Monsters of the Apocalypse (2 page)

If you could
make it past the road blocks, the snipers, the secret service agents out front,
the hand scanners that controlled the elevator and the voice recognition locks
of the titanium interior hallway doors - you would find that October Carnegie's
door was always open and that all were always welcome - as long as he wasn't
eating. He didn't like to be interrupted during meals. So, even
though the door was physically open at this moment, his sandwich was the
equivalent of a stop sign… a stop sign that Miho Walker was clearly intending
to run.

He
continued chewing as he saw her appear around the corner, that big ape, her
personal bodyguard, CIA Special Agent Alberto Flores, behind her. October
was passing interested in the man walking at Miho's side, an unfamiliar, small,
awkwardly designed fellow, but it was hard not to focus on her. Her legs
that filled out her skirt, the hair that went from dark at the peak of her head
to the lighter shade of auburn at its jaw-line finish, the mix of European and
Asian features so perfectly blended to entice. October found himself
aware that he was staring at her chest too late to do anything about it.

“Sorry
to interru…”

“This better
be important, Miho,” October interrupted while raising his eyes to her face.

“It’s about
Jacob,” she stated sitting down in the chair across the desk.

The name
made October drop the sandwich onto his plate. His appetite momentarily
forgotten, October now stared at Miho with what he hoped was indifference.

“Jacob is
dead.”

"That
was never confirmed, Mr. President."

"So,
he's alive?"

"That
hasn't been confirmed either."

"So… what
are we talking about here?"

"His
feed is back online. I thought you'd want to come see it. It could
just be that his camera has turned on and that he's dead. We aren't
sure,” Miho said.

"No.
With Jacob it's always the most annoying possibility, which means he is
alive. How annoying. I bet he looks great too. Those movie
star looks of his, that hair…"

October
scooted his chair back and stood up with a groan. He turned and looked
out of the Oval Office's windows and briefly he focused on his own reflection,
his attention drawn to his thin hair, his double chin and his beer
gut.

“Where
is he?” October said popping a chip into his mouth.

“Analytics
are working on that, they haven’t found any defining images yet. A strike
force is ready. At any moment we’ll have him.”

October sat
down and rested his face between his palms. He looked hopefully into
Miho's almond eyes, but they only looked back unblinking and unfeeling.

“How is this
possible? You said he was dead or had found a way to turn his camera off
so we couldn’t monitor him. Why would he turn it back on? And why
now? Just as The Migration is beginning. I don’t trust this.”

“I have the
computer specialist who found his camera feed, right here,” she said gesturing
to the small man standing at her side.

“Him?
Okay, awkward guy, how did this happen?”

October eyed
the nervous man who kept his eyes averted from his own.

“Well, Mr.
President, the other computer specialists were wrong, he never turned it off,”
he tried to control his words, though he was excited to the point of shaking
hands. “It seemed that way, so I know why they came to that conclusion,
but it never made any sense, I mean, they were designed specifically so you
couldn’t turn them off.”

“Yes, but
Jacob designed the camera himself, so he would have been able to cheat the
system.”

“No, Mr.
President. That’s just what they thought he did. Then I thought:
what if he couldn’t do that? What would he, what would I, do?
I’d block the transmission system! You see, usually people hack into a
communication system, through the encryption, so that they can
see
top
secret stuff, but you could, I mean no one ever has because why would they, but
you could hack in and then
add
another heavy encryption that would block
the government
itself
from seeing its own feed. That way we’d just
assume it had gone offline, that the camera or the person himself was
dead. It would be almost easy, Mr. President.”

"Did
you say easy? Did he say easy, Miho?"

"Yes he
did, sir."

October
stood up and leaned over his desk staring into the face of the little man.

"Nothing
is easy with Jacob. Nothing. I don't like this, it feels
wrong. We need to proceed carefully here. I must think. Miho,
would you mind running and getting me some dessert, there was a cake…"

“With all
due respect, Mr. President, we don't have time for dessert. We need to be
ready to move so that we can kill Jacob.”

October
Carnegie sat down in the ancient leather chair that was centered perfectly in
front of the large windows that looked out on the battalion of military
technology that kept him safe from a nation of enemies and plots - and he
sighed.

“With all
due respect, Ms. Walker, a whole lot of the world’s been missing dessert while
trying to kill Jacob for the last twenty years and he’s still alive. I'm
going to have my cake.”

Jacob
stepped over the last guard's writhing body. The young man had been shot
twice in the stomach and was bleeding out slowly and loudly. Jacob tilted
his head and watched the blood pool around him.

"The
losses were heavy, sir, but we're in. The mission is a success,
sir," the young scout shouted as he stood proudly over the dying
guard. Jacob watched as Arian moved next to the boastful scout. Jacob
returned his gaze to the dying guard who continued to squirm in the
ever-growing pool of red.

"I'm
sorry, son. You must be in a lot of pain," Jacob spoke quietly as he
moved his hand to the gun in his waistband. "You know, it's one of
the reasons why, back in the day, America trained its soldiers to be such good
and efficient shots. In war, it's just professional courtesy to kill
enemy soldiers quickly. In the history of the world, all the wars that
were fought, modern America was responsible for the least suffering in their
enemy soldiers. Which isn't to say they didn't cause plenty, but in the
last few generations: bombs dropped, missiles flew, bullets hit you in the face
and then you died. That is the way of this fine country, or at least it was.
I don't know, these new soldiers are… well, lucky for you, I happen to be a
relic."

Jacob
smiled, pointed his gun and put two more bullets into the suffering young man,
who then went still. Jacob then looked up at the scout who now shifted
nervously, chest still inflated with pride, and nodded to Arian, who smiled and
put his Sig Sauer 9mm, custom black to match his own dark skin, to the scout's
temple.

"My
brands are the sign of a soldier, a warrior," Arian hissed at the scout.
"Something you would know nothing about. You are not a
soldier. Even worse, you are either a sloppy shot or a sadist.
Either way, goodbye."

The dead
scout hit the ground while the gunshot echoed off the military compound's metal
walls and Jacob and Arian moved into the main control room.

In minutes,
Arian had already moved through the security locks and was attaching the
off-board drive to the mainframe computer. Jacob watched as Arian opened
up the algorithm that bypassed the firewall and allowed them to access the
Alpha Team camera controls. There was the sound of a few last shots
outside of the room as images filled the twenty screens in front of them.
Some were images of city streets, some in various unspectacular rooms, one a
bathroom stall, and some were dark.

"We now
have access to every Alpha member ever, Jacob. I just type in their
assigned numbers and they'll come up on the screens. What numbers are we
looking for?"

"The
first ten, of course. One through ten," Jacob leaned forward in
excitement.

Arian typed
in the numbers and up popped three images. All the rest of the screens were
dark. One image was of the inside of Jacob's home, or specifically, the
image of the interior of his pantry. The second screen was filled with
the image of Jacob's dining room table - this was being sent from Jacob's own
camera, long since removed but recently turned back on. On the third
screen, was the image of a glass of whiskey, slightly shifting with the recent
movement of being set down.

"I'm
sorry, Jacob, I can't seem to get these others up."

"That's
okay, that's because they're all dead. Only three of the first ten are
still alive: me, October Carnegie and Nestor Bravo. October appears to be
searching for food in my kitchen, which means the whiskey is Nestor."

"That's
the… wow, that's the feed of Nestor Bravo," Arian said with an awed
respect.

"Yes."

"Huh,
it's funny, I'm nervous. Even though it's why we're here, I just can't
believe the guy exists. All my life he's been this myth."

"He's
real," Jacob's hand affectionately patted the younger man's muscular
shoulder, "terribly, horrifyingly real."

"What
do you want me to do now?"

“I want you
to turn off the feed, Arian. Then turn it on. Turn it off.
Turn it on. Then wait.”

“Okie doke.”

October
looked at Jacob Rothschild's mansion through the binoculars that Special Agent
Flores had procured from a bag he was now carrying over his shoulder.
October felt the giant Indian was even more intimidating in his active-duty
blacks. The lights of the mansion were on, but nothing could be seen
moving inside. There was a strike team hidden along the tree line waiting
for the command to charge. October held a borrowed gun, a model he didn't
recognize, in his right hand, painfully tight. He glanced up at the moon
above and watched as a satellite quickly passed just below it like a shooting
star with no tail.

"How
long has it been since I've felt the rush of battle? You tell yourself
when you enter the public sector, politics or whatnot, that the battle is still
there. It's only the weapons and strategies that have changed. But,
there is a feeling unique to the moment before risking your life, not your
reputation or your office, but your actual life, in the name of something
greater. Don't you think, Agent Flores?" October turned to find
Flores staring blankly into his eyes.

"If you
say so, Mr. President," Flores grunted and then turned his gaze back to
the mansion.

“Mr.
President, the men are in position. I’d recommend you head back to the
edge of the...”

“Enough,
Miho, I’m going in with them," October snapped.

“Mr.
President, Jacob may very well be ready for us. At the very least he will
have some degree of protection and with an original Alpha Team soldier like him
that could be lethal.”

“Please,
tell me more about the Alpha Team, Miho.”

“I’m not
implying you weren’t one, Mr. President. I’m implying that you’re the
President now and your duty is to the people of America and you risk not only
your life, but their life, by not moving back to the perimeter!”

October
looked down at the beautiful woman, small, made smaller by the ever looming
presence of Flores, but deadly in her intensity and intelligence. Long
ago, when he'd first brought her up from the ranks of intern to Assistant
Secretary she must have been younger, but he had no recollection of her seeming
any different. Her confidence was as strong and unflappable as the day he
met her. The loyalty that had always been missing in her tone and
demeanor was always crystal clear in the efficiency, and the success rate, of
her actions and the soundness of her advice. Even now, October knew she
was right.

"You're
right, there is danger here. But, I have to go, Miho. I have to show my
people. How can they trust me to protect them from the nightmare that is
coming if I hide from just one man?”

Miho sighed
and looked at Flores who remained passive and unmoving.

"Mr.
President, do you know who the most trusted president in the last three hundred
and fifty years of American history was?"

"Of
course. Honest Abe. Abraham Lincoln."

"Do you
know who the first president ever assassinated was?"

October
smiled and tapped his gun against his own temple knowingly.

"But
they loved him."

The whiskey
glass appeared on the screen again as Arian stopped flickering the camera
feed. Jacob stared at the screen, saying quietly under his breath,
“Come on, Nestor. Come on.”

The camera
view moved up from the whiskey glass to the mirror behind the bar. The
face on the screen, Nestor’s face, glared with half closed almond eyes through
long dark hair that hung over his face. The eyes glared directly through
the screen. Nestor showed no recognition or thought, his face was a
silent, immovable mask.

Nestor's
dark skin showed no lines of worry or wrinkles of question and, except for the
white scar that went from his temple to the corner of his mouth, Nestor seemed
unchanged by the years. Nestor looked exactly as he had in that smoky
Mombasa bar so many years ago, right before Jacob had opened his face with the
edge of his knife. Jacob remembered the sound of the knife while he
stared at Nestor.

Jacob didn't
breathe.

Finally
Nestor nodded his head and said, "Okay, Jacob. I’ll be there.
I might not kill you. I’ll have to think about that.”

“Okay, turn
it off. We're done here,” Jacob ordered.

“And the
other one? The President's feed?”

Jacob looked
over at the other screen where he saw the reflection of October’s smiling face
in his own living room mirror.

“As
planned. We’re leaving. Turn them off.”

Just as Arian flipped the switch,
Jacob heard October laughing his name.