Read The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) Online
Authors: J. Steven Butler
The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2)
SWEEPER: ASSASSIN
J. Steven Butler
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any persons, living or
dead, is coincidental and not the intention of the author.
Email me at
[email protected]
Follow me on Twitter @jsbword
encouragement.
To Ethan – You bring me unending joy and happiness.
You are both my lights and loves.
Table of Contents
Edward Cavaland was born in the year 2045 into a United
States of America rife with political turmoil and social unrest. The citizens
of the country no longer trusted its government, and they had good reason.
Politicians manipulated the system to stay in office and rake in profits on the
backs of the general populace to a degree unheard of before in the country's
history. Sickness and disease were widespread as poverty and unemployment
exploded to an all-time high. There were rumors of revolution, a second civil
war. Many thought the whole system needed to be wiped clean and rebooted.
As if the internal struggles weren't enough, the cold
wars of the twentieth century had resurfaced with a vengeance. Fragile
alliances between nations rose and fell almost daily as the world sought to
gain a foothold in a global economy that was flailing.
Born to poor parents, Cavaland became one of the few
commoners to rise to significant renown in this tumultuous society. Throughout
the first forty years of his life, his brilliance led him to international
fame. A scientific prodigy from childhood, he seemed to have a preternatural
gift with genetics. By age twenty he had cured cancer, HIV, and virtually every
other disease of his time. He was the hero of the entire planet, a beacon of
light in a dark time, and he quickly became one of the most powerful and
influential people alive.
At age 45, at the pinnacle of his career, he
disappeared without a trace. Speculation and shock were widespread. At first,
many thought it was a publicity stunt. Others said the great man needed a
vacation and was taking some well-deserved time off. But after six weeks
with no sighting or contact, the news agencies began to theorize the worst. The
world mourned his loss. Government leaders of all nations stood before their
people and sang the praises of this most amazing man and benefactor, promising
that no stone would be left unturned in the search. But it was all to no
avail. Rumors of kidnapping and murder ran rampant, but despite extensive
worldwide investigation, nothing ever turned up. It was as if he simply
vanished.
It has often been said that the road to Hell is paved
with good intentions, but sometimes men pave it knowing good and well where it
leads.
Cray
Nothing makes you feel as alive as having your face
smashed with a tree. At least, alive in the sense that every nerve in your head
crackles with intense, blinding pain to the point that you're willing to die to
make it stop.
Let me bring you up to speed. The Neanderthal that just
hit me is named Graelin, pronounced Gray-lin, and "tree" is a bit of
an exaggeration, although that's how it felt to me. It's complicated how I
ended up here, but I'll try to give you the short and sweet version.
I used to have a pretty amazing life as a Night Sweeper.
I spent my nights killing Festers while the rest of the former United States
counted sheep under their three hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. I lived
in the swanky penthouse of a magnificent hotel in New York City, slept during
the day, got paid a truck load of money, and was well-respected as a modern
warrior.
I was living the high life until all that went south
when I took on a mission to save a man who purportedly created a new strain of
The Virus that created the Festers. I and my new partner were supposed to break
him out of detainment, whisk him away to heaven-knows-where, and let him live
the rest of his life in forced anonymity where he couldn't hurt anybody and
nobody could hurt him.
Things went okay up until the point that we were
ambushed. The guy we rescued got shot, he confessed to being my brother,
and revealed he invented a cure instead of a new Virus strain. Then he died,
and we were kidnapped by a double agent. In a few days’ time, I found out my
new girlfriend was a genetically altered clone, I discovered my real dad is the
man who created The Virus, I was betrayed by my long-time commanding officer,
and I fled to the arctic to find the cure. Confused yet? And if all that
wasn't enough, I should also mention I have a brain that works like a computer,
which I'm finding comes in handy keeping up with all of this crap.
What Mira and I found in the arctic was nothing short
of incredible…and bizarre. My real father's name is Damian Harbin, creator of
The Virus, the scourge that led to the death of billions and the creation of
the Festers, zombie-like people that the world has worked hard to exterminate.
The whole world thought him to be dead. Imagine our shock when we found
him here alive and well and living in a monolithic fortress.
I confess I know little of Damian. The only father I
had growing up was my adoptive father, Hank Sorren. Hank was a good man, a
simple man, until my adoptive mom died. After that he changed. He turned on me
and became distant and hurtful. Overwhelmed by the loss of my mom, he
began treating me like a freak because of my intelligence. In truth, I believe
he had a nervous breakdown. He was never the same. It was a rough
way to grow up.
In my early adulthood, Cedric Archer, the leader of The
Organization, took me in and trained me to be a Sweeper. For a long time I
considered him to be the only
true
father figure I've ever had.
He supported and helped me when Hank didn't. He
made me feel special because of my gifts, whereas Hank made me feel
dysfunctional. But in the end I found out Archer wasn't what I believed
him to be. We discovered he is the covert leader behind The Council of The
States, their puppet master. Unbeknownst to the public, Archer is the real
power holder, and he's set up a virtual dictatorship where he calls all of the
shots.
He wants the cure for himself, not out of a chivalrous
desire to help people, but to use it to establish a new American empire that
will dominate every other country and race left on the planet. He believes the
cure will be the ultimate leverage to coerce the other nations into submission.
I can't argue his logic, but you have to admit that's twisted.
Now back to the arctic. I've never been as shocked as
when Damian walked out of this fortress on the day we arrived here and
introduced himself. My first reaction was not to believe him. My second
reaction was to blow his head off, but Mira and I, mostly Mira, decided to play
it cool. We had no idea what we were facing, and it was better for him to think
we might be on his side until we could get our bearings. Little did I know that
would take weeks.
According to all the reports from our old sources in
the government and The Organization, Damian had been killed under mysterious
circumstances after selling The Virus to the president. Come to find out, one
of Damian's many talents with manipulating genetics was successful cloning. He
created a clone of himself and had it killed in order to make the world believe
he was gone forever, only to come here, his hideaway deep in the arctic, to
continue his plans and plotting.
But apart from superficial details, dear old dad isn't
revealing much of his overall scheme. He’s nothing if not secretive.
I had my first real conversation with him less than a
day after we arrived. We sat across from each other in his office, me feeling
an odd sense of curiosity mingled with disgust. I recall it clearly...
Even though I would never admit it, I'm fascinated by
this man sitting in front of me, this enigma whose blood I share. What traits
of his do I have that I don't even know about? What mannerisms? What
similarities? I remember reading that children will sometimes adopt mannerisms
of deceased parents that they never knew, like little ticks or expressions. I
wonder how much I'm like him, and it’s not a pleasant thought. When I think of
all he's been responsible for, I'm repulsed to think that we share the same
blood.
I try my best to shake off the seething hatred I feel
so I can analyze him without bias. I have a mission here, and indulging my feelings
isn't going to help me accomplish that objective. But it’s difficult. Now
that I know the creator of The Virus is not dead, my hatred for him is more
than just the intangible despising of someone who once existed. I blame
him more than ever for the death of my mom, no matter how inadvertent it was.
He speaks, his voice dignified and gentlemanly, like an
English lord minus the accent. The timbre is a rich baritone. The
effect is disconcertingly soothing.
“Cray,” he says. “I know there are so many things you
want to know. I'm sure you have a multitude of questions, not the least of
which is the reason I sent you away. I want you to know that I am open to
telling you everything, but I have to know that you can be trusted first.”
What? The killer of billions wants to know if
I
can be trusted? Okay, so maybe the guy
is
just a looney toon.
I
almost say so without thinking, but bite off the words before they can leave my
mouth.
Calm dude, stay calm.
Best not to get him on the defensive yet. I
still need information, not just about my past, but about the cure.
He pauses in his conversation, and I get the itching
feeling he knows exactly what I'm thinking. He stares at me calmly, waiting, as
if giving me time to process my own doubts. I don't like it.
“Okay,” I say. “So how about we start with Jonathan?
Seems as good a place as any since it was his appearance that got me all caught
up in this in the first place.”
He looks at the floor, a small sigh parting his lips,
before looking back at me.
“I'm not sure that would be the best place to start,
but if that's what you want.”
His eyes are a deep blue, almost black in the ambient
lighting of the room.
I wait for him to continue, and when he gets no further
response from me, he does.
“Jonathan, and many other things you'll discover from
my past, is not what he appeared to be on the surface.” He pauses again,
weighing his words.
“
Jonathan, like the dead man the government thought
was me, was a clone. You may be happy, or upset, to know that you are my only
child. You've never had any siblings.”
I scoff and stifle a rush of annoyance. “Frankly, I
couldn't care less if I was the only one, or one of a thousand.” If I was
hoping to get a rise out of him, I'm disappointed, but then something else
occurs to me, something that doesn't make sense about Damian's claim that
Jonathan was a clone. “He recognized me,” I say, keeping my voice controlled.
“Don't lie to me. You owe me the truth.”
“It is the truth,” he replies calmly.
“Oh yeah? How could a clone recognize me as if he's
know me all of his life? And what about all the things he knew about me?”
“Implanted memories,” Damian says nonplussed.
“Give me a break! How would that even be possible?” But
even as I say it, I remember on the island Ilana talking about Damian's ability
to manipulate memory.
He smiles humorlessly.
“Ah yes, well, explaining
how
would take more
time than either of us are willing to give at this point, I believe. The nature
of memory manipulation, or more exactly in this instance, creation, is a
complex process to put it lightly.”
I consider that, but I still have an issue with what
he's saying.
“There's more,” I add. “I could see the similarities in
our features. Memories can't create that.”
“Indeed. But you're smart enough to figure that out if
you give it a little thought.”
I chafe at being addressed like a student, but a
possibility does come to mind easily, if this whole fairy tale can be believed.
“You're saying he had your DNA?”
“Not completely. Only a small part, but enough that
some traits could have been passed on. And in this case, to enough of a degree
that similarities could be seen. He was a combination of many interwoven
genetic strands. His code came from several people, some of whom themselves
were clones.”
“You make him sound like a patchwork quilt,” I say.
“An apt, if oversimplified, description. The very
proof of the reality of such things you have seen for yourself in Mira.”
I swallow my irritation. I don't like to think of Mira
in such an impersonal way, but like it or not, it is the truth. I
have
seen it for myself. I accept it, even if I don't like it. But more disturbing,
is the way Damian speaks of them both as if they were no more than plants grown
in a lab. He’s nothing if not impersonal.
“Archer said he'd been tracking him for years; he
followed his research after you died.”
“What?” For the first time he seems a little off
balance. I'm strangely comforted by that small crack in his veneer.
He usually exudes complete control of his emotions. “That's a lie. Archer knew
I had you, but Jonathan was a relatively new creation. Jonathan wasn't on
Archer's radar, and he also didn't do any real research. Archer's great at
deception, as I'm sure you know."
He taps his fingers on his desk rhythmically, his
expression a perfect mask again.
“Believe it or not, Cray, there was once a time I
considered Cedric Archer a friend. It was no accident that he found you with
your adoptive family and recruited you to be a Sweeper. I'm sure he was most
likely responsible for placing you with them in the first place.”
I guess he wants me to say something, and he just sits
there without speaking.
“So what happened between you two? Did he steal your
girlfriend or something?” I ask with a smirk.
“Our friendship came to an end, and then I faked my
death.”
Thanks for clearing that up.
I don't mistake the tone in his voice that says he
isn't going to tell me any more about that situation for now. Okay then, we'll
pick up where we left off.
“So why did you
make
Jonathan, and how did he
end up in Archer's custody?”
“Jonathan had two purposes. One was collecting Festers
for me from the mainland to bring here so I could work on what you call the
cure. But his knowledge about my work was very limited.
“You see, the clones that are here have a lifetime of
memories because they have
lived
a lifetime. However, clones created in
adulthood are somewhat problematic. There are only so many false memories and
so much information that can be placed into their psyche. Jonathan was a prime
example. And the clone that took my place on the island had no memories at all.
He was just a living body that died to give me freedom.”
“Wow, pops. That's cold.”
But Damian doesn't miss a beat. “You of all people
should know by now that sometimes you have to make tough decisions when so much
is riding on your success.”
Now it's my turn with a quick comeback.
“My mom taught me that doing the right thing never
comes at the expense of hurting others.”
I notice Damian's eyebrows furl slightly at the mention
of the word “mom”, but he doesn't comment about it.
“Say what you will. One day you may be faced with just
such a decision, and I would be interested to know how you react then,” he
says. “But for now, that's beside the point.
“Jonathan's main purpose was to seek you out. Like I
said, there was a time when Archer and I were good friends, and I even believed
I could trust him with anything, but he proved his true nature. Until recently,
I had no need to bring you in. Jonathan was given just enough information to
say the right things to help you to find me. Namely, he was able to tell you to
find the island which ultimately led you here. His instructions were to make
contact with Archer, tell him he was my son, and then to get into contact with
you. For obvious reasons, attempting to contact you myself would have been
detrimental to me and my work. That's why I waited so long to try.
“I don't know all of the details, but from what I've
been able to piece together, I again underestimated Archer. He immediately
began pumping Jonathan for information, and unfortunately, Jonathan told him
about the cure. I should have been more careful with that piece of information,
but as they say, hindsight is always 20/20.