“If they make it inside, it’s too late. Run before that happens,” I ordered her.
Tripp and I had changed into clothing I’d grabbed from the Mexican market. He had on a pair of black sweats, a size or two larger than his waist. The elastic cinched up as he knotted them tight. His white hooded sweatshirt advertised a beer company. My outfit wasn’t much better: dark jeans, rolled at the cuff to fit, and a bright yellow sweater.
Tripp checked his magazine and passed me a gun. “Is walking into an army base packing heat a good idea?” I inquired.
“Ask me again when we need them,” he muttered, and stepped onto the field. The crops were long harvested, and their shorn stalks crunched under our footsteps. We must have made quite the pair.
As soon as the base’s fence came into view, I saw a four-wheeler approaching. The vehicle stopped, and two men stood, heads out the top, as they appraised us with guns aimed at our chests.
“Who the hell are you?” one of them spat.
Tripp smirked, despite the fact that we were at a disadvantage. “Here to see Colonel Jerkins.”
“Is that so?”
Tripp hiked up his shirt and turned to give them a view of his back. Among a series of healed scars was a tattoo of the SEAL trident.
“You realize this is an army base, right?” the man asked, getting a chuckle from his friend.
“Did you see the meteor storm?” Tripp asked them, walking up to the Jeep.
“What do you think?” the driver asked.
Tripp showed them his shoulder and the white bandage over it. “Those are robots, sent to create a network on Earth. If they succeed, the beings on the Objects will download themselves into your brains. All of our brains.” He rapped his knuckles against his own head. “Though they might toss you guys aside, given the lack of cognitive capacity.”
The guys looked at one another. “Are you insulting our intelligence?”
“Let us in. I have to speak to Jerkins.” Tripp opened the Jeep’s back door, and I went in first. He didn’t wait for them to deny his demand.
“You’re telling us that there really are aliens, and that they’re going to invade us… here?” He tapped his temple.
“That’s what I’m saying. Unless we stop them,” Tripp responded.
The guy smirked as his partner drove us to the base. “You two?”
“Not much to look at, but we have a few tricks up our sleeves,” Tripp assured them.
Ten minutes later, we were walking into Colonel Jerkins’ office. The entire base was much more hectic than last time we’d visited.
Jerkins looked older, his short dark hair speckled with even more grays. “Tripp. I thought we had an agreement.” He motioned for me to shut the door, and I did.
“Jerkins, I wish I could have stayed away.” Tripp shook his hand. It was a far cry from the friendly embrace from two months ago.
We sat across from the colonel’s desk, and he slowly spun in his chair. “This is bad.”
“You’re not kidding.” Tripp picked up a pen and spun it in his fingers. “What’s it like here in the States?”
Jerkins’ eyes lit up. “It’s chaos. Half of the army wants to sit tight, the rest wants to march into the streets. Even if we do, what will we accomplish? What are we fighting?”
“You said you didn’t want to know,” Tripp muttered.
Jerkins glanced at me. “Things change. Tell me.”
So we did. I regaled him with a shortened version of the facts. Objects. Zalt. Trek to Rimia. Subsequent visit to Kabos to recruit the Rodax.
“And you have one of them in a spaceship two miles from here?” He yapped a laugh and slapped a palm to his desk. “This is the first time I’m grateful my Marge is no longer with us.”
“Things are going to become worse,” I said. “The Zalt attempted to attune with the folks in the Mexican city. It killed most of them.”
“And you suspect this will be widespread shortly?” Jerkins turned to face his window, watching his people perform their daily routines.
“Depends how fast this hub powers up. But it’s coming soon. That’s the urgency.”
“What do you need from me?” Colonel Jerkins asked.
I left this to Tripp. It was his area of expertise. “We’re going to look for a Book.”
“A book?”
“That’s right. Something to give us an advantage. But we have no idea where it is. We need to head into town, and I’d like an escort. Preferably quickly.”
“Done. I’ll provide a team.”
“We also need satellite radios. I assume those are still operational?” Tripp asked.
“Satellites are rolling, so not a problem. It’s how we’ve stayed in touch—” A knock on the door caught Jerkins’ attention. “Enter.”
“Colonel, we have an issue.” The woman looked scared, her hands trembling.
“Spit it,” he ordered.
“We’ve been doing our rounds, as requested. When we tried Bragg, we didn’t get a response.”
“Bragg. They’ve been the first to—”
She pulled out a tablet and hit play. “He finally replied.”
“Dreen allono reespenlen.” The voice had a slight Southern accent.
“That’s it?” the colonel asked.
“I think you’ve been hit. Either by the Believers or the Zalt,” I told him.
“What makes you say that?”
“That’s their language. It means ‘prepare for arrival’,” I said.
“Jesus… Tripp, why do I feel like there’s more to your request?” Jerkins asked.
Tripp leaned closer. “Because there is.”
10
Bill hadn’t walked this much in years. He used to be in shape, ages ago. His thighs burned, and the heels of his feet ached, but he enjoyed the pain. It reminded him he was alive. Where had his life gone? One day he was graduating college, with dreams of becoming a famous literary author. He was going to pen the great American novel: a grassroots tale of a boy from the Midwest, fighting adversity to rise above his station and become the state’s wealthiest farmer. A story of love and loss. Mistakes and redemption.
Bill McReary had once been a hopeless romantic. A fan of fine wines and eighteenth-century sonatas. Until he wasn’t. He’d woken up to find he was fat and preferred classic rock to classical, and bacon grease to duck confit.
Sometimes all it took was a looming alien invasion to remind someone of what they had and where they’d gone wrong. Bill could pinpoint the exact moment.
She was thirty-two, he was twenty-five, and they were in different places in their lives. Bill had been trying to make it in the ad copy world, hoping to get a break and find time to begin writing his book. She worked for a hedge fund but had dreams of running her own company.
He screwed it up. So badly. And when they had that final fight, he’d given up way too easily. It was the single second he looked back at and cringed, but he’d done some amazing things in his career. He’d interviewed many incredible people during his tenure in broadcasting, and he knew he should stop wallowing in what could have been.
Bill shook his head while he walked the campground’s perimeter. He never had written that book. Funny how that worked. Apparently, you needed to start something to finish it. Bill realized he hadn’t begun, because then he wouldn’t be disappointed for failing.
The day was bright, and he pushed his cheap plastic sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. The path was well worn, taken by the Freedom Earthers as they endlessly circled the few square miles of ground they defended like an island.
Bill wanted some time with Evan Young. The FBI agent was a breath of fresh air after being cooped up with Saul for the last week. Even Roger, the enigmatic leader of the militia group, was easier to talk to than the ex-cultist.
He kept walking, mile after mile, and when it was his time to call it a day, he started heading back. The sun had begun setting past the treeline, and Bill’s ear caught the snapping of a twig.
/> Not too alarming, but they were posted here to keep intruders out. Mostly it was locals, trying to understand who’d planted their feet down in this section of Georgia. The group hadn’t been able to fence the entire campground off, and that left room for people to wander in.
Bill’s heart pounded when he heard muffled voices a short distance from his position. He huddled up close to a tree trunk and worried it wasn’t wide enough to hide him.
The radio lifted to his mouth, and he pressed the talk button. “This is McReary in section five. There’s been a breach.” He wasn’t certain if that was proper lingo, or if he was still in section five, but he was close.
“Roger that, McReary. Do you have a visual?” the voice asked. He had the volume turned to one, and struggled to hear the comments over the thumping of blood in his ears.
He peered around the tree and saw the pair: a man and a woman. They had rifles. Black jackets. He relayed this.
“Hang tight,” the voice on the radio said, and Bill clipped it to his belt. He’d spent some time at the shooting range in his younger years. Later, he’d frequented unorthodox gun yards with some of his more conservative friends. If he was going to be on radio catering to a certain demographic, he figured he needed to understand them better.
When he unclasped the Sig Sauer from the holster, he had a fair bit of confidence. The metal actually calmed him.
“I don’t see anyone,” the woman said. They were close. “Maybe we should circle back.”
“No. They’re here. We saw the trucks coming in. Where did they go?” The man’s voice was gruff, gravelly.
Bill squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath.
“We’ll run out of light in an hour. Do you want to be—” The woman stopped speaking.
Bill could picture the man, expecting him to have noticed Bill behind the tree.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing. Maybe you’re right. I don’t want to get lost and miss tomorrow’s big event,” the man said.
When she spoke again, she sounded farther away.
Bill was about to radio that the duo was leaving, when he heard the gun’s report slice through the evening air.
He risked a glance and saw the man still on his feet, but the woman was lying on the ground. The guy started to fire deeper into the trees, and the incoming Freedom Earthers emerged. One second, the area was empty; the next, five of the camouflage-wearing soldiers were in the glade, surrounding the Believer.
“Drop it!” someone shouted, but the man didn’t look too agreeable. His hand wavered.
Bill emerged from the tree and recognized Saul. The older man didn’t hesitate like the others. He just shot the cultist in the arm. The man let go of his gun, cursing loudly.
“Kill me, then. Get on with it,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
Bill walked over, and two of the soldiers spun, taking aim. He lifted his hands, and they saw it was him.
“You can lower ‘em, McReary,” Roger said. He was huge compared to the others, smiling like a Cheshire cat.
Bill did. “They were talking about an event tomorrow.”
The man glowered at Bill.
“Is that so?” Saul asked, walking up to the guy. “What kind of event?”
“I’m not telling you.”
Bill glanced at the woman. She had a stream of blood under her head, which was tilted directly toward him. Her eyes were open, and it seemed like she was staring at him.
Saul lunged, grabbing the man at the bicep. Bill felt nauseous watching Saul dig his thumb into the bullet wound. The Believer’s screams were horrible.
Saul finally let up but still held the guy’s arm. “You were saying?”
“I’d rather die.”
“No. You see, I’m going to bring you back to the tents. Tear your fingernails off one by one. Get Bill over there to slice your face with paper cuts until you can’t see. Comprende?” Saul asked.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re too late,” the guy said.
“Where is the event?” Saul demanded.
“I’m not tell—”
The man fell to the ground.
Bill let a yelp of panic escape his lips. Roger stood with a shiny chrome revolver in his grip and kicked the lifeless man. “The only good Believer is a dead one.”
Saul shoved the militia leader. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“Calm yourself, Saul. You’re a guest here.” Roger lowered his gun. “Do you have a reason to feel bad about his death?”
Bill sensed the casual accusation. It mixed with the scent of blood and decayed leaves. He turned from the group and threw up.
“I don’t like the tone of your voice,” Saul grunted. “And if you’ll recall, I was the one who shot the lady.” He pointed at the dead woman.
Bill wiped his mouth, embarrassed by his reaction. These were battle-hardy men, and if they weren’t, they put on a good show of it. Suddenly, Bill wanted to run as far as possible, but his legs wouldn’t listen.
“I’ve been here before.” Roger’s men stared at Saul, ready to defend their boss if necessary. “He wasn’t going to talk, no matter how hard you pushed him.”
“You don’t know that.” Saul did appear to have relaxed a bit.
“Sure I do. You would have killed him eventually. Why delay the inevitable? If what Bill McReary heard was correct, we don’t have long. Tomorrow.” Roger knelt on the damp ground and searched the man’s clothing, then the woman’s. He smiled when he pulled out a piece of paper. It was folded three times, and he slowly unwound it, adding drama to the scene.
“What is it?” Saul asked.
He turned it around, and Bill saw numbers scrawled in neat penmanship across the back of a flyer. “An address.”
____________
Marcus didn’t think he’d ever sleep again. Dallas was a disaster. They’d been stopped three more times on their trip through the city. Jessica’s credentials passed muster during each of the delays. So many bodies. So much death.
His mouth was pasty, and he glanced at Jessica. “Can I have some more water?”
This was what it came down to. Since his escape attempt, she’d forced him to ask for the simple things. It was remarkable what happened to one’s mental state when basic needs were removed. Food. Water. Bathrooms. Shelter.
Marcus hated the tremor in his voice when he asked her again. She was staring at the damned tablet, mumbling to herself as if something were wrong.
“Barry, get the man some water,” she ordered without looking up.
The interior of the SUV was beginning to smell. Marcus sniffed his shirt, and realized it was him. The others had freshened up. Jessica had even changed her clothing this morning as they drove farther west. She had on a pair of jeans and a black short-sleeved blouse with white polka dots. It looked practical on her, which didn’t fit her usual style.
Marcus looked away, wondering if he was experiencing some form of Stockholm syndrome. He’d taken an intro psych class in school, and remembered a brief case study on the subject.
“Catch.” Barry tossed a water bottle, but Marcus hadn’t been expecting it. The bottle hit him square in the chest. It bounced off, falling to the floor. Instead of complaining, he bent down, grasping for it.
His fingers touched something metal. Marcus started to pick it up, and felt the weight.
With a quick glance to check if his senses were screwing with him, he saw the outline of the gun. It had slid under the seat from the driver’s precarious placement.
“How much longer?” Jessica asked, making Marcus jump. He picked up the water and placed his foot over the gun, moving it aside.
“Roads are half decent.” The driver, who Marcus now knew as Glen, glanced in the rear view mirror. Was it a sign? Had Glen put the gun there purposely? “I’m guessing another half hour.”
Marcus opened the water and drank a third of it before recapping it. “Why Odessa?” he asked Jessica.
This finally nabbed
her attention. “What?”
“Odessa. The hub was in Mexico. Now it’s in Odessa. Why?” Marcus tried to sound curious, rather than fishing for information.
“It’s not up to me. The Unknowns are advanced beyond our understanding, Marcus. They’re worthy of our praise and our vessels, not our questioning.”
“Like the people of Dallas?” He couldn’t hold back. All those lives lost. How many other cities across the globe had experienced similar events?
“They were weak. And the network isn’t linked.”
“Shouldn’t the Unknowns be aware of that? Why are they trying to download into the general population if they haven’t attuned?” Marcus thought it was a good question.
Jessica stared daggers at him from across the seat. “I assume they were testing the waters. My people will have opened to them. We’ve given them a strong foothold.”
“How many Believers are there?”
Jessica returned her gaze to the tablet. “Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.” Marcus unscrewed the cap, and took another sip.
“We have over a million attuning-capable vessels,” she replied.
This number was far higher than he could have estimated. “Is that all they are to you? Attuning-capable vessels? Barry here… he’s just a vessel for the Unknowns. And Glen. Is he another vessel…”
Jessica slowly raised her head to stare at Marcus. Her smile felt genuine. “It is the ultimate prize, isn’t it, gentlemen?”
“Yes, Sovereign. Dreen allono reespenlen.” Barry shot Marcus a shut-the-hell-up glare.
“Okay, whatever floats your boat.”
“Should we let you out, Marcus? If we do, you’ll end up on the side of the road in the next day or two, eyes bleeding, brain hemorrhaged.” Jessica appeared delighted at this eventuality.
Marcus shifted in his seat, adjusting his tethered feet. “I’ll stay. What happens to me then?”
“I can allow you to live. Direct someone powerful into your body. You can continue on, blessed to be part of Earth’s rebirth. Our rightful heirs are coming. Can’t you feel them?” Jessica looked up at the SUV’s tinted sunroof.
“Sure,” he lied.
Lost Hope (The Bridge Sequence Book Three) Page 12
