they’d been directed into a holding pattern. As they’d flown round and round, she’d wondered how much fuel t
he tanks held in reserve. Then, finally, they’d been cleared to land.

  But upon leaving the plane, these two had attached themselves to her on the jetway. They’d obviously been drinking. Probably had a few at O’Hare before the flight and then more on board.

  Gia had been about to say something back there, but then she’d emerged into chaos. The gates and aisles of Concourse D were jammed with angry-looking people. As she moved through the crowd she gathered that the same computer problems that had delayed their landing had delayed all departures, with no hint of when they might resume.

  As she’d woven through the crowds, the two remoras stayed close behind, oblivious to their surroundings, focused solely on what they repeatedly referred to as her “fine ass.” She finally stopped and confronted them and threatened to report them. A mistake. They’d only laughed and escalated the trash talk, becoming bolder and bolder as they moved from the concourse to the equally chaotic Central Terminal.

  “Why are they following us, Mommy?” Vicky said.

  “Just hang on. We’ll be out of here soon.”

  “I don’t like them.”

  She’d tried to lose them in the terminal, but they’d stayed close. They seemed to be traveling light and she’d prayed they wouldn’t stick with her all the way to baggage.

  They did.

  Along the way she’d learned that the taller one was named Gabe and the shorter was Angelo. Gabe had bleached his hair a stark white but had left his eyebrows black. Angelo simply tied his long, dirty locks into a greasy ponytail. Both had Kicker Man tattoos on their hands.

  Gabe was the mouthier of the pair. He leaned close now—close enough to share the whiskey on his breath as he spoke over her shoulder.

  “You’re one fine MILF, y’know that?”

  Gia said nothing.

  “You know what MILF means, don’t you.”

  She did, but she ignored him. Too late she realized that was a mistake.

  “It means you’re a Mom I’d Like to Fuck.”

  Fury ignited within Gia. She spun to face him and shoved him away.

  “If you’ve no respect for me, at least have some for this little girl!”

  He looked at Vicky and grinned. “Hey, a couple more years on her and she’ll be a TILF—a Tween I’d Like to Fuck.”

  This cracked up Angelo and the two of them bumped fists. Gia’s hand started into motion to give his face a bump of her own, but she pulled it back. No telling what that would spark in these two.

  “That does it. I’m getting a cop.”

  He laughed and made a dramatic show of looking around. “Yeah? Where?”

  She made her own search. Her heart sank. Not a uniform of any kind in sight. No TSA. Nothing.

  Two liquored-up creeps and her with a child. Jack had pushed her for years to carry a pistol but the very idea terrified her. To pacify him, she had agreed to a little spray can of Mace. She’d never had to use it, but she was ready now. Too bad it was on her dresser at home—no way to check it through onto the plane in her carry-on.

  Where was Jack? She couldn’t raise him on her cell phone—couldn’t call anyone, in fact, including 911.

  Then she felt a pair of hands grab her hips as Gabe began thrusting his pelvis against her buttocks.

  Angelo laughed. “Ride her, cowboy!”

  Gia tried to twist away but Gabe held her fast. Other people around her turned to look but no one moved to help. Maybe they thought they were a couple just fooling around, or maybe they simply didn’t want to get involved.

  Vicky’s terrified expression fueled a burst of strength that allowed her to pull free. She whirled, fingers bent into claws. She remembered Jack telling her that if she was ever in a situation like this to go for the eyes. No matter how big or mean an attacker, they’d drop whatever they were doing to defend their eyes. A gouged cornea monopolized anyone’s attention. She’d never thought she could do something like that, but this creep had crossed the line.

  She lashed out and raked her nails across his face. He ducked back but not before she made contact, scraping his forehead and the bridge of his nose, but missing his eyes.

  She grabbed Vicky and began to hurry her away when a hand clamped on the back of her neck.

  “You fucking little—ungh!”

  The hand suddenly released her. She looked over her shoulder and saw Gabe down on one knee, his face a mask of pain as a man twisted his ear. The man wore a Nets sweatshirt with the hood up. His face was partially hidden but her heart leaped as she recognized what she saw of it.

  “Jack!” Vicky cried.

  Jack didn’t react to her. He had his eyes fixed on Angelo.

  “Not another inch unless you want a present,” he told him.

  Gia knew that tone. She’d heard it only a few times and each of those had ended in terrible mayhem. It was the voice of the other Jack, the one he kept hidden. The Hyde Jack. She knew she’d hesitate to strike at someone’s eyes, even someone like Gabe. And that hesitation had given Gabe a chance to duck away. Hesitation was alien to Jack, especially the Hyde Jack. She didn’t understand his thought processes in that sort of situation, or even if thought was involved. Jack acted.

  She used to be afraid of the Hyde, worrying that he’d take over and not let go. But over the years she’d come to see that he was but a small part of Jack, and if she loved Jack, she’d have to love the Hyde Jack as well. Hyde was part of the package. And strangely enough, with time she realized that the seeming danger Hyde represented attracted her to Jack all the more.

  Angelo looked baffled as he tried to make sense of Jack’s comment. Gia was baffled as well.

  “Present? What the f—?”

  “Your buddy’s ear.” Jack gave it a vicious twist, eliciting a howl from Gabe as he touched his other knee to the floor and further lowered his head. “Another inch closer and I’ll make you a present of it.”

  Angelo backed off a step.

  Everybody around the carousel was watching now. But, as before, no one moved to interfere.

  Jack turned his attention to Gabe. His voice shook as he spoke.

  “What . . . what did you think you were just doing? What made you think you could do that to her? What-what-what-what-WHAT!” The last word was a barely decipherable roar.

  Against all reason, Gia suddenly feared what might happen to the creep. Not for the creep’s sake. For Jack’s. He looked ready to lose it. And if he did he could end up in terrible trouble.

  “Jack? Don’t.”

  He didn’t look up.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Whatever it is you feel like doing to him, please don’t.”

  “You can’t imagine what I feel like doing to him.”

  “I won’t even try.”

  She was about to say, For your sake, don’t, but realized he might be in a place where that wouldn’t matter. She did know something that wouldn’t fail to reach him.

  “Vicky’s watching.”

  He glanced over at Vicky and her worried expression. He paused, then lowered his head toward Gabe’s ear and said something. Gia couldn’t make out the words, but she was pretty sure they weren’t sweet nothings.

  Finally he released Gabe and stepped back. The creep jumped up and covered his ear with a hand.

  “You all right, Gabe?” Angelo said.

  Instead of answering, Gabe pointed a finger at Jack.

  “You’re fucking dead! Angelo here is my witness, motherfucker. You are so fucking—!”

  The word ended in a cry of pain and Gia realized that somehow Jack had gotten hold of his finger and bent it back at an impossible angle—impossible without breaking or dislocating it.

  Again . . . without the slightest hint of hesitation.

  Cradling his damaged hand in his good one, Gabe bent and hobbled away.

  “You’re dead!” he screamed. “DEAD!”

  Jack watched them go, then turned and walked toward her—with a limp. What had happened? But as he approached, he smiled and Gia s
aw Hyde fade away.

  19

  “I want to go home,” Vicky whined from her mother’s lap.

  So did Jack. And he knew Gia did too. But even if he could fit them on the back of the bike—and he couldn’t—passage to the city was impossible unless he went back the way he came in. And that was out of the question. Riding the Triboro walkway into Astoria hadn’t been bad, but he’d had to leave the highway and travel local streets to get here. Twice along the way guys tried to jump him, but he managed to scoot out of trouble by inches. He’d almost lost control of the bike once, coming that close to going over. And that had been solo. Taking the same route back with one passenger, let alone two, was out of the question.

  Gia closed her phone with a frustrated snap.

  “Still dead. How long is this going to last?”

  Jack shrugged. “Could be a long time.” He took her hand. “Sorry about this.”

  “This is hardly your fault.”

  “Your being here is. If I’d kept my mouth shut, you wouldn’t have changed your flight. Right now you’d be in Iowa, sound asleep in your folks’ place.”

  She squeezed his hand. “You hardly twisted my arm. I wanted to get home.” She stared at his hood. “Are you going to keep that up all night?”

  “Yeah. This is an airport. Cameras everywhere.”

  “But you’re just sitting.”

  “I wasn’t just sitting when I had my little run-in with your admirers.”

  “I’m sorry you had to wind up in the baggage area. I had it all planned to meet you out front so you wouldn’t have to—”

  “It’s okay.”

  Whatever pain he might have felt revisiting the site of his father’s murder had vanished in a blast of rage when he spotted that animal dry-humping Gia. It had taken every nanoparticle of restraint he possessed to keep from tearing off his ear and shoving it down his throat. He could feel the memory of it pulling his lips back from his teeth . . .

  Shaking it off, he scanned the mobbed Central Terminal and sensed impending disaster. The place was a pressure cooker building toward an explosion. People with canceled flights could not go back home because the Grand Central Parkway outside and all the roads around it were at a standstill. Taxis and buses and limos filled the ramps to and from the terminals with nowhere to go.