The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) (5 page)

When I come to, I have no idea where I am and there’s
an attractive woman with dark hair standing over me saying something I can't
make out. Her voice sounds muffled like my head is stuck in a barrel. I can see
her mouth moving but can't make out the words. My head feels like it's been run
over by an eighteen wheeler. I close my eyes briefly and open them again,
trying to focus on the person talking to me.

"Alex? Alex? Respond if you understand me."

Where am I?
Through the fog I remember an
island, a large concrete enclosure, a tiger the size of a horse, people chasing
us…

"Ilana?" I say, my voice a feathery rasp.

"What did he just say?" Another voice cuts through
the haze – a male voice. A voice I recognize. New, but familiar. I try to shake
off my stupor, and the pieces fall back into place. The voice is my father's.
Damian. Mira. The seizure!

I'm up so fast my head spins. My stomach contorts
and I feel the need to vomit, but I've got bigger problems, and I choke the
feeling back with sheer determination. I close my eyes for a few moments
to try to get the spinning to slow.

The woman who was standing over me is talking again.

"Easy," she says. "Take it easy. You're
okay. You have a pretty bad concussion," she says soothingly.

I focus on her again. She’s young, maybe early
twenties, with deep brunette hair pinned up on either side. She wears a
stained white lab coat over scrubs. It occurs to me that that seems
unnecessary in a God-forsaken place like this. She tries to ease me back
down, but I resist.

"Are you a doctor?" I say.

"No. But I am," Damian says from where he's
leaning against one of the walls of the small room.

“I’m a veterinarian,” the young lady says.
“Trained here since childhood.”

"That’s nice,” I say, and only the dumbest person
in the world wouldn’t catch the sarcasm indicating I couldn’t care less.
“Where’s Mira?” I direct my question to Damian who still stands
nonchalantly to the side. She's my only concern.

Damian makes a small nod at the woman still standing
beside me, and she quietly excuses herself from the room.

"Mira is stable," Damian says, "for
now."

"What do you mean ‘for now’? What's wrong with
her?"

Damian doesn't answer. It’s maddening, and I'm
tempted to rush across the room and try to strangle the information out of him.

He meets my eyes for the first time. "We need to
talk."

Despite my repeated threats to disembowel him, Damian
refuses to talk about Mira until we're alone in his office, another opulent
enclosure with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the dome. He offers me
a chair and takes another in front of the large window as I plop down in
frustration. If my head wasn't killing me so badly, I would refuse to even sit,
but right now it's a struggle to keep my balance.

I'm about to start yelling at him, when Damian begins
speaking, cutting off my verbal assault before I can launch it.

"Mira is alive, Cray, but her body is shutting
down. It's been under a great deal of strain, and there are certain…factors,
that are pushing it beyond its ability to cope."

I feel a sense of dread beyond anything I've ever
known. I don’t want to believe him. Why should I believe him? He’s
a monster. But try as I might, I know it’s just wishful thinking. I
saw for myself what happened to Mira.

"What do you mean?" I say, and I’m surprised
by the weak sound of my own voice.

"Forgive me for stating the obvious, but you're
aware that Mira isn't like you and me. She's been genetically enhanced. I made
her that way. And I am uniquely able to understand what is going on with her.
You see, although Mira is far stronger and more durable than we are, there are
some things which could not be anticipated. Her anatomy is elegant and extremely
complex, operating far above the level of a normal human being."

"Look," I cut in, "I saw your little
video on the island. I understand the basics of what you've done. Just spit it
out already. What – is – wrong – with – her?" I don’t like it, but he’s
right. Whatever is happening, he really does have the best shot of knowing what
it is and how to fix it.

Damian sighs softly and runs a hand through his graying
hair.

"Mira took extreme damage from the explosion, and
ever since, her body has been working overtime to keep her stable. Anyone else
would have died instantly, but she's managing to survive on damaged organs,
severe muscular trauma – it’s all quite amazing, in truth. Far beyond
what I would have thought possible.” For a moment, his eyes flash with a
sickening pride. “Unfortunately, her system's ability to cope has been overtaxed
for some time. When she went out into the cold, that overtaxed state along with
the metabolic spike that came from her body trying to adjust to the temperature
sent her into what could amount to a short circuit."

I wait with breath held, knowing this isn't going to
end well, and the last of my patience dissipates.

"So help me, if you don't stop playing
games…" I begin. "Tell me the punch line already.”

Damian leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees,
and looks hard at me. For a moment, he almost seems human. Is that genuine
concern in his expression, or cruel pleasure?

"Cray," he says, "Mira is dying."

His words hit me like a bulldozer, and I
react without thinking. In a flash of fear-induced insanity I’m up and on him
lifting him bodily from his chair by his collar. I spin him around and
slam him into one of the floor to ceiling windows. His feet dangle
several inches from the ground, and my face is so close to his I can smell the
coffee on his breath. Far below, several passersby in the clearing look
upwards at us, their faces registering obvious alarm at the sight of me pinning
Damian to the window.

“You're lying,” I growl. “She can’t
be dying! She’s special. She’s too strong for that.” My
breathing is coming in ragged gasps, my head pounding from the
concussion. I realize I’m leaning on him as much to keep my own balance
as to keep him in the air.

Somehow, despite the shock on his face at
my reaction, his voice comes out infuriatingly calm.

“I wish that were true, but despite what
you think of me, son, I assure you I'm speaking the truth. Mira has been
through an unbelievable ordeal, and her body is shutting down.”

In a stupor, I release my grip and stagger
to the side. This time there’s no holding it back, and I half fall over
his desk, puking onto the floor. After my stomach empties, I slump back
into the chair, my head in agony as I try to process what he's telling me.

There’s no doubt Mira's been digressing.
I've watched it with my own eyes. I just didn't think it was this bad.

Damian smooths his ruffled shirt, casting a
mortified look at the puddle of vomit on his carpet, and sits back down, his
eyes fixed on me. “Son...” he starts to say.

“Don't call me that,” I snap.

He pauses, but then continues. “I know you
don't trust me, Cray, and I understand why. There are many things that I want
to tell you, things you
need
to know, but I don't know if you're ready
for them yet. Not from me. I spent several hours with Mira last night and I
told her everything. It was my desire that she enlighten you. I’m
afraid that will no longer be possible.”

A few weeks ago I would have killed for
more information about Damian and this place. Now, I couldn't care less. The
whole of my consciousness is plagued by the news that Mira is slipping away
from me. Not for the first time, it occurs to me that she's all I have.

“Is there..?”

“Yes,” Damian says, anticipating my question. “I can
fix her.”

I stare into his eyes wanting it to be true.
Can
it be true? Can I even trust him?

“You...you can keep her from dying?” My desire to
believe it outweighs the deep revulsion I feel for my father, and I find myself
looking to this person I hate as if he's a life raft in the ocean I'm drowning
in.

A smile creases his lips and he leans forward, his
voice barely more than a whisper.

“Oh yes. I can do much better than that.”

I look at him, this creator of The Virus, this man that
the whole world has always considered a monster, this person who faked his
death. Is he genuine? Could there be more to him than I've believed? I mean, he
did find a cure. Could there be more to the story?

I almost choke on the words. “Okay.” My voice sounds
defeated to me. “Please help her. I can't lose her.”

He leans back, and all of my apprehension resurfaces at
the look on his face. He looks down for a moment, toying with one of his
fingernails before looking back up at me, his smile gone.

“I will fix Mira and save her life, but in return for
something from you.”

He's bargaining with Mira's life! Any temporary doubt I
had about his level of evil is squashed. I'm too stunned to respond, and I sit
dazed, too much bad news in too short a time. Heaven only knows what he wants
from me, and I almost don't want to know.

He continues quietly. “I know how this will seem to
you, Cray. I'm sure you think my actions savage. Perhaps they are, but I
find myself in a unique position, and there is something that simply must be
dealt with. You are the best chance I have of accomplishing this. In fact, you
may be the only chance given your particular skill set.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do, but make no
mistake, using her for extortion is
absolutely
savage.” Memories
flood my mind of Mira collapsing in the snow, the violent seizure.

What if there was something I could do? What if I
didn’t need Damian? Is there some way I can figure out the workings of
what Damian does? Could I fix Mira? But the hopelessness of
my situation crashes around me.

The recording on the island explained many things about
Damian’s work, but not in the level of detail I would need to understand it
all. Not even close. Besides, Damian isn’t going to let me have
free reign here. And even if I
could
find out what he does, it
would take time. Time Mira may not have. I think of losing her and
my nausea returns, but for a completely different reason.

“Extortion is such an ugly word. Think of it more
as…incentive. As long as you keep your end of the bargain, Mira will be
fine.” He pauses, giving me a chance to respond, but I don’t, and after a
moment he continues. “For much too long now, Cedric Archer has been a
thorn in my side. Worse, he's been the cause of great trouble both for me and
mankind. He poses a serious threat to my plans, and it's time for his power to
end.”

“What plans?” I say.

“For now, I think that is better left in the dark. Most
importantly, I don't think you would believe me. I don't deserve it, but I'm
asking you to trust me. This is a necessary evil.”

The pieces slide into place.

“You want me to kill him,” I say.

“I
need
you to kill him, yes. In return, I'll
save Mira for you.”

I mull over the implications, shock and sickness
slowing the process.

“I have no love for Archer, and I almost killed him
once, but you're asking me to become an assassin, to kill him in cold blood.”

“Yes,” he says, “though I'm sure even you would agree
that it would be justice for all that he's done.”

“Most people would say the same thing about you,” I
bite out, tasting bile rising in my throat.

He simply looks at me. “I’m sure. I know this is not
something you're accustomed to, Cray, but with your abilities, I'm sure you are
the best possible chance of it being accomplished. According to Mira, he tried
to kill both of you without mercy. Look at it as a way to make things even.”

I feel like my wits are returning, and I begin to turn
over scenarios in my mind at rapid speed. Cold-blooded murder. Can I live with
that? To save Mira?

My hatred for Archer is only surpassed by my hatred for
Damian. Isn't it true that Archer's a traitor, and that he's killed people in
cold blood? He killed Eckert and tried to kill me and Mira, and because of his
position, he's above any other justice. Perhaps I
could
justify his
murder. Still, I’ve never tried to kill anyone who wasn’t actively trying
to kill me. Can I really go up to Archer, say, “Hey, I’ve changed my mind
and I’m going to kill you now”, and pull the trigger?

Damian sits across from me, patiently stoic, his hands
folded in his lap. He gives me time to process the information, and I see
that he already knows where the process will lead me.

I come to the terrible realization of the truth. I've
never been a saint, and if killing an evil man is what it takes to keep Mira
alive, that's what I'm willing to do. I suppress the disquiet I feel in my
heart.

“What guarantee do I have that you'll keep your end of
the bargain?”

“I'm afraid my word will have to be good enough, but I
promise, if you do this, Mira will be better than new.”

I make up my mind, knowing full well there was never
really a choice. “You have a deal.”

I stand quiet vigil over Mira, the complexity of what
lies ahead of me weighing down on me like a thick blanket of despair. At
times, I feel as though I can hardly breathe.

She looks angelic and peaceful, lying there in the
metagenic chamber as Damian calls it; in my estimation, it looks too much like
a coffin. Multicolored tubes snake around her, leading to and from intravenous
lines and electrodes and strange machines I have no name for. An unusual smell
fills my nostrils – antiseptic mixed with something I can’t place.
Something I’ve never smelled before. Something tart and acrid.

My head still pounds from the concussion and perhaps
equally from my desperation. Just when I thought Damian may not have been as
bad as I believed, he goes and pulls a stunt like this, his own flesh and
blood, demanding I become an assassin. And yet there’s a part of me that
doesn’t cringe at the idea. Far from it. It’s a darker part of
myself that I fear to explore and fear to let out of its cage.

I wish I could talk to Mira, to ask her what she
thinks, to hear the soothing softness of her voice. Instead, I'm left with my
own mechanical reasoning, and no matter how I reason it, I can’t think of
another option.

Damian’s argument makes sense. After all,
who else is going to stop Archer? He's too entrenched in the government. It's
not like I can arrest him. He controls everything. Damian's logic may be
brutal, but it rings true. I don't trust Damian, and I hate him for
manipulating me, but there's no doubting that Archer is a danger to the
world. The bad thing is that I don’t know the true motivation behind
Damian’s desire to end Archer’s life. But for now, I'll play the game.
First I'll take down Archer and make sure Damian keeps his word. Then I'll take
him down too if need be.

Someone approaches from behind, and I turn my head to
the side to see the towering hulk of Graelin move up beside me. He stares
for a moment at Mira’s small body in the tube. In comparison to him, she
looks tiny and breakable.

“He’s ready for you,” he says interrupting my thoughts.

I look up at him, and he returns my gaze. His
expression is somber, unreadable, but when he speaks again, his voice is kind.

“I know you’re in a tough spot, Cray. Please,
just do what he says. He really does know what’s best.”

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?
Your blind, childlike faith is foolish.”

I expect him to respond with anger, but instead, he
places a huge hand on my shoulder, squeezing firmly. “You can do
this. You can, and everything will turn out good in the end.”

I don’t feel like arguing with him. He’s a good
man, but he’s blinded by the only perception of the world he’s ever
known. It’s a world where Damian Harbin reigns as God and everything fits
into his skewed logic. Instead, I let Graelin lead me out of the room to
embark on the most important incursion of my life.

I ride down a narrow elevator into the bowels of the
fortress, deeper than I've been before. I clench my teeth and fists to assuage
the pent up anger and malice that threaten to boil over inside of me. Damian
stands beside me, his arms folded and head held high. If it weren’t for
the fact that I absolutely believe he is the only one capable of fixing Mira, I
might give serious thought to killing him instead of Archer, father or not.
I've made it this far without having a real dad, and the one I have now is
certainly not a role model or someone I care to have around.

After the initial shock of his request set in, I've
felt nothing but growing, seething hatred for the man. It’s palpable,
like an animal inside of me clawing to get out and sink its teeth into him.

He eyes me carefully from the corner of the elevator,
as if he can read my thoughts, which only infuriates me more. But I mash
down the loathing and anger, determined to control it. No matter how nasty the
situation, I won't risk Mira's life for the sake of this freak.

“This is best,” he says. “In the end, you'll
understand. Archer is too dangerous to leave alive.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I snap. “I know what a
creep Archer is, but what's it to you? Right now, I don't see how you're any
better than he is.”

Damian just shrugs off my comment unaffected.

“And what if I don't succeed?” I say. “What if I
can't find him, or he's too deep? What if something goes wrong? What guarantees
do I have from you?”

“My dear boy, I have the utmost confidence in your
abilities.”

Before I can come up with a sarcastic retort, the
elevator comes to an abrupt halt and the doors slide open with a squeak to
reveal one of the most unbelievable things I've seen here yet.

In front of me is a hangar. A massive one. Several jets
sit off to the sides, each looking pristine under the glaring overhead lights.
Fighters sit alongside several small private jets. A long, sloping runway leads
off into the distance. Landing lights are placed along the length of it,
but they’re not on, and I can’t see where the runway ends.

After a few moments they flash on, perhaps in response
to Damian’s presence like everything else around here. There’s a deep
rumble and I see a glaring white line appear and grow as a behemoth-sized
hangar door cranks open. With the lighting and open door, I can now see
that the runway is roughly a half mile long and doesn’t extend beyond the
hangar door. To take off from here would require pinpoint precision.

Damian walks forward, and I follow as he strides to the
left of the enormous place, around a cargo plane, and towards a small group of
men servicing a jet fighter.

I shake my head in disbelief. He actually has an A-25
Wraith. This was a beast of a jet fighter back in the day. The military's last
manufactured fighter before The Virus outbreak, the Wraith took everything that
was great about what came before and improved on it. With a top speed of 1800
miles-per-hour, stealth technology, and a price tag of 170 million dollars
each, the Wraith was state-of-the-art.

He says something I can't hear to one of the servicemen
and then turns to me, a big smile on his face.

“Beautiful, isn't she?” he says.

I confess I'm dumbfounded, looking at the ultra-sleek,
midnight-black aircraft in front of me, but he's acting like a proud dad who's
not currently holding my girlfriend's life ransom. I guess he thinks better of
it because his smile fades.

“Anyway,” he says. “She's in perfect working condition
and she'll provide you with good cover against radar due to her stealth
qualities.”

“How on earth did you get this?” If it weren't for my
circumstances, I would actually be looking forward to the opportunity to fly
such an amazing piece of military hardware.

“I used to have friends who were very well connected,”
he says, as if that explains it all perfectly. “I trust you can fly it?”

“I'll manage,” I say. “I’m a quick study.”

“Good. This way.” He moves off without waiting for me
to a small enclosure off of the main hangar room that’s filled with computer
banks and flight equipment. “Here,” he says, gesturing to a low chair. “Let me
show you your destination. Then we'll go over the details you'll need to know.”

The airfield I was given instructions to land on is
nothing of the sort. It’s not much more than a strip of cleared land nestled
amidst the encroaching trees surrounding it. At the end sits a small,
weather-beaten storage shed, the kind you can buy at hardware stores. There's a
narrow, semi-overgrown path leading out of one end, just large enough for a
small automobile. Other than that, it's just a big field of grass, but it's
level enough, and obviously has been tended to recently. Someone’s
keeping the grass cut short, and large drifts of it have been pushed up against
the tree line on all sides. I wonder how often Damian and his group fly
here.

I taxi the Wraith as close to the tree-line as possible
on the east end of the field as Damian's crew instructed, power everything
down, pop the canopy, and drop to the ground below, bending my knees to absorb
the impact. I glance up and scan the grayish haze of the sky overhead. It
feels wrong leaving the jet so easily visible from above, but I know the
chances of it being seen here are astronomically slim, and I force myself to
relax.

Air traffic is reserved almost entirely for government
and military personnel, and they stick to the cities of refuge. No one
will by flying over here.

I'm in upper New York State and it's cool this time of
year, but in comparison to the Fortress and the surrounding glacier, the breeze
blowing briskly across my skin feels warm and comforting. It carries the rich
aroma of evergreens, and I’m struck with memories of sitting by a warm fire
during the Christmas season, snuggling in my mother’s lap as we read stories
together and laughed.

But the feeling of comfort dissipates as
quickly as it arrived. I gaze around, unable to shake the feeling of
being watched, and it suddenly occurs to me why I would feel that way.
Festers. I’ve been away for a while, and with my mind so preoccupied on
Mira and my mission to kill Archer, I didn’t immediately register the threat that
the noise of the jet would attract any Festers within earshot.

I scan the field again in all directions,
this time carefully and systematically. Nothing out of the ordinary that
I can tell. I hope that maybe there just weren’t any infected close by,
but I’m not going to dawdle and take chances.

I set off at a run, and it only takes
a minute to cross the field to the little aluminum shed. It sits in isolation
on the edge of the field, a spattering of brown paint hanging on doggedly to
the sides and roof, losing the relentless daily battle with the elements.

Pulling the key Damian gave me from my pocket, I insert
it in the rusty padlock that secures the doors, expecting the lock to stick,
but to my surprise, the key turns easily, and the lock disengages with a small
pop. I open the doors wide, and the pungent smell of gasoline rolls out to meet
me from where it’s been trapped in the confined metal space with no windows and
no ventilation. For the second time in as many days, I gawk at an unexpected
piece of machinery.

Before me, in this middle-of-nowhere excuse for a
landing strip, in a pitiful little junkyard-reject shed, sits a jet black X132
Hellcat motorcycle, sleek and powerful-looking, cocked to one side on its
kickstand. From the looks of it, it's been retrofitted to carry additional
gasoline, and the walls of the shed hold several gas cans of various sizes on
hooks.

The Hellcat was a rare find back in the early part of
the 21
^st
century. At a price tag of $60,000, it was a
masterpiece of engineering from a small company in Alabama. It’s a speed
demon, and despite its age, this one looks brand new. There seems to be no
limit to the lavishness Damian lives under. I do a quick inspection and find
everything I need.

I move quickly, placing two of the extra gas cans in
the makeshift harness on the bike, all the while keeping a wary eye out for
unwanted visitors. I’m still hoping for a no show, but I’ve just
straddled the bike when the first one shows. He lets out a feral shriek
alerting me to his presence across the airstrip and to the right. In a
couple of seconds, three more crash through the woods behind him.

They haven’t seen me yet, but as soon as I crank this
baby, they’re going to home in on me like missiles. That might not be so
bad if it weren’t for the fact that they’re between me and the exit path I saw
when I landed.

I don’t want to kill them, not knowing what I do
now. I make a snap decision, and crank the Hellcat. It starts right
up and I lean into the throttle, the powerful engine making the walls of the
thin shed rattle.

The heads of the Festers snap in my direction and they
break into a mindless sprint. Popping the clutch, I whip the Hellcat out
and to the left, away from the exit path. I plan to lead them away from
it, make a large U-turn, and speed back to it. I should be able to easily
outrun them. I just don’t want to have to go
through
them.

They give chase, and my plan is going great until I’m
almost to the end of the strip. Suddenly, a group of twenty or more
Festers emerges from the woods in front of me and close on me like
lightning. The timing is too perfect and I curse, unable to believe what
I’m seeing. Did they just set a trap for me?

I slam on the brakes, the Hellcat sliding into a skid,
and I hit the gas again, the rear tire throwing up turf. Now I’m flying
back towards the first three freaks, and I watch in horrified frustration as
they fan out to cut off my escape. But there are too few of them, and I
grit my teeth and gun it, moving for the largest opening between them.

There’s less than twenty yards between us and they
immediately turn inward to cut me off by closing the gap. It’s going to
be close.

I shift into second gear and give it all she has,
holding my breath as I squeeze through two of them at fifty miles per
hour. Their fingers actually brush my arms and chest, but I’m moving too
fast for them to get a grip. Now I’m out in the open and I risk a glance
back, thankful to see they’re all falling behind the powerful bike.

I let out a long sigh of relief and head for the
exit. In ten more seconds, I'm racing down the path under the canopy of
trees, the Hellcat purring like a bridled beast beneath me, heading to my old
stomping grounds.

A few hours later I pull up in front of a fading, brick
duplex on the outskirts of Brooklyn, walk quickly to the door labeled 1A, and
ring the bell. I can hear shuffling inside, and a man cursing as he walks
heavily to the front door, the whole place shuddering from his footfalls. He
pulls the door open, but leaves the anti-Fester iron-mesh secondary door in
place.