The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) (2 page)

“I had fail safes built into his brain patterns. When
he was caught, there was certain information he could reveal, and some things
that his mind would not allow him to, no matter how badly he was beaten. Sadly,
it didn't occur to me to keep him from being able to reveal that there was a
cure for The Virus. But at least there was no way he could reveal this
location. To be honest, with his limited memory, I didn't expect him to be any
real asset to Archer anyway, and didn't expect Archer to immediately imprison
him. I only placed the fail safes there as an afterthought in the first place.
But I considered their necessity to be of the utmost unlikelihood.

“However, once he met you, he was programmed to tell
you about the island, so you could find your way to me here. There were access
points on the island configured to your biometrics that nobody else could
access. That way, even if you were followed, or deceived, only you would be
able to find out on the island that this fortress existed, and subsequently
find your home.”

“This is not my home,” I spit. “And Jonathan was
tortured for days and he
couldn't
talk? Just in case you were
wondering, you're not endearing yourself to me.”

Damian sighs. “When you say it that way, it sounds
quite inhumane, but yes. I didn't count on him being tortured for information.
You should know I had no desire for him to suffer.”

Thanks. I feel so much better now.

“You said you only recently had need to contact me.
Why?”

Damian sits for a long time before answering, and I
wait, keeping eye contact.

At last, he says, “Because we're nearing the end of
something wonderful. Something beyond imagination.” He sounds wistful, like a
kid dreaming about Disneyland. “But that part I don't think you're ready to
hear yet.”

“Try me,” I say, but something in his expression
changes, a wall going up.

“No,” he says flatly. “Not yet.”

A flash of hot anger surges up my spine. He hasn't told
me anything important yet, and he's deceived if he thinks I'm going to let him
put me off. I stand to my feet and speak low, in hushed tones, but the coldness
of my voice drips with danger.

“Father or no father, you owe me an explanation, and
you're a fool if you think I'm going to let you put me off for another second. Whatever
freaked out idea of trust you're looking to find in me, don't bother, because I
will never trust you, and I couldn't care less if you trust me or not. So how
about we dispense with the pleasantries, and you start telling me everything,
or things are going to start getting rough. We need that cure, and I don't
have time to entertain your sadistic whims.”

Damian is a tall man and slim. I outweigh him by at
least twenty pounds of muscle, and he knows I'm an experienced fighter, but
despite my threats, he shows not the slightest inkling of fear or trepidation. In
fact, he actually smiles.

He speaks, but not to me. “Computer, please target and
prepare to fire upon my present guest.”

Oh crap. My mind races as I remember the stunt I
pulled on Johnson at the island lab, but without knowing from which direction
an attack will come, I'm limited as to my defensive choices.

The computer’s response sounds almost happy. “Confirmed.
Do you authorize deadly force?”

Damian watches me closely, and despite the smug look on
his face, his voice almost sounds sad.

“No,” he says. “On my command, just tranquilize him.” He
pauses. “For now.”

I find myself actually breathing a sigh of relief, but
the old hatred I feel for him resurfaces, stronger than ever. How dare he? I
consider trying to jump him, but knowing how efficient the protective system
was in the lab on the island, I have no desire to be tranquilized and spend
heaven knows how long in a drugged sleep.

Instead, I draw myself up to my full height. “I don't
know what game you're playing at, or why you treat all of this so nonchalantly,
but you're treading on dangerous ground.”

“No, Cray. You are most definitely on my ground now,
and as such, we'll follow my timetable. As I said before, I have need of you
here, but if I have to, I will do what I must. There's a time for everything,
but I'm not ready yet to reveal all of my cards to you. Think what you want,
but I have my reasons. I understand your purpose for being here, but we can be
friends or enemies. I want your trust, but I don't
need
it. I know you
won't do anything stupid. You're much too smart for that. My suggestion is
that you and Mira get comfortable. You're going to be here a while.”

That was four weeks ago.

And so we come back to the present. The most surprising
revelation of all was that Damian wasn't alone here. Far from it. There are
dozens of people, not including Damian's staff, and all of them possess the
same physical superiority that Mira does. They're all super humanly strong and
fast. As far as I've been able to ascertain, they're all clones of various
people, probably brainwashed, and deceived into thinking Damian is God's gift
to the world.

They're of various ages and ethnic backgrounds, and
they've all been practically bottle-fed and trained by Damian ever since their
"conception", which amounts to fertilized embryonic clones in a glorified
test tube.

One of the crazy things they do for fun is fight each
other. They have a series of fights that determines who will be the top dog for
a given time. There's no real prize involved except respect. It didn't take
long after we arrived and everyone found out who we are that they wanted us to
join in their little games. I guess they weren't happy enough pounding each
other senseless, but they wanted to beat up any visitors as well.

Mira refused for obvious reasons – her injuries, and
the fact that she's too smart to be manipulated into a peeing contest. I on the
other hand, just couldn't resist the temptation. Besides, it breaks up the
boredom and it's helping me build a little camaraderie with the petri dish kids
that otherwise has been slow coming.

As for the guards and Damian's staff, they still
haven't cut us any slack. I think they would all prefer just to shoot us and be
done with it, but Damian has forbid it.

So I've worked my way up through the ranks of fighters
over the past weeks. Graelin is sort-of the supreme dude around here. He
usually stays in the top slot, and as such, is more or less the leader of the
clones after Damian. The center of this gargantuan fortress is a geodesic dome
comprised of lush vegetation, trees, and even crops. There's a clearing roughly
near the center that has been requisitioned as the "fighting arena"
when it's not being used for picnics and recreation.

Sometimes the people will bring strange little pets
with them, obviously modified and spliced combinations of creatures that used
to be normal. I'm pretty sure I saw a cross between an armadillo and a squirrel
one day sitting on a kid's hand like a gerbil would. I just hope they're not
using any of these freaky things for our dinners.

Most of the living spaces here amount to lavish
apartments that expand through multiple floors surrounding the lower levels of
the dome. Windows and balconies look out on the enclosure like it's a getaway
resort. One of the rooms has been appropriated for me and Mira. Truth be told,
it is super nice and apart from the initial encounter in his office, Damian has
been very kind to us, which makes me trust him even less.

Anyway, the problem with fighting Graelin and any of
the other clones is that they're as strong as bulldozers with the speed of
snakes. I have to keep my wits about me during a fight or I'll end up like a
fly under a swatter. Also, unlike them, I don't have the benefit of healing at
light speed. I think that's one of the reasons they find this so darned
entertaining; barring losing a limb, they get over their injuries pretty
quickly.

It's technically supposed to be against the rules to
use weapons of any kind, but I've driven Graelin to desperation. Up to this
point, he hasn't gotten in a hit. He's bleeding from the nose and likely has
some fractured ribs. I had just knocked him to the ground and expected him to
stay there, when he grabbed the fallen tree limb and caught me off guard. I was
being stupid. I usually draw these things out for entertainment and my own enjoyment,
but none of them can really approach my skill level in a fight. I was able to
move fast enough to keep from taking the blow full force, but it still feels
like my skull will explode, and stars dance in front of my eyes like Tinkerbell.

Graelin leaps back to his feet as I stagger backwards
like a drunk, shaking my head to clear the haze, ignoring the pain, and
struggling to see straight. He's already charging full speed and I only have
time to react.

I've tried not to be overly vicious during my brief
stint in the Damian Harbin Arctic fighting league, but I'm dazed, and that puts
me in real danger. He unleashes a massive haymaker with enough power to cleave
my head from my shoulders, but it's so telegraphed I have more than enough time
to throw up both arms in a block despite my disorientation. I absorb most
of the impact in my arms, but even so, the power of the awkward strike tosses
me five feet onto my back. My forearms are aching from the impact and
Graelin grabs his right arm in pain.

Now he’s more enraged than ever. I don't have time to
stand before he steps forward and raises a huge foot to stomp me into a
pancake. I finally allow my perception to speed up until everything seems to
slow to a crawl. I haven't used the ability in the fights before. It just isn't
fair to them, but right now, I feel that survival is paramount.

Like a flash, I kick up with both legs, my left
blocking his stomping foot while my right makes solid contact with his groin.
He staggers, moaning, and I roll to my feet. But even in his agony, he's not
done, and he tries to come at me again. I slam my palm into his chest with just
the right amount of force. Too much and I'll kill him. But I hit him just hard
enough to stun him, and he crumples to his knees wheezing.

A quick front kick to the chin lays him out cold. I
feel a little guilty, like I've just taken advantage of a lesser opponent, but
despite that, the crowd cheers like beating up their best fighter is deserving
of a medal. All I can think is how whacked this place is as they clap me on the
back and shake my hand like an Olympian. To the side, they're pulling Graelin
to his feet, and I’m glad he appears to be alright.

I skim through the crowd, accepting the praise and
congratulations from the passersby. I'm tempted to say, “No problem, glad to
beat up your friend,” but I decide that level of sarcasm may not be helpful. To
the side, some of the children pretend to fight, reenacting my take-down of
Graelin. I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Even out here in no-man's land, these clones have
developed a fascination with combat, like the Roman gladiators, or South
American bullfighters. What is it that drives humanity to violence? We seem to
inevitably resort to hurting each other, often in the name of fun. Not that I'm
pointing fingers. I am certainly no saint in that area. Just about my whole
life has revolved around fighting and death.

I leave the milling crowd behind me and enter a long
hallway, my face still pounding from Graelin's hit. Despite the sophistication
of this place, with the exception of individual rooms and the dome, the
majority of this fortress is pitifully low-lighted and dreary. As I move
farther into the darkened interior of the fortress, the sound of the crowd
behind me starts to lessen, replaced by something much more disturbing and
foreboding.

The new sound of cries and moans reaches me long before
I get to the entrance I'm heading for. The screeching is muffled, but still
noticeable. I hope no one lives in this section of the fortress and has to put
up with that day and night.

I keep walking until I reach a large entryway.
The room beyond smells conversely of antiseptic and putrefaction, a cloud-like
vapor hanging in the air. As I enter, the guard in black holding an AK-47 looks
me over with a scowl. I pucker my lips in a mock kiss to him, and he utters
something unintelligible under his breath. I'm pretty sure he wasn't being
welcoming.

I amble through the cavernous room, past rows and rows
of 10x10x10 acrylic boxes that line the floor like giant rodent cages. A
mishmash of wires and tubes run from the tops of each into the darkened ceiling
high overhead. Only a few of the cages are unoccupied. The rest contain
Festers, one per box, creating a macabre scene, each one in various stages of
The Virus. I eye each one as I pass, each face forever seared into my memory.
Some of the Festers ignore me completely, while others seem unconscious and
almost peaceful, like they're sleeping. Others slam themselves into the
three-inch-thick transparent walls of their cells in a mad attempt to reach me,
their mouths snarling and teeth gnashing.

Not long ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about
ending their misery. But things have changed so quickly I feel that I can
barely keep up. I think back on all of the Festers I've killed. How many has it
been? Thirty thousand? Forty thousand? Each one was a life that stood a chance
of recovery. My stomach turns at the thought. I try in vain to tell myself it
was done in ignorance, but my heart doesn't care. I can only see the
lives destroyed.

For the thousandth time I think of the irony of it all.
The very creatures I saw as detestable enemies are the very ones most in need
of help, while people like Archer and Damian turned out to be the true monsters.
The Festers are driven by sickness and madness, but the humans are the sickest
of all, because they're aware of the consequences of their actions, yet they
charge ahead with reckless abandon.

I turn a corner and see her. If she notices my
approach, she doesn't signal it. Instead, she sits in front of a Fester box, as
Damian calls them, watching a poor woman inside scream and claw herself in the
throes of The Virus. I watch the sad creature for a moment before placing a
hand on Mira's back. Under her shirt, I can feel the deep gouges that disfigure
her once perfect form, and I give in to the overwhelming need to wrap my arms
around her, to feel her close. Her hands find mine and our fingers interlock.

"How's your face?" she asks wryly.

I grunt in amusement. I never even saw her look up at
me. I haven't seen myself in a mirror, but I'm sure my face carries a nasty
mark.

"I'll live," I say. "He didn't get a lot
of force behind it. Why didn't you come?"

She finally looks up at me. Much of her body is mangled
from taking a grenade blast to save my life, but her face remains angelic. Her
beaming smile is as radiant as always, her dazzlingly green eyes sparkling, but
her expression is also tinged with sadness, or perhaps guilt. It's subtle, but
it's always there now, and though I understand, I would give anything to be
able to erase it.

"Because I don't really care to watch you get the
crap kicked out of you," she says.

Her tongue and wit are as sharp as ever.

"What if I had died?" It's a silly notion –
one meant as a joke, and she takes it accordingly.

"Oh please," she says. "There's no one
here you couldn't take, genetically enhanced or not. They're tough,
intelligent, good fighters even, but you're light years ahead of them in the
butt-kicking department. Am I wrong?" she says raising her eyebrows.

I don't bother to reply. She knows I get a kick out of
the games.

“Men,” she says impishly.

“Hey,” I say, “lots of the women fight too, you know?”

“Whatever.”

She pulls one of my hands lightly to her lips, placing
a soft kiss on my bruised knuckles, before turning her attention back to the
Fester woman in the cage. The woman is sitting in a corner now, her tongue
lolling from her mouth. Her fingers claw at an irritated place on her arm. She
continues to scratch at the spot until small streaks of blood begin to appear
as she tears through the aggravated skin. If it hurts her, she doesn't seem to
notice. Pulling her hand away suddenly, she looks at the blood on her fingers
as if trying to comprehend where it came from. She stays that way for a long
second, before plunging them into her mouth and licking ravenously at them.

“That's disturbing,” I say.

“Mmm,” Mira sighs softly.

"How long have you been here?" I ask.

We don't speak much about it, but I know that like me,
Mira is haunted by all of the Festers we've exterminated over the years. Her
job as a government agent was different than mine as a Sweeper, but she still
killed her fair share of them, and like me, she did it without the slightest
hesitation.

She speaks in a low tone. "A couple of hours I
guess."

Mira has been coming here more and more over the past
few days. She sits and stares at the poor people in the boxes. I feel like, in
a way, she's trying to do penance for the things she's done.

"Sitting here won't help them," I say. “Or
you.”

"I know." She looks down at the floor, her
eyes distant. "I can't help it. I'm just…drawn to them. It's like, now
that I know the truth, I can see the humanity deep inside, the desperate person
trapped in there trying to get out."

I do know what she means, and I think back to a Fester
woman I shot several months back, right before I met Mira and went on the crazy
mission that changed my life forever. Before pulling the trigger, the Fester
looked at me so strangely, as if trying to tell me something, trying to get me
to understand. Now I realize with revulsion that it could have been the
suffering girl inside trying to communicate with me. But instead of helping, I
put a bullet through her head.

We stay silent for a long time, watching the wretched
woman in the cube. Eventually she rises and paces aimlessly around her cage.
After a few minutes, there's a faint beeping sound and small compartments in
the ceiling of each cube open allowing food to drop inside to the residents.
The Festers attack the food, each at varying levels of voraciousness depending
on the degree of their infection.

We used to believe they were all the same. Now we know
differently. The Virus is fast-moving, but affects every person at a slightly
different rate. But one thing is for certain, the longer someone is infected,
the more crazed and violent they become.