The Six
Page 1
The Six
Copyright 2016 Calvin Wolf
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
About Calvin Wolf
Other books by Calvin Wolf
Connect with Calvin Wolf
Acknowledgements
I would like to dedicate this novel to my son, Aiden. He lights up my life with his intelligence, energy, and creativity. I love him very much and always will.
I would also like to thank my beautiful wife, Brittany, for all of her love and support.
As always, much thanks to Mom and Dad, who have always been there for me. Best wishes to my amazing brother and his wife – may little Theo grow and prosper mightily!
Chapter One
1
“At 1:27 PM eastern, the integrated Human Capital Market eclipsed the New York Stock Exchange in terms of trade volume for the first time. The recent political crisis, which has birthed a new era of democratic socialism in the United States, appears to have been underwritten by the billionaire class itself. Ever since the astounding Tupelov Airlift ushered in a new presidential administration, the nation’s largest investment firms have shifted over a trillion dollars in assets from corporate stock to human capital stock.”
He changed the channel.
“As of start of business Monday, the STITCH network has been fully restored nationwide, offering new transportation schedules to virtually all major cities. In Congress, Republicans appear willing to trade privatization of STITCH for universal healthcare, with corporate bids being accepted by the STITCH Administration even as health insurers weigh federal buyout offers.”
The screen showed a plethora of slick corporate logos, revealing which Fortune 500 companies were bidding for pieces of STITCH. Apparently, the giants of air and rail were excited about expanding into pressurized underground tube travel. As he watched, a video clip revealed that Boeing and Airbus were already tweaking their latest airplane designs to fit inside the government-built armored tubes.
“Whether consumers will pay a premium for ultimate travel security remains to be seen, but the recent spate of terrorist drone attacks on airliners during takeoffs and landings has definitely increased airlines’ interest in partnering with STITCH.”
A third channel showed sports. A fourth showed some sort of children’s show, probably the Disney network. The fifth channel had what he wanted:
“After many weeks of speculation, it has been revealed that the former president did indeed flee to Russia, where he was apparently offered asylum by its hard-line government.” The comely blonde was replaced with a video of the former president speaking from behind a wooden podium. Though the video did not zoom in closely on the man’s face, it was clear that it was the disgraced commander-in-chief. With a stern face, the controversial politician declared that he had been driven from office in an illegal coup and hoped for an international investigation to clear his name.
“All future communications with the deposed political figure are supposed to go through a Moscow-based law firm. Although we have tried repeatedly to get in touch with any relatives and close friends of the former president, nobody has been willing to comment. The news report from Russia, however, officially ends the FBI investigation into the president’s whereabouts. Since Russia is a non-extradition country, the White House has announced that it will not seek the return of its former occupant to face trial here at home.”
With a smile, he turned off the television and picked up his tablet. Swiping through the news sites, he discovered that the whole plan had gone off without a hitch: Everyone was buying the story. He looked across the room at the full-length mirror and smiled, a practiced expression of friendliness and reassurance. The former president of the United States smiled back at him. The makeup and minor cosmetic surgery had worked wonders.
Feeling ravenous, he left his bedroom and headed to the luxury apartment’s stainless steel kitchen. As he strode down the hallway, he passed the large study that had been renovated to resemble a Russian Federation political briefing room, complete with seals and flags. “Good work, comrades,” he chuckled to the empty room. Amazing what you can do with automation these days.
In the kitchen, the lights turned on automatically. Though this had been happening for days, he had no idea why it was occurring. Occasionally at first, and then more frequently, electrical appliances in his apartment had started working even before he had turned them on. They even started up before he could grab his tablet or remote control. It was as if they sensed him somehow, or as if he projected his desires to them telepathically.
He opened the fridge and grabbed some leftover pizza. Without bothering to heat up the slices, he began to eat. He was always hungry these days; his metabolism seemed to be turbocharged. Although forty-five was in the rearview mirror, he had never felt more energized. It wasn’t some tweak of testosterone, either - it was as if he was on some powerful cocktail of amphetamines and steroids. Frankly, it was starting to scare him.
The phone rang, and then answered itself. Why?
“Good job with that video. They bought it hook, line, and sinker. It was our lucky day that you happened to resemble that son-of-a-bitch.” The voice belonged to a Marine general turned spymaster, a man who was both loved and loathed around Washington. Despite an image of solid dependability, the former leatherneck had sucked up to the escaped president, now a reviled fugitive, just as much as he was sucking up to the new prez. What a pathetic waste of cells.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Is everything going okay out there? We’ve been trying to get information about the MIST labs, but nobody seems to be answering.”
He knows.
“Everything is fine, sir. It’s right before the start of a new semester, so things get a little hectic in a university town. You know how it is.”
The power went off, and he discovered that the spymaster was not in the mood for small talk.
2
Rural areas were sanctuaries to those on the run, and America’s backwoods were enjoying something of a revival as hundreds of zealots from the deposed administration fled Washington, New York City, and other locuses of power. On short notice, resignations had been tendered and families had flown to Denver, Salt Lake City, Portland, and Albuquerque with their most valuable possessions. From there, pickups and SUVs had been hastily purchased with cash. Cabins, trailer homes, and ranches had been snatched up by the dozen, often with little or no haggling.
Within a few weeks of the previous president’s departure, virtually his entire administration had taken up new residence in rural areas west of the Mississippi. Whether or not they cropped up again on the radar, having accepted jobs or attempted to engage in local politicking, depended on the likelihood of arrest. The ex-president’s Secretary of Defense had allegedly fled to the Yukon Territory. The Secretary of Education, meanwhile, had moved to Colorado Springs and was openly giving speeches about the state of America’s public schools. While the old education guru was not at risk of arrest, the move to Colorado was likely prompted by concerns that he would be forced to testify constantly if he remained in Washington.
Most of those with ties to the former president were keeping a low profile and telling their families to pretend that they were on extended vacations. They quickly sold their stocks, bonds, and HumCap shares and were prepared to live off their capital g
ains, perhaps forever. As ardent conservatives, most were quite well-to-do and had plenty of cash to fund their permanent backwoods vacays.
If the new administration came calling with FBI agents and U.S. Marshals, looking to detain and depose, many of the ex-president’s cronies were well prepared to actually flee into the woods for lengthy camping trips. Canadian currency had appreciated slightly due to increased demand, and sporting goods chains had sold out of various popular gear. The deposed elites had an affinity for name-brand apparel and would be fleeing across the northern border in style if warrants were served.
Though most of the former president’s cronies and benefactors were laying low, praying that Congressional inquiries would not lead to something worse, not all were playing meek and mild. Like the old Soviet hard-liners in the early ‘90s, some remained defiant, cunning, tapped in. After having fled Washington, they were eagerly searching for back-channels. They maintained contacts and skulked around the dark fringes of the Internet.
They knew people who knew people, and many were alarmingly well-connected to those who remained in power. Not many degrees of separation divided the reviled corporatists of old from the democratic socialists now in power...and everyone knew it. Pursuing justice would be a delicate balancing act, a fact that everyone of importance also knew. If push came to shove, names would be named and reputations tainted.
From a wilderness retreat outside of Cloudcroft, New Mexico, a former presidential adviser kept his finger on the national news pulse. A bank of computers in the basement of his remote cabin allowed him to maintain a complex array of aliases. Though he had only been in grade school when the Berlin Wall had crumbled, he would have made an excellent Cold War spy. A thin and physically unimpressive man, he had never desired a military or law enforcement career, but had instead done a brief stint in intelligence as a diplomat. Once a Foreign Service Officer, he had proven himself a natural facilitator and communicator.
The Diplomat spent his days now as a connector, linking fallen giants of the old administration to those who could help them regain what they had lost. Few knew his real identity, and an impressive bug-out bag awaited just in case anyone did crack under interrogation. Within four weeks of being in his cabin, the Diplomat had broken a laundry list of federal laws regarding classified information, conspiracy, corruption, and aiding and abetting fugitives. As for being an accomplice? The Diplomat had helped commit hundreds of other crimes.
A computer chimed and revealed that a situation had gone sideways in Laramie, Wyoming. Ever the helpful ambassador, the thin man scuttled over to that particular laptop in his rolling chair and set out to learn everything he could.
3
The MRI machine clicked, whirred, and roared. Hank Hummel was claustrophobic, and being in an enclosed space that was howling at him was downright excruciating. He tried to clear his mind, but his thoughts traveled back far in the past, to his son’s bathroom. An assassin had tied him to a toilet and was ransacking the house. The assassin burst into the bathroom to deliver the coup de grace, and Hummel slammed the toilet tank into the man’s torso.
Who was that man? Why was he trying to kill me?
The machine stopped howling and Hummel was pulled from the tube by a kindly-faced nurse. “You’re all done, Mr. Hummel,” the portly man announced, his appearance and tone reminiscent of a comedian. Nodding, Hummel sat up and accepted a robe.
“The doctor is ready to see you in the office whenever you’re done getting dressed,” the nurse announced.
“Thank you,” Hummel replied. Always good to be polite.
Robed, Hummel climbed off the MRI table and went through a door into a cozy dressing room. Were my clothes like that when I hung them up? I thought I always hung my pants in front of my shirt. Old habit. Checking to make sure the chubby nurse had not ventured into his wallet, Hummel found everything in perfect order. Quickly, he dressed.
Leaving through a more solid, oaken door, Hummel emerged into a plush hallway and went down to the MRI office.
“You’re right as rain, Mr. Hummel,” beamed his doctor. The dapper chap, practically a transplant from a TV medical drama, pointed to a bank of computer screens. “Your body is completely free and clear of any nanoparticles.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“Positive. I understand you’re worried, but this is your fourth visit and they have all been negative. No sign of anything. Didn’t the authorities put you at ease after the incident?” Hummel had explained the basics of what had happened to the doctor, despite having been badgered into a fearsome-sounding nondisclosure agreement. Since I didn’t mention the rocket launch, I doubt they’ll seek an indictment. Hell, politicians get away with a lot worse…
Hummel laughed at the doctor’s innocent query. “At first, yeah. But then I thought about it. You wave a little wand over me like some TSA guy, and I’m supposed to believe you? No thanks, Uncle Sam, but I’ll take a second opinion.” The doctor smiled and nodded. The hospital, and the doctor himself, were being paid handsomely for these second opinions. In cash.
“I’m glad you came to us. Your worries may have been justified, but let me put your mind at ease. Whatever nanoparticles were in your body have since gone away. Would you like to schedule a follow-up appointment? Say, three months?”
Pulling out his phone, Hummel checked his schedule and told the doctor when he was free. The doctor used his tablet, a sleek holographic model, to suggest a suitable date and time for the appointment. Hummel confirmed that the time would work fine. “Great, we will see you then!” the internist beamed. The men shook hands and Hummel departed, heading through the winding hallways and stairwells that would eventually take him to the Midland Memorial Hospital parking garage.
He was three right turns into his journey before he realized that the doctor had been wearing gloves when they shook hands.
4
In generations past, there would have been tall filing cabinets lining every wall of the room. With the joys of modern technology, all the misery was compacted into a sleek holographic tablet. The president ignored the device, encrypted and customized by the Ivy League nerds downstairs, and demanded an update in plain English: “How the fuck did we miss this?”
Men and women in fancy suits stuttered and stammered, trying to come up with a coherent response. Finally, a young woman stepped forward and declared that files had been deleted when the arrests of the hard-liners began. “They were hacking and deleting as fast as they could,” she said. The president clapped and announced that this was the type of response he needed. “We don’t have a lot of time, ladies and gentlemen. I need to cut through the bullshit. Now, tell me the problem and what we are currently doing about it.”
“One week ago, we discovered an alert that had been deleted by the hard-liners. It was related to the MIST project in Laramie,” the young woman continued. The president used the tablet to search M-I-S-T, bringing him face-to-face with a digital folder marked with more classification icons than he had ever seen.
“Yet another thing they didn’t tell me about,” the president snarled, annoyed. “How long has this program been going on?”
“Three years, give or take,” a man responded, his voice hoarse. “We felt that, with everything going on, it wasn’t necessary to-”
“Necessary to inform me? People thought they could handle it themselves, right? Well, it looks like that didn’t happen.” The president sighed loudly, then demanded that the briefing continue.
“The man they sent to Laramie to oversee the project, just before the president was deposed, turned out be infected with MIST. He bears a strong facial resemblance to former president, and agreed to try and fool the computer. That part worked, but the computer later analyzed the video and identified that the man had symptoms of MIST. That’s why it tried to launch those missiles - it viewed MIST as a top threat.”
“And this was eleven weeks ago?”
“Yes, sir. The computer’s alert got lost in the shuffle, and only a week ago did we realize that this guy is still out there, by now completely infused with MIST.”
Standing, the president stared deeply into the eyes of his aides and advisers. “That’s a helluva long time. Be honest, how bad is this?”
“By now, he could have infected many people he has come into close contact with,” the young woman explained, her voice strong but shaky. “He was already at that point when he made the initial video. Since then, his nano count has almost certainly tripled.”
“And this is from the scientists? Who’s in charge of this?” The president began swiping and tapping up a storm, seeking names and numbers from his tablet. Inches above the screen, three-dimensional pixels swarmed and danced.
“We, uh, have been having trouble reaching them,” someone said, and the president rolled his eyes. Of course. Same shit, different day.
“Have we picked up this guy who’s infected with the MIST, the esteemed individual my predecessor sent out there as his consigliere or whatever?”
“We tried to keep him occupied, but he eluded us when we went to grab him last night,” the young woman said. “The situation went sideways and there were casualties.”
The president swore and collapsed back in his office chair. “Civilian or our people?” He seemed a bit relieved when his aides assured him that only uniformed personnel had been affected. “How many? Dead and wounded. And I better not be finding out on CNN.”
“It’s been kept quiet. Eight dead, seven more wounded.”
“Jesus Christ! From one man?! Who was in charge of this arrest?” Someone delivered the name Drew Storm, the former Marine and current assistant CIA director, and the president immediately whipped out his cell phone. “That wannabe Patton better be in my office inside the hour,” the commander-in-chief hissed as he dialed. “All of you, get out of here and find me some solutions! I want this guy found and I want everything dealing with MIST to be put on ice until we can run a full investigation.”
5
“We haven’t had sex since it happened,” the police lieutenant said. Reclining on the couch, he exhaled heavily and wiggled his toes. Behind him, comfortably ensconced in a leather armchair, his therapist scribbled on a yellow notepad. It was Hector Rodriguez’ first time in therapy.
“What do you think the problem is?” the psychologist asked. The man came highly recommended, and there was no way that Rodriguez would go to the usual counselors used by local law enforcement. MUPD’s guy was good, but a bit too close to home.
“That stuff that was in me. They say it’s gone, but I just can’t trust them.” Rodriguez had explained the nanoparticles as best he could, but there was no paperwork he could hand over. With the whole thing classified above top secret, there was little to go on aside from the information gleaned from Google and Wikipedia. Fortunately, the good doctor had done an impressive amount of homework. Despite probably thinking that his newest client was a kook, the psychologist had downloaded and printed out reams of documents on nanotechnology.
“Why do you think they might be lying?” the doctor asked.
Rodriguez stared up at the relaxing ceiling, beige and sand soothing his mind...or trying to. Where do I begin? “It’s what I would do in their shoes. What were their options? Tell me that the stuff didn’t come out? That there was still some in there, replicating? Evolving? I might go crazy, do something unpredictable.”
“But what do they gain from telling you that you’re free of these particles, if you really still have them in your system?”
“Now they can watch me. Track me. Study me. Watch me to see what happens. If I start showing symptoms, then they pick me up and take me back to a lab.” Now I’m worried that I really am crazy.
“And how is this impacting your life now? It has been…” the therapist ruffled through his notes. “Eleven weeks since the incident, which was related to the political crisis. Since you started with the sex, let’s go back to that.”
“I’m worried that my wife will be infected or something.”
“Does she know about the nanoparticles?”
“No. I haven’t told her. She knows something is wrong, and she keeps demanding that I tell her. But I can’t tell her this - it’s too much!”
“Would you be comfortable bringing her to a session with you? I have lots of experience working with couples.”
“She might not take it well. My marriage is crumbling, Doc, and I need to calm her down and try to get things back to normal, not drop this sort of bomb on her.”
The therapist cautioned against lying to one’s spouse, a response Rodriguez had predicted. Still, hearing the words stung. Am I really being that guy? I guess I am.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” Hector Rodriguez snapped, feeling the unfairness of it all. The last several years had been rough, and trouble just seemed to find him. “It’s like there’s no way to get off the damn roller coaster.”
“Such is life,” the therapist said wryly. “Unfortunately, we cannot wish our way to another path. But, being where you are, let us discuss what we can do to improve your relationship with your wife. I feel that that is your greatest source of stress right now.”
Rodriguez concurred. “It’ll be a tough sell. How do you tell your wife that you might never be normal again?”
6
The stately mansion had once housed the dean of the College of Engineering, but its current occupant was a world-renowned scientist who had largely disappeared from the usual circles. The man’s latest employer, a shell agency within the United States executive branch, had paid handsomely to relocate him to this isolated, remote college town. Someone had decided that rural college towns were the best place for clandestine and controversial research projects, and the scientist did not disagree.
However, he certainly had some qualms about it now.
When your employer gets disbanded during a political crisis and your government-appointee boss starts acting strangely, being stuck in a small town becomes a lot less fun. Shortly after the crisis in Washington, all communication from anyone above the CIA guy had ceased. A week later, his car had begun breaking down. After several weeks of the dealership not being able to determine the cause of the various malfunctions, he had decided to buy a new vehicle.
“You’ve got some issues with your credit, sir,” the salesman had said after running his info. “Your accounts have all been flagged.”
The scientist immediately took the problem to his superior, the CIA guy, and had been informed that it must be a temporary glitch. “Things like this always happen in countries after big political shakeups. I’ll call my people at Langley and have them straighten this out.”
When he had finally decided to screw the job and take the next flight out of Denver, he had not been able to buy the ticket. Sitting at his home computer, he had felt his blood run cold. This is no glitch. This has all been intentional. My car never working, my phone never working, my Internet never working. My credit cards not working. I’m being held hostage.
On a foolish whim, he had grabbed his phone and called as high up the chain as he could, fueled by adrenalin, energy drinks, and vodka. When he finally got an undersecretary on the phone, he discovered, to his shock, that the project had been shut down weeks ago.
“We got confirmation that MIST had been shelved and you had taken a job in England. Your exit interview and debriefing were filed with our office...uh...eight days ago.”
Oh God no. Fighting to keep his voice calm, he asked where that information had come from. The undersecretary gave the name of the CIA guy, and asked if any of the information was incorrect. What do I say? That the psychopath has been lying about everything and holding me hostage, still conducting this research?
“No, everything’s fine,” he had whispered, lightheaded. The glass of vodka had slipped from his sweating han
ds and shattered on the tile. Silently, he had staggered upstairs to pack.
Now, bags in hand, he picked up his phone and began to call his colleagues. Most had been absent from the lab recently, but there was a touch of something going around. He didn’t know what to say, but the booze told him that the truth was a good place to start.
Outside, it began to rain, an evening thunderstorm signaling the beginning of autumn.
“Hello, Jack,” his boss said from the kitchen. In a flash of lightning, the man’s eyes glowed yellow. In that moment, everything was made clear. The drunk scientist was instantly sober. Slowly, heart pounding, Jack set the phone down on the coffee table.
“They’ve finally come to shut me down, Jack,” the CIA man said. He was dressed all in black, and Jack saw bullet holes in his tactical shirt. There was blood, but not a lot. Strangely, it seemed to shimmer in the light. “I think they figured it all out.”
“That you kept us all here under false pretenses?” Jack croaked, feeling every day of his fifty-seven years. “I should never have come here.”
The spook laughed. “Probably not,” he agreed. “But you guys were doing so well that I couldn’t accept the call from up the chain to shut everything down. Fortunately, I was able to find some new backers and keep everything going.”
“So this wasn’t just you?” Jack asked, surprised. Makes sense. It’s not like one man could keep this whole thing afloat on his own. But who else helped him? Jack tried to picture all the various techs and assistants and security folk involved in MIST, but could not. Many seemed shifty enough, and several probably had backgrounds in killing. We were not doing a peaceful thing. Even through his fear, Jack felt a streak of shame.
“Not at all. Any time a government falls, lots of powerful people have chances to make new opportunities. Open new markets, if you will. You think I would just turn over MIST to Uncle Sam when all that was awaiting me was a prison cell?”
So you’re one of the criminals from the old regime. One of the knee-breakers like the Home Guard. But more dangerous, more sophisticated. I made a deal with the devil.
“So what do you want?” Jack asked, almost trembling.
“I need your admin password. I’ve got to skip town, but my backers need more than I managed to download on my own. I know you’ve been changing the passwords, so don’t try to tell me otherwise.” The CIA man removed a wicked-looking knife from a black sheath on his belt. “And time is of the essence. We’ll test out the password you give me. If it works, you die quick and painless. If it doesn’t, well…”
“You’re a monster,” Jack whispered. “I don’t know how you got the MIST into you, but it’s made you a monster.”
The spook beckoned and Jack followed willingly, unable to risk the pain of the knife. Fully infused with MIST, the man in black could not be outrun or outfought. Jack knew his time had come. Fortunately, he had no family to leave behind.
On the coffee table, the cell phone revealed that a call had been ongoing for three minutes and sixteen seconds.
7
Robert Smith finished his beer and hurried across the campus as rain pattered down, enjoying the rich aromas of damp earth and ozone. Earlier that evening, his Ph.D. research had just been accepted, guaranteeing him a spot in the next graduation. The former struggling boy from west Texas was going to be a physics professor. The department chair had hinted that a spot was opening up right there at the University of Wyoming, and Smith was giddy with excitement.
I made my mark here, Smith thought as he swayed, darted, and danced from cover to cover. The campus was deserted, but he wouldn’t have cared if it was rush hour - he was simply that ecstatic. He jogged between two overhangs and gusts of rain coated his bare arms and the back of his neck, making him shiver. When he made it beneath the concrete overhang, he hugged himself to ward off the chill.
“Shoulda brought an umbrella,” he said to himself, a smile plastered on his face. Nothing was going to ruin this night! He stood tall and stretched his arms and back, feeling a buzz of energy in his veins. His eyes darted from building to building, taking in the stately and picturesque infrastructure that had been his home for years. Should I stay here, where I am comfortable and well-known, or seek a new adventure?
Lights were on in the Engineering Building, where the secret labs were. Nobody was supposed to go into those labs, which had always been locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Smith looked at his phone and saw that it was after 10:00 PM. Why is anyone up there right now? With semesters about to change over, Smith figured that perhaps the secret labs were no longer secret.
“Maybe they’re being turned back over to regular classes,” Smith mused. On a whim, he decided to check it out. Instead of heading toward his apartment, which was west of campus, he turned to the left and ambled toward the Engineering Building. As an adjunct, he had an impressive ring of keys that would aid in this adventure. What could they be clearing out of there? What was so top-secret that they wouldn’t allow any students in?
The Engineering Building itself was locked, but Smith had a key and knew the security code - heck, he was usually there after-hours grading papers anyway. He let himself in and wandered past his office. At least this way, if anyone did question him as to why he was there after ten, he could say that he had been to his office. None of the other adjuncts or TAs were around, and everything was dark and locked up tight. Using his cell phone as a flashlight, Smith found the stairs and began climbing to the third floor.
At the third floor landing, he saw that the security system had already been deactivated. Through the tiny gaps around the edges of the steel doors, he could see that the lights were on. Emboldened by the margaritas with which he had celebrated the acceptance of his doctoral thesis, he quietly pushed open one of the doors. It was surprisingly heavy, but swung smoothly and made not a sound.
Robert Smith heard voices at the end of the hallway, and crept toward them. Perhaps it was a dean or vice president, gossiping with some contractors about what the labs were being converted to? In academia, knowing the inside gossip could endear anyone to his or her colleagues. Knowing what’s going on with these labs could help me land a professor gig here. Dr. Knowles loves anyone who can give him the skinny on what admin is up to.
He was walking past the third set of doors when he saw the blood on the bulletproof glass.
Oh no.
Smith rushed to the glass and tried to push open the laboratory doors, but they were locked. Peering inside, the young adjunct saw two men lying on the floor, blood pooling by their heads. Squinting, he saw a hole in one man’s forehead, and a similar hole in his colleague’s temple. Murder. Murder!
Everything from eleven weeks ago came flooding back and hit Robert Smith like a hammer, almost buckling his knees. The arrest, the prison camp, the escape, the coup. He had been proud of how quickly he had pushed it from his mind and gotten back to his studies, how he had gotten back to normal. I never processed. I never grieved.
Somewhere in his mind, he knew that the two dead men lying on the laboratory floor were related to the chaos of the last several months. Things are not back to normal. Something horrible has happened. This was intentional, an assassination.
Though Smith knew he should run and seek help, find the cops, he felt compelled to see if anyone needed his help. There might be wounded. He could still hear voices up ahead. Not wanting to speak on the phone, worried that his voice might attract unwanted attention, Smith decided to text for help instead. He knew a reserve campus police officer, a jovial criminal justice professor, who could summon help from the outside. Smoothly, Smith extracted his new iPhone and began to send a text.
A loud pop rippled through the hallway, followed by an agonized wail. Silencer. That’s the sound of a silencer.
8
“You didn’t have to kill her!” the computer engineer moaned. “Oh, you son of a bitch!” A woman in a lab co
at lay on the carpet, lifeless. The man in black, eyes glowing yellow, twirled a pistol like an Old West gunslinger. The barrel of the pistol was fitted with a large cylinder, obviously a silencer.
“No witnesses,” the man in black snarled. “And if you don’t give me the drive, your kids will be next.” The computer engineer crumpled to the floor in misery, tears pouring down his cheeks. “Tell me now, and your kids never have to know what happened. They’ll spin it as a robbery gone wrong. Hold out on me, and I’ll make a visit to 446 Arbor Avenue before I skip town.”
Weeping, the computer engineer blubbered on the floor. Slowly, like a miserable child, he pulled a tablet from his lab coat pocket. Calmly, with a bemused smile, the man in black watched him, still holding the pistol in a gloved hand.
“I hate you,” the engineer sniffled. “You’re a goddamn monster. If I find you the drive, do you swear to leave my children alone?”
“Of course,” the man in black soothed, his face fatherly and reassuring. He looked rather presidential...except for the eyes.
“You don’t know what you’ve done to yourself. We don’t even know,” the engineer rasped. “We don’t know how the MIST will evolve, what could make it change. Soon, it will be in charge, not you. You’ll be a puppet.”
“Just give me the location. The goon squad will be here soon for round two, and you’ll regret it if I have to deal with them again. It’ll make me angry, and I might just forget my promise to stay away from 446 Arbor.”
“They’ll stop you. They won’t spare any effort.”
“Nobody on earth can stop me, my good man. You should know that.”
Smiling, the computer engineer looked into his assailant’s impassive face. “Yes,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “I know that.” He continued to swipe and tap on his tablet.
“I’m growing impatient,” the man in black snapped. “You ready yet?”
“Yes, I’m ready,” the computer engineer replied. He slowly climbed to his feet, unsteady and wobbling. Suddenly, he straightened up and pulled a small handgun from inside his lab coat, his speed unexpected. The nerd had reflexes that would impress an athlete. Still, it was not enough.
Like a snake, the man in black fired off a shot with his silenced pistol, striking the scientist between the eyes. The man in the lab coat staggered back and slid on the carpet, his small pistol clattering off into a corner. His killer swiftly stepped forward and retrieved the fallen tablet computer.
On the screen, it was apparent that the blubbering computer engineer had not been doing the assassin’s bidding. The screen was split in half, and the left window revealed that the man had texted his children’s babysitter and instructed her to flee the house and take the children to the police station immediately. The right window showed the planet earth as a blue circle, with a satellite’s orbital path stationed above it.
MIST QUARANTINE SILVER SIX
DEORBIT CODE APPROVED
LANDING PATH ACQUIRED
“I’d almost forgotten about that,” the assassin whispered to himself, his eyes glowing with unusual fervor. He watched as the image in the right window changed to show the satellite descending, leaving revolving its orbit above the planet and entering a glide path.
GUIDANCE SYNC MCDONALD OBSERVATORY TX
The satellite would land near Fort Davis in approximately two hours and forty-seven minutes.
The man in black heard a sound out in the hallway, and he spun around to see a youngish man, about thirty years old, standing there. With lightning speed, the killer brought up his pistol and pulled the trigger, his mind already seeing exactly where the bullet would go.
9
Hank Hummel was awakened by his phone, and he was surprised to hear his old criminal justice professor on the other end of the line. “I can’t talk much,” the big guy from Wyoming whispered, “but you need to know that all the stuff they might have told you about those nanoparticles is probably a lie.” Wide awake, Hummel sat bolt upright in bed. “What do you mean?” he asked, trying to keep his voice quiet so as not to disturb Whitney.
“There’s been a bloodbath up here in Laramie tonight, including a killing spree at the MIST labs on campus. You know how those labs were supposed to be entirely shut down? Apparently not. Someone just murdered a whole bunch of scientists and engineers who weren’t even supposed to be there. We locals got here only a few minutes before some angry-looking feds, and they pushed us out real quick.”
“God damn,” Hummel hissed, his heart pounding.
“I’ll fill you in on more later, but I’ve gotta split. Fortunately, I left a little bug or two up there as the feds were herding us out. Whatever they say, I’ll hear when I check my computer.” The call ended abruptly.
Unable to sleep, Hummel swung himself out of bed and padded across the soft bedroom carpet to the bathroom. He closed the door, turned on the lights, and stared at himself in the mirror. Bringing his face close to the glass, he stared deep into his own eyes. He knew about the yellow eye symptom, the reflection of light from an unnatural new lens. For several long moments, he held his breath, looking as closely at his pupils and irises as he could. He could not detect any change in his eyes, and finally let out his breath.
It will be okay. It will be okay.
Hummel turned off the light and left the bathroom, but did not return to his bed. Instead, he quietly crept out into the living room. As the French bulldog stirred and snored in her crate, Hummel went into the kitchen and decided to make a sandwich. Trying to avoid waking his family, he quietly arranged his desired ingredients on the kitchen counter. After arraying the bread and adding mayo and mustard, he grabbed a sharp knife to cut the rotisserie chicken.
After cutting a few nice pieces with the crispy skin still attached, Hummel’s hand slipped and the knife’s blade darted into the side of his hand. Blood welled, and there was a brief pain...but then the pain shut off, as if a flip had been switched.
His mind reeled when he saw silver in his blood. Terrified of any of the tainted blood landing on the counter, Hummel rushed to the drawer of kitchen towels and grabbed an out-of-place Christmas one. He covered the wound and looked around. His son’s cell phone was charging in its usual spot, and Hummel grabbed it with his good hand. Pulling recklessly, he yanked the device free and carried it into the living room.
Breathlessly, he called and left a message for his brother Carl, who must have had his phone on silent. Next, he dialed an old friend. After four rings, a groggy voice answered.
“Hec, we’ve been lied to. I just cut myself with a kitchen knife, and I’ve got the MIST. Deep gash, but it doesn’t even hurt. It almost feels like the cut is knitting itself back together right now. They lied to us.”
Hector Rodriguez was silent, unable to craft a response.
“And I just got a call from Wyoming. Someone pulled a raid on the MIST labs, and not the kind where they leave survivors. I don’t know what to do, man.”