Phoenix (18 page)

"Finally started showing it, huh?" Brad
asked.

"Yeah," Adams croaked.

Brad grimaced. "Sorry." To Mort he whispered,
"How long?"

Mort leaned against the archway next to him.
"Started showing it a couple hours ago."

"Lot of good that does now."

The anchor moved from showing clips of people
being attacked and gutted by other people on the streets of Boston
to blaming North Korea for what they’d just seen. They replayed
bits of a presidential address where the president vowed to
retaliate against those who had attacked, promising to use every
weapon at his disposal to rid the planet of the monsters who had
caused this.

Mort whispered next to Brad, "Now what?"

Brad didn’t have a reply.

"Everything is progressing as planned, sir."
Briggs spoke into his cell, standing in the shadows of a great
stone entryway. There was a flurry of activity flowing in and out
of the entrance, and from Briggs’ vantage point, he could observe
and report it all. "The unit has been briefed, the team of
scientists arrived an hour ago, and our agents are overseeing the
Operation."

"That is good to hear, Agent. Should I then
assume you were…convincing?" Rakburn asked.

Briggs chuckled and dropped his cigarette on
the ground, crushing it with the heel of his boot. "Yes, sir. They
are completely convinced this is a matter of national security, and
what we are seeing is the result of a terrorist attack. They also
believe there will be more attacks in the future."

"I wonder what would have given them that
idea."

"What indeed, sir."

"So you are confident things will proceed
there with nary a snag?"

"Completely, sir."

"You had better be. Otherwise I will save you
the uncomfortable death that seems to be awaiting those who are
left behind at the moment. You may rest assured of that."

"The first group of subjects has already been
brought in, and like I said, the scientists are already here. They
were preparing—"

"Survivors, Agent Briggs. Those people are
survivors, not
subjects
. You would do well to remember
that."

Briggs paused, then cleared his throat. "Yes,
sir." He watched as the last few people, staff members mostly,
disappeared inside the building and the two National Guardsmen
outside shut and secured the huge door. He stared at the Phoenix
logo engraved in the center, nearly forgetting his superior was
still waiting on the other end of the line. "Will you be arriving
soon, sir?"

"With any luck, yes. At the moment, I am on
my way to rendezvous with my granddaughter. I will be bringing her
with me, so make sure there is an extra cot in my quarters."

Sir?"

"Do not question. Just do."

The line went dead and Briggs snapped his
phone shut. "Cantankerous old bastard," he mumbled, nodding to the
Guardsman as he swiped his key card and opened the door for the
agent. "As you were," Briggs said over his shoulder, and
disappeared into the huge complex of the CC.

* * *

Rakburn tried calling several other agents
during his time on the road. He was greeted with either a recorded
message saying all circuits were busy, or voicemail prompts. He
turned to his Psi gifts for aid only one time, but they were
stopped cold by a great deal of noisy and painful interference.

He glanced to his left as he drew closer to
the city. The outbound lanes of the highway were a nightmare. The
dead had finally worked their way into the vicinity. Rakburn drove
on the wrong side of the road and was thankful for the concrete
divide. Zombies overran vehicle after vehicle. Those who thought
they’d be safe inside their cars were dragged back out. The
tailgaters tried to fight them off but were overwhelmed. Rakburn
pushed down on the gas and left the massacre behind. His lanes were
clear for as far as he could see. The city was coming into view,
but that was not his destination. Faint plumes of smoke rose high
in the sky, scattered about and indicated several fires blazing
somewhere deep within. Perhaps downtown. A large military
helicopter whizzed by overhead, rattling his door window. He leaned
forward and looked up through the windshield, watching it hum
toward the city. An exit sign passed on his right and he flipped on
the turn signal. He realized this was idiotic considering there was
no one behind him and bumped it with the back of his hand,
switching it off.

What he could see of the city veered away to
his left as he drove up the steep embankment leading to his
objective. He had only been there once before and wasn’t entirely
certain he remembered the way. Rakburn stopped at a stop sign and
closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and opening his Psi senses
again. His ears were greeted with what was becoming a predictable,
piercing buzz, and his mind’s eye looked upon a screen of white
snow.

He focused, tightening down on his parameters
and shoving everything else off to the side. Rakburn concentrated
only on his granddaughter, imagining her face, her laugh, and the
sound of her voice. The buzz diminished by half. He allowed himself
a small smile and exerted even more effort. He remembered the last
Christmas they had spent together and pictured her in the dress
he’d given her. The snapshot grew clearer and clearer, pushing away
all but a very small amount of the noise.

By this time, sweat was beginning to soak
through his dress shirt and pain was shooting from the back of his
head and down his neck.

Rakburn opened his eyes and stepped through
the doorway in his mind, into her room. It was empty. A suitcase
sat next to the door. Shattered glass crunched beneath his feet.
Someone had thrown a chair through the window next to her bed. He
leaned through the opening and looked down. On the sidewalk lay a
body, its legs twisted at the hips and one armed pinned beneath its
back. He couldn’t tell the gender, or make out much detail. Seeing
things this way was often hazy.

Rakburn turned in a circle, and his eyes
stopped on the suitcase. "She was waiting for me," he whispered.
"Of course she was." He pulled back out of her room and out of her
building, shutting his mind’s doorway behind him. Rakburn dried his
face with his handkerchief, turned the car around, and drove back
the way he came. He never should have left her alone with them, or
let their association go on for as long as he had. At the time he’d
thought: better the devil you know.

It was too late to play Monday morning
quarterback. At least now he knew exactly where to find Isabel.

* * *

Brad stared at his cell phone. His morning
coffee sat untouched next to it. Every few minutes the same number
popped up on the screen, and even after seeing it a dozen times
already, he still couldn’t believe it. The thirteenth time the
phone rang, Mort walked in and glanced over Brad’s shoulder as he
passed by. He did a double-take and leaned over so far he almost
blocked Brad’s view.

"Is that who I think it is?"

Brad pushed him away and flipped the phone
over. "No." He grumbled a little more and grabbed his coffee cup.
It was cold but he drank it anyway.

Mort pulled a cup from the cupboard and
poured his own. "Yes it was."

"No," Brad made a face, "it wasn’t."

"How long’s it been since you talked to
her?"

Brad started to answer, then something
stopped him. A memory tried to dig its way out of his mind,
something he’d forgotten or intentionally buried. Given the nature
of their former relationship, the latter was more likely. "I’m…not
sure."

Mort grunted and sipped coffee. "Not sure?
I’m guessing you’d remember the last time you talked to that
bi—"

"Hey, easy now."

Mort humped his shoulders. "Okay, okay.
Sorry." He made his way around to where Brad sat and flipped the
phone back over. "Answer it next time then. Prove me wrong."

Brad sighed. "Drink your coffee."

"Uh huh," Mort answered, and headed toward
the living room.

On cue, the phone rang again.

"Goddammit," Brad swore and answered.
"Hello."

"Why haven’t you been answering your
phone?"

Her sharp tone was music to his ears. He
frowned. "Hello to you too, Kasey."

"So you’re not dead. What a relief."

"No, I’m not dead. What do you want?" He
walked over and poured out half his cup, then refilled it with hot
coffee from the pot.

"What do I want? Um, have you not looked
outside? Maybe turned on a television?"

He flinched and stopped halfway back to his
seat. "Yes. Why?" He jerked the phone away to protect his eardrum
from her outburst. Once the noise from the earpiece quieted down,
he returned it to his head. "I’m not a dog. You want to repeat that
so we humans can hear it?"

"You know, I called to apologize for not
believing you when you told me about this shit. I should’ve known
better. Oh, what ever in the world was I thinking?"

Brad’s coffee cup drifted to the kitchen
island. "I told you about this shit?"

"Oh my
God
. Did you hit your head or
something?"

That digging feeling was coming back. Brad
scratched his head and tried to remember. "Just humor me, okay? So
I told you about the whole dead walking around thing? You mean I
actually called you?"

"Yes! Do you seriously not remember or are
you doing that thing where you pretend you don’t remember just to
stay out of trouble."

Brad sighed.

"And don’t sigh at me."

He mimed choking the phone and a flash of
something went through his head. He remembered sitting on the edge
of his bed back at his apartment, talking to someone on his cell,
and performing the exact same motion. "You were mad."

"Sounds about right. I haven’t heard from you
since. Figured since the shit hit the fan here today, I’d call and
say you were right and I was sorry for not believing you."

"Holy…" Brad wiped his mouth and stepped
around the island so he could see through the dining room and into
the living room. Mort was planted in front of the TV. He turned his
back and mumbled into the phone, "So you’re okay?"

"Obviously."

"What are you going to do? Are you alone? Do
you need—"

"No, no, no," she chuckled. "Don’t even go
there. You just take care of yourself. I got this under control.
Later, Lincoln."

She hung up before Brad could argue any
further. He debated calling her back.

Don’t
bother
.
Stubborn
ass
.
Same
old
Kasey
.

Instead he crammed his phone into his back
pocket and hurried into the living room. He stopped between Mort
and the TV, causing the older man to lean over so he could see the
screen. Brad took a step to the side and Mort leaned the other
way.

They went back and forth that way until Mort
finally said, "You make a better door than a window."

"That night you thought I died? I called her,
apparently."

Mort looked up. "Why the hell would you do
that?"

"To warn her."

"To
warn
her!" He jumped up from the
couch. "How much did you tell her?"

Brad patted the air. "Take it easy. I only
told her what was going to happen and how I thought she should
prepare for it."

Mort laughed. "You told her what was going to
happen
?
You
told
her
how she should prepare?"
He cleared his throat and rubbed an eye. "Let me guess. She didn’t
take it well. What were you thinking? For one, you knew she
wouldn’t believe you. And two, you don’t just go telling normal
people about this shit and about us. Yeah, she kind of knew already
because you two were," Mort made an obscene gesture with his hands
and screwed his nose up, "but you just don’t do that."

Brad threw his hands up and spun around.
"Yeah, I’m getting that."

He paced to the window and looked across the
street to the Henderson’s old house. He ran that night through his
head, piecing together what Kasey had told him and the few things
he was beginning to remember. He’d gone to the building across the
street from his, investigated that apartment the agent had been
watching from, found the note, came home, called her, and evidently
passed out. The next day he paid a visit to Mr. Boucher. He
remembered feeling sick, and the only reason he remembered that was
because he was starting to feel the same way now.

"Oh," Mort spoke up.

Brad kept his attention firmly on the
Henderson’s. "What."

"That’s odd."

"
What
." Brad’s jaw clenched.

"You’re not invisible anymore." Mort joined
Brad by the window. "What did you just do?"

Brad shook his head. "Nothing."

Mort didn’t reply and instead took his pen
from his pocket and tapped his leg. "You didn’t, did you…hmm." He
could see smoky tendrils of blues and greens circling around his
mental snapshot of Brad, and he could even see the beginnings of
sharper, red hooks sprouting from around picture-Brad’s head. He
tapped his pen faster, causing the colors to translate into
readable emotions.

"Knock it off."

Mort hovered around Brad and talked to
himself. "Yeah, seems like there was a memory block on that cloak.
But why? That agent would have his reasons, I suppose. Must have
been something in that apartment, maybe? Maybe something he wanted
forgotten?"

"Mort." Brad pushed him back a little and
wobbled on his own feet. "I’m glad you’re having so much fun
reading me again, but could you give me some space before I ruin
your carpet?"

"Oh, oh, don’t do that." Mort backed off in a
hurry. He squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head, putting away
his Brad-picture and everything that swirled around it.