“Will do,” the crewman said. He moved off into the cockpit and began speaking to the pilots. Reimer stood up from the floor and watched the medics tend to Gordon. He glanced to the interior of the aircraft, seeing numerous computer hard drives taking up much of the space. He was surprised, as he assumed the reason they had limited space was because of other passengers. These weren’t just ordinary computers, but super high-tech ones. There was some medical equipment, including MRI machines. No passengers.
Clearly, the government didn’t want to wait for a new manufacturing facility to be constructed.
“Medic?”
“Yes, Corporal,” one of the medics said.
“If I may ask…did you lose anyone while acquiring this stuff?” Reimer asked. The medic’s jaw tightened, as though he didn’t want to answer.
“Two,” he muttered.
Reimer stepped aside and took a seat. One of the medics approached Dr. Hill once more to check on her.
“I’m good,” she said, waving her hand at him. “Just get me out of here.”
“Already on our way,” the soldier said.
“Good,” she said. She held the cloth to her head, glaring at Reimer as the chopper carried them off.
CHAPTER 26
Evening stretches of sunset never looked so good as Reimer watched the window. The chopper had cleared the wall and was descending down to the helipad. Long shadows stretched over the dirt as ground crew waited below.
“We’re home now, bud,” Reimer said to Gordon. The young marine breathed through a facemask, resting comfortably on a stretcher. Hill said nothing, though she was eager to get off the bird. The landing strips had barely touched down when the fuselage door came open.
Two security men in black suits greeted her off the chopper and guided her away. There was no thank you or farewell to Reimer as she walked off into the distance. He was okay with it.
Reimer helped the crew as they lowered Gordon down on his stretcher. Ground crew assessed his injuries and started wheeling him away. Several federal vehicles pulled up where the guards were leading Hill.
Reimer stepped away from the chopper, seeing General Spears approaching. He looked down at Gordon and then at the Corporal, returning his salute.
“Nobody else?”
“No, General,” Reimer said. Spears nodded.
“Congratulations, son. You did well. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
A man in black trotted back toward the chopper.
“Excuse me. But the lady says she left some belongings in the chopper,” he said. Reimer glanced back, seeing that the chopper crew were busy unloading.
“I’ll get it,” Reimer said. He stepped back to the chopper and entered the cockpit. Luckily, Hill’s wallet and flash drive were in plain sight. As he snatched them up, the wallet unfolded, spilling the tattered picture ID. Reimer picked it up to put it back in its place. He paused as his eyes noticed the written name.
Rebecca Stacy Clair.
Reimer glared at the photo. It was definitely her picture. Yet, it wasn’t her name. A sick feeling entered his gut as he glanced at the flash drive. Curiosity was getting the better of him. He tucked it into his pocket and hurried out.
Spears was on his phone, in conversation with another authority. Reimer walked to the guard and handed him the wallet.
“Does she need her data?” he asked. The guard glared at him with mild bewilderment.
“Data?”
It was the answer Reimer feared.
“Never mind.”
The guard turned and walked toward the big limo-style car. Reimer watched as the man approached, taking a few steps to get a better look. With no care in the world, he observed as the man opened the side door.
There she was, Rebecca Stacy Clair and the president in a passioned embrace, lips pressed together. They broke away as she snatched the wallet. The president waved his hand, ordering the man to shut the door.
No, Reimer thought. His blood began to boil. It couldn’t be. His breathing was rapid. The numbness had come back. He doubted his eyes, praying that what he was told had some truth to it. His team had died, his humanity gone in a firefight with civilians. For what? A mistress?
“No,” he muttered. He marched away to the barracks. As he went, he saw Gordon’s stretcher as they wheeled him to a vehicle to take him to the infirmary. He couldn’t ignore his hand as he waved at him.
Reimer jogged to his side.
“You’ll be alright, bud,” Reimer said. He could see the distraught in Gordon’s eyes. The physical pain wasn’t the problem. It was the overbearing feeling of guilt spawned from what they had done.
“We did it,” he said, then looked at Reimer, “right? We got her back. Everything…it was all worth it in the end?”
“Yes,” Reimer comforted him. “Go take it easy. The docs will take care of you.” He stepped aside as the crew got him into an ambulance vehicle and took him away.
Reimer walked as fast as he could into the barracks. Luckily, there were computers available in this facility. Still, he looked around, certain he shouldn’t be seen doing what he was about to do.
He inserted the flash drive and opened the existing file. His heart grew heavy. He slumped back in his chair, looking at the blank file. There was no data on the flash drive.
He ripped the flash drive from the computer and tossed it to the floor. He stood up from the chair and marched outside. The world was like one big blur. He watched as choppers descended, while others took off to various destinations. With each one, he questioned the truth of their objectives.
“You see? They don’t see us as marines. They see us as personal assistants, which can also be cannon fodder. We’re their personal slaves. Hence everyone’s being forced to remain in service after their term has expired.”
Dunn’s voice almost seemed to be right beside him as his words echoed through Reimer’s mind. He stood, his expression as blank as the walking corpses outside the Border.
In the corner of his eye, he saw General Spears approach him.
“Just wanted to say again: good work son. Now, get some rest. Won’t be long before we’ll need you again.”
The End
Read on for a free sample of Eschaton: A Zombie Thriller
PROLOGUE
This is the worst headache ever. I don't know if you've ever been knocked out, or rendered unconscious in any way, but let me tell you, it sucks. Waking up is guaranteed to be worse than the action that put your lights out in the first place. Once your brain begins to regain consciousness, pain is the first thing you register. For those first few moments, it is your entire world. Think of the migraine that ate the migraine that your wife or girlfriend always complained about. Being hungover doesn't even compare.
You guessed it. That's precisely what's going on inside my head at the moment. Musical Jolly Chimp is playing his cymbals inside of my head. Although, my brain is between them, so it's less of a cymbal crash and more of a painful squish, squish, squish. Each squish coinciding with the beats of my pulse. Well, there's that at least. I hurt, and I have a pulse. At least I'm not dead.
I don't dare open my eyes. Not yet. One thing at a time.
I can tell I am definitely sitting in a chair. Face down on a table or something. A cold, smooth surface under my cheek. Steel? Wood? Not sure about that, either. Probably not important. I'll get in touch with the decorator when I get a chance and see what's going on.
The sensation of a puddle around the aforementioned cheek. Drool, it has to be. Oh well, no biggie. Not the first time I've woken up in a strange place with a splitting headache and a goatee full of the results of an overactive salivary gland. I am a product of the 90's after all.
Slowly I begin to crack one eyelid open, and then the other. As my eyes adjust, I start to take in my surroundings. Bare light bulb overhead? Check. Stainless steel table under my face? Check. Okay, not a great start, but I can deal.
Next, I begin the arduous
process of kicking the rest of myself into motion. Slowly lifting my head, I can hear the soft whirring of a ventilation fan. As my eyes come into focus, I can make out a very sparsely furnished room. The low level of light provides just enough illumination to show I'm alone. I can make out three bare white walls, and one with what appears to be a large mirrored window in it. How original.
Craning my head around some more shows the room to be about fifteen feet in both directions. Nothing else to it besides the chair that I'm in, and two more across the table from me. I begin thinking to myself if I just quit looking around, this whole situation could change for the better and stop becoming more and more stereotypically ominous.
Yeah. Right. Fat chance of that. I could also wish and hope for a beautiful redhead to walk in holding a platter with a cheeseburger and an ice-cold beer, speaking in one of those accents that somehow make the attractive woman even more desirable. Norwegian, British, hell, I'd even take French at this point. Very doubtful that either wish would come through at this moment. Well...maybe...focus... Yeah, not happening.
Reaching up to wipe the quickly cooling drool from my cheek and facial hair, I notice for the first time that my wrists are shackled and adjoined by a few feet of sturdy chain. Following the length of chain, I also notice that it has been routed under another length of chain around my waist, the length around my waist securing me to the chair. I was left enough room to allow for some freedom of movement of my arms, but not much else. This is looking worse and worse by the minute. I begin trying to move my feet, and, you guessed it, chained and bound, albeit much more securely in place than my arms.
I'm pretty sure I've seen this movie. It doesn't go well for me. Alright, stay calm, don't panic. You're panicking. This is not the time for panic! Apparently, Mr. Panic didn't get the memo, that bastard showed up to the party in the loudest shirt I've ever seen and didn't even bring any drinks. Instead, he injected a full load of adrenaline directly into my system. With the quickening pace of my heart, the Chimp's cymbals picked up pace as well.
SquishSquishSquishSquishSquish
I pulled every which way on my bindings. I squirmed and writhed, I exerted so much pressure I even let out a little gas. Hey, don't judge me! Put yourself in my situation and see if you keep it together!
It was no use. I was stuck fast by my bindings, and all I'd managed to do was make a little noise and change the previously sterile atmosphere of the room into something a little less than clean.
Great. Amazing. Wonderful. All of those little adjectives that people think when they are frustrated and out of luck begin to rush through my brain. Well, alright, time to check out plan B and see what the hell is going on and who's got me here.
I took a few moments to gather my breath, compose myself, all the while very prepared to stick to my usual M.O. and say the first thing to come to my mind. Nothing. My first efforts yielded nothing but a dry, dusty croak.
Clearing my throat, I decided to give it another go. This time, I managed to bellow with as much voice as I could carry. Okay, maybe it wasn't a bellow, and definitely not much in the way of even an authoritative shout, conversational volume at best, but, hey, it was something!
“I don't know what the fuck is going on here, but I definitely don't approve of bondage on the first date!”
Really, you idiot? The hero of your own story, all you've been through, and that's what you go for as the opening line of what could very well be your end?
Apparently, it was enough, because the single light over my head disappeared, to immediately be replaced by the multiple banks of fluorescent lights that, in my current state, could only have rivalled the intensity of the sun itself.
It instantly began to feel like somebody gave our little monkey friend a full-on shot of cocaine. He was going to do all the squishing, do it now, and do it forever.
Squeezing my eyes closed as tightly as I could and lowering my head, I squeaked out a meager “Not cool” as the pain in my head skyrocketed to a whole new level.
From what seemed like a million miles away I heard several sets of the heavy footfalls of boots on linoleum, followed by a loud metallic click. Doing my best to lift my head and pry my eyes open against the heavy weight of so many lumens, my eyes slowly began to adjust once again, in time to see a plain steel door swing open. Stepping through the threshold and taking up spots on each side of the doorway were two armed men, both with M4's held tightly across their chests. They were perfectly military. By that, I mean you could have copied and pasted them both out of any given recruitment poster from any given military recruiting office.
Following the two men into the room and proceeding past them, another pair presented themselves. Both with high-and-tight haircuts, although their similarities stopped there. The first wore basic dark suit pants and a plain white button-up shirt. Obviously the elder to the other man’s younger, with a touch of grey interspersed through his otherwise dark hair, and a pale, though serious and heavily lined face framed by entirely utilitarian eye glasses.
The second man to enter was in his mid-twenties, a tan complexion with dark eyes, sporting a standard issue military ACU with a holstered sidearm and little more decoration than the basic unit and rank patches, along with a nameplate declaring him to be Munoz.
Okay, so we have a soldier and a suit. Wonderful.
The elder man took his seat across the table from my own. He laid a plain manila envelope on the table and motioned for the younger man to take the seat next to him.
He began to speak as he opened the folder, adjusting his glasses just a bit higher on his nose with his index finger.
“Mister...Ah, yes. Mr. Pfeiffer. My name is Agent Grayson,” and, motioning to the younger man to his right,” this is Sergeant Munoz.”
“I'm sure the pleasure is all yours,” came my reply. “I'd love to stand and shake hands, and be a proper gentleman, but you see...” and motioned to the chains still binding to my spot.
“Mr. Pfeiffer, I don't think you are grasping the gravity of your visit with us,” Grayson replied,” nor do you seem to understand the severity of your actions.”
The man broke out his most severe expression for the occasion, and I could feel his gaze penetrating through me as he glared over the top of his glasses. Well, that's great. My first time ever being tied and bound to a chair in the same room as a suit and a soldier and I've pissed off one, maybe even both of them, though I couldn't tell as Sergeant Munoz kept his gaze clear and impassive. Why stop now? Why not go for broke?
Straightening in my seat and doing my best to fight through the pain in my head I snapped back, “Look, buddy, I don't know where you think this is going to go, holding me in this shoe box of a room as your captive audience, but we are not going anywhere until I know exactly what the hell you've done with my family and friends. Where are they?”
“Mr. Pfeiffer!” he growled, “You are hardly in a position to be difficult. You are to be facing charges of crimes against your country, including, according to our reports,” as he thumbed through pages within his folder, “you and your men have murdered sixty-seven United States soldiers, as well as destroying several land vehicles, and bringing down an AH-6 Little Bird helicopter!” His voice reaching a crescendo as he spat those final words.
“Excuse me, Mr. Grayson-”
“Agent.”
“-Agent Grayson, like it fucking matters, agent titles at the end of the world and such. But, excuse me, those men attacked us. No reason, no provocation. They were led by a man clearly acting outside of convention and law, but that's our fault? The fact of the matter stands that my head is absolutely fucking killing me, I've no idea where I am-”
“Mr. Pfeiffer.”
“Stop interrupting me, you dick! You also still have not told me what's become of my family and friends. I'm not giving you a damned thing until this back of mine gets a little scratching! End of story!”
I was pissed. I mean, the nerve of this guy! I clasped my hands together and placed
them on the table, leaning forward and attempting to meet his gaze with one equally as cold.
Considering my stance, he muttered a concessionary, “Very well then”, and motioned one of the door guards over to him.
The guard, a young private, stepped forward, leaning in close so Grayson could whisper some orders to him. After a moment, the private nodded once, spun on his heels, and left the room.
Grayson leaned back in his seat, and soon Munoz and I followed suit.
“Any chance of getting my legs loosened?” I asked.
Grayson just smiled wanly, and Munoz let out a soft chuckle. Ok. I guess not.
After a few more moments, the private returned, a black poly case in one hand, and a pitcher of water in the other.
Following him into the room was a younger blonde, maybe around the same age as Munoz, wearing the pale blue scrubs of a nurse and carrying a small case of her own.
She handed a tablet in a black case to Grayson as she passed him and proceeded to stand next to me. Laying her own case on the table, she opened it, and removed a syringe, which she laid on the table.
“I'm Nurse Hannigan. We're going to get this little gremlin out of your head,” she reported with a demure grin.
“Monkey,” I corrected.
“I'm sorry?”
“It's a monkey in my... You know what, never mind. Let's get to it,” I said, returning the smile.
She began loading the needle and swabbing my arm with a prep pad as the private set the water pitcher and some plastic cups on the middle of the table and handed the poly case off to Munoz before returning to his post near the door.
Nurse Hannigan finished cleaning the inside of my elbow, cleared the air from her syringe, and slid it into the arm with the skill of someone well versed in the subject. Within moments my head began to clear. Not entirely, but the pain and grogginess that was left became just a shadow of its former self. She produced another smile for my benefit before gathering her things and turning to leave the room. Upon passing Grayson, she nodded to him and declared, “He's all yours,” before making her way through the door, closing it with a heavy clang as she departed.
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