The Mayan Apocalypse (18 page)

Garrett returned to his apartment with a bag of burgers and fries in one hand. He also carried a mind full of frustrations. Two days on the job, and so far he had managed to tick off his uncle and watch the reporter who was supposed to be training him fly
off to Oklahoma, leaving him to help with obituaries, photocopies, and filing. He was a reporter, not a secretary. He should have been allowed to go with Lisa. How else would he learn?

The apartment was a mess, but Garrett gave it little thought. It was always a mess. Necco hadn't made it worse, nor had he improved it. He set the burgers down on a battered coffee table, turned on the television, and went to the refrigerator. Necco had nearly cleaned it out. For such a skinny guy, he ate like an alligator. At least he had left a can of Coke. There was no food. Garrett had anticipated that. It was why he had picked up fast food on the way home.

He returned to the living room and glanced at the desk where he and Necco had set up their respective computers. Necco's laptop was gone. A sticky note hung from the desktop monitor:
Thanks for the challenge
.
You owe me.

Garrett was beat. He had been up all night, worked all day, and now he was too tired to look at Necco's latest research. He turned to the television and then back to the computer. Snatching up the fast-food bag, he turned off the television and switched on the computer. He had finished the first bacon cheeseburger by the time the machine booted.

After unwrapping the second cheeseburger, Garret studied his desktop. An icon caught his eye: a roll of Neccos. Garrett shook his head. His friend was definitely weird.

He double-clicked on the icon, and a document filled the screen. It was a single page with blue links to web sites, and notes arranged in short sentences. The last note read:
I could be wrong, but I think they may have sniffed us out. I cleared your Internet history. Destroy this.

“Oh great, so much for you being Mr. Invisible.”

Someone knocked on his door.

L
isa shifted in the front seat of the Mercedes SLK Roadster and then shifted again. The sleek car looked like it could outrace a missile, but that wasn't what made her nervous. As sporty and fast as the car appeared, Morgan drove slowly over the surface streets. She couldn't decide if he was being gentle for her sake or if he was just a cautious driver.

Maybe he just wants to spend a few extra minutes with me.
She jerked her head to the side. Where had that thought come from? She wasn't here for any other reason than to get the interview. She told herself that several times.

“Are you okay? Doze off? I have that effect on people.”

“No. I'm fine. I just…I have no idea what I was doing. Day-dreaming, I guess.”

“About what?”

She looked at him. The sun, which was now low in the sky, nevertheless illuminated his handsome features. Lisa shrugged. “Nothing. My mind tends to run off on its own.”

“I know that feeling. My mind is seldom where my body is.” He exhaled noisily, started to speak, but she cut him off.

“Let me guess—you're trying to decide whether to give me the interview.”

Their eyes met for a moment. “I don't see how I can do that.”

“I promise to not make you look like a wacko.”

“Oh, so you plan to lie.”

She grinned. “I'll have you know, Mr. Morgan, I'm addicted to the truth.”

“Isn't ‘truthful reporter' an oxymoron?”

“Watch it.”

“I can't do the interview.”

She expected that. “What can I do to change your mind? After all, I came a long way.”

“Which was your decision.” He checked the rearview mirror. “In some ways, I'm a public man. I'm not movie-star famous, but I head a publicly held company. That means I have thousands of stockholders to answer to. If the CEO looks flaky—and, let's face it, believing the world may come to an end in 2012 will strike some people as flaky—they may think I'm unfit for this job.”

This was going badly. Morgan struck her as the kind of man who digs his heels in deeper when pushed to do something he didn't want to do. “Do you really believe the world will end eighteen months from now?”

“I believe something dramatic—probably catastrophic—will happen.”

“Then what does it matter if some of your stockholders will think you've gone ‘round the bend'?”

“It doesn't mean anything to me personally, but I won't do anything that will negatively impact the firm. I have a duty to thousands of workers.”

“Okay, how about this: We do the interview, but I never mention your name, Morgan Natural Energy, or even the state you live in. I could just call you a high-ranking executive who wishes to remain anonymous. I don't know if my editor will go for it, but he might.”

He stared through the window and Lisa felt a moment of hope. At least he was thinking about it.

“Why is this important?”

“Because the 2012 flap is going to increase in the months ahead. It has to. Do you remember all the Y2K hubbub? In the end, a couple of microwaves quit working, but the claims of power outages, loss
of personal information, the digital crash of hospital electronics, the suspension of credit, and cars no longer able to start turned out to be nothing but the fruit of imagination.”

“I remember. It might interest you that I thought all that was nonsense.”

“You see, that's what I want to write about. Why do you believe the 2012 theorists now, but before the year 2000, you dismissed the doomsayers then?”

She caught him glancing at the clock on the dash. She felt the car speed up.

“I've done my research. Let's just leave it at that.”

War broke out in Lisa's mind. Her impulse was to tell him that she couldn't leave it at that, but the thinking part of her brain reminded her that the night had gone a long way to heal the rift between them. To spout off now could upend the progress.

She spoke softly. “I might as well lay it all on the line. I know you're thinking of dropping me off at my car, but I'm going to risk being forward. I want to go back to your place.”

He turned to her, his forehead furrowed with confusion. “Are you going Candy on me?”

“Going Candy—no. Not at all.” She felt her face warm. “I didn't meant that. Boy, do I need to rephrase that.”

Morgan laughed. “Okay. Rephrase.”

“I want to listen in on your video conference.”

“Well, that was straightforward.”

“I'm running out of road. We'll be to your place in minutes. I can't think of a clever way to ask.”

He drummed his finger on the steering wheel. “You know, it's supposed to be a private meeting.”

“Listen, Andrew. I'm sensing a strong disconnect between what you say you believe and how you act about your belief. It's confusing.”

Too direct?

“Confusing how?”

“If you truly believe the world is going to be negatively impacted in December of 2012 and that lives will be lost, then I'd think you'd want to do something about it. Save whomever you could.”

“Maybe I'm a selfish jerk. Maybe I'm out only to save myself.”

Lisa shook her head. “You told me earlier that you're a good judge of character. Well, so am I. It's a required skill in my profession. I need to be able to judge if someone is jerking me around. My gut tells me you're one of the good guys.”

“You could be wrong.”

“Of course I could, but I'm not.”

Morgan slowed the car as they approached his home. Lisa felt a moment of hope.

“I don't have time to give this proper consideration.” He pulled into the drive but stopped at the closed gate. He parked the car and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Lisa let him think, fighting the swelling urge to pressure him to acquiesce.

“You said you were addicted to the truth. Is that the truth, or just Christian hyperbole?”

“I meant it. For me, it's part of my faith. I let my yes mean yes and my no mean no.”

Morgan turned in his seat. “I don't have time to debate this. I'm cutting it thin as it is. Here's the deal: You can listen in. You will say nothing. You will stay out of sight. You will publish nothing without my permission. I will give you the interview, but my name, position, firm, and location will not be revealed.”

“No reporter makes her article contingent on the approval of anyone but her editor—”

Morgan dropped the car into reverse and began to back onto the street.

“Wait.”

He stopped.

Lisa stared at the dashboard, but her mind churned with other images, primarily those of an angry editor. “Maybe we could—”

“No. That's my deal. It's my way or nothing.”

“But—”

“No. Is it a deal?”

“I need a minute.”

“I don't have a minute.” Again, he put the Mercedes in reverse.

“Okay. Deal.”

“You sure?”

She frowned. “What alternative do I have?”

“Go home and forget the whole thing.”

She shook her head and wondered if it was really the story driving her decision.

Morgan pulled forward again, pressed a button on the remote control for the gate, and pulled to the house.

Garrett was uncertain of where he was. For the first few moments, he thought he was snuggled in bed, but the mattress was too hard and the sheets didn't feel right—too rough. He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. Only one opened. There was no ceiling light above him. His bedroom had a ceiling light with an ancient-looking glass diffuser populated by dead bugs. This ceiling was familiar, like the one in the living room of his apartment.

He turned his head, an act that sent lightning bolts of pain down his neck and into his back. The tables at the side of the living room that held his computer equipment stood bare. A tangle of computer cords rested on the floor. The place was lit by the light from the five-foot-by-five-foot foyer.

He tried to sit up, but the pain was too much. With each new awakening moment, the pain grew. It hurt to breathe, and his legs refused to respond as they should. As his pain grew, so did his awareness. Several facts competed for his attention. He struggled to sort them out, and with each new realization, his agony grew more excruciating. Every inhalation told him his ribs were broken; every effort to
sit up let him know that one arm was busted. A few seconds later, he came to understand that both legs were broken just below the knees.

Shock. He decided that he was still in shock. It was the only reason he wasn't screaming. His mind remained muddled. He couldn't recall what happened, but enough brain cells were firing for him to realize he was in big trouble.

Turning his head to the left, he saw his cell phone, or what was left of his cell phone. He tasted blood, and the left side of his shirt was wet.

He forced his head to move to the right—to the computer center. A phone lay on the floor, but the cord had been cut.

Garrett began to weep from pain, fear, and frustration. With the one arm that still worked, he touched his side and saw blood. A flash of memory returned. He recalled being stabbed. If he didn't receive help soon, he would die.

He couldn't make it to the door, but he might be able to do something else. He used his working arm to push his way to a small set of plastic drawers beneath the table. To reach it, he had to travel three feet. It felt like crawling three miles. Every movement stabbed him with pain. Darkness hovered at the edge of his vision, threatening to flood his eyes forever. Another inch brought another million volts of electric pain.

He cried.

He groaned.

He whimpered.

Sweat drenched him by the time he had inched his way to the plastic drawers. Half of his mind prayed for death. The other half refused to listen.

With two fingers, he pulled open the bottom drawer. Although just a few inches deep, it was too tall for Garrett to reach in. He pulled more until the storage drawer slipped from its home. It took three tries, but he managed to upend it. Computer and video cords tumbled out. He ran his hand through the tangle, struggling to keep enough of his wits to distinguish one cord from another.

Moments passed like decades until he found the one that felt right. He lifted it and saw the business end of a phone cord, an extra he had from when he upgraded to DSL service.

After taking several deep breaths, Garrett inched to the wall. He tried to stay focused. It took eight tries to slip the plastic connector into the phone jack. He gave himself a thirty-second break, and then he forced his trembling fingers to search for the other end, hoping that it wasn't hopelessly intertwined with the other cords. He wished he were a neater person.

He found the plug and brought it to his mouth, slipping it between his teeth. There was a copper taste in his mouth he knew came from blood, not the phone cord.

He swept his arm along the floor, hoping he was close enough to the fallen phone. He didn't have the strength or endurance to move along the floor another inch. His hand hit the knot of loose cables, the plastic drawer, then the cool plastic of the phone. Tears coursed down his cheeks.

Moving the phone was like moving a concrete block. His strength was fading. He pulled it close, lifted it, and set the base on his chest. Fingers probed the back of the device until he found the port. Removing the jack from his teeth, he made several attempts to connect it. Finally he felt the gentle click he was praying for.

The handset lay next to him. He lifted and dropped it in the cradle. One second later, he lifted it again and placed it next to his ear, hearing the sweetest sound ever: a dial tone.

“Second row,” he whispered to himself, “third button—no… third row, third button.”

Nine.

“Think, think.” Gray fog swirled in his blood-deprived brain. “First button, first row.” He ran his fingers on the keypad.

One.

“Again.”

One.