The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) (6 page)

He's a heavy-set man with a grizzled beard, and quick,
intelligent eyes. His arms are covered in tattoos and his long, greasy
hair is pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. A mangled toothpick dangles
precariously from his lips. He looks me over without saying anything at
first, then barks, “Who are you? What do you want?”

I say exactly what I've been instructed to say.

“D.H. sent me. I've got a black-bird that needs looking
after in the bushes.”

The beefy man's expression never changes.

“It'll be ready and refueled when you need it,” he
says, and slams the door in my face.

So much for small-talk.

When I was the Sweeper for New York City, my home and
base of operations was the Trump Soho Hotel which had been converted to The
Organization's New York headquarters. I had an immaculate suite all to myself
and a small crew whose sole purpose was to back me up. I even had my own
doctor.

The Soho has plenty of Fester security. You know, gates
and stuff. But I know everything about the building, and getting in unseen is a
breeze. I guess they really don’t expect me to return here, because no
additional cameras or other security measures have been added as far as I can
tell.

I sit now in a darkened suite as I have for the past
hour, my eyes long since adjusted to the feeble lighting. The trace
smells of laundry detergent and air freshener give the place a homey,
comfortable feeling, and I’m reminded of my own place here. Like that
suite, long, thick drapes cover all of the windows, a protection against the
sunlight for those of us who were relegated to sleeping during the day.

This hotel holds both good and horrible memories for
me. I spent many days relaxing after a hard night’s work of killing,
recuperating in my own private little world. My suite was my
sanctuary. It was the one place in the world that I felt the most secure.

But those good memories are now smeared and tainted
with the nightmarish experience of being betrayed by my mentor in that very
suite. The memories are as fresh and alive as if I had just experienced
them today, and they still bring a lump to my throat and cause hatred to boil
in my blood.

From outside, I detect the soft pad of footsteps
approaching, and I sit a little straighter. The door opens and a thin,
slightly bowed man walks in, not seeing me in the shadows. He locks the bolt
behind him and takes off his jacket, tossing it onto a small table beside the
entrance. He's aged since I saw him last. I imagine the last several
months were very difficult for him.

"Hi, Frank,” I say.

I'm sitting in one of his dining chairs, alert, but
feeling no imminent danger. Frank is many things, but a fighter isn't one of
them. He would never dream of attacking me. Still, I'm cautious. I'm a wanted
criminal, and I've just traipsed right back into my old lair.

The older man freezes the instant he becomes aware of
my presence, his body stiffening, his eyes squinting to see into the darkness;
he does the last thing I expect. Tears burst from his eyes and he runs across
the room and pulls me out of my chair into a bear hug, crushing me to himself.

Now
I'm
the one who stiffens, unsure how to
react to the unexpected show of emotion. None of my "father figures"
had ever been much in the way of affectionate, and I'm unsure how to respond,
but I also feel a sudden deep sense of closeness with this man I worked with for
so long.

Frank was my primary contact when I was in the field as
a Sweeper. He would track my movements and vitals throughout the unending
nights of Fester hunting. He was always kind, a jokester, and I considered him
a friend. But perhaps I had underestimated just how strongly he felt for
me.

The grandfatherly man is several inches shorter than
me, and his body feels thin and frail against my own, but his grip is strong.
He finally pushes away and holds me at arm’s length, looking me up and down,
before his eyes come to rest on my face.

"What are you doing here?" he says in a
hoarse whisper. He wipes his tears away brusquely, then looks around as if
someone else could be hiding in the shadows. "It's too dangerous, Cray.
They could find you."

I'm still off balance from his reaction and can't stop
the words from tumbling out of my mouth. "You're not afraid of me?"

His expression takes on an offended look, his words
angry. "Why would I be afraid of you? Huh? Because you tried to kill
Archer? That's bull crap. I've never believed that. I know you, boy, maybe as
well as anyone. Maybe everybody else bought into those lies but not me.” He
grips my shoulders tightly. “I know who you are inside, and you ain't no
traitor. Besides, one thing's for sure, if you mean to kill somebody, you don't
leave the job undone. If you really wanted to kill him, he would be dead."

I smile at the old man. “Thanks.” I
believed I could trust Frank to remain loyal or else I wouldn’t have come here,
but truthfully, there was a small part of me that was afraid he wouldn’t.

Frank releases me as if it's safe to let go now that
he's said his peace.

"Which brings us back to my first question,"
he continues. "Why are you here? You don't put yourself in needless
danger."

"I need help,” I say.

He rolls his eyes and sits down. “Well I didn’t
think you came for coffee dumb-butt.”

I laugh and sit back down beside him. “Yeah, I
guess not. I need supplies," I say. "I'm sure the code to the
armory's been changed. I could break in, but it would save me time and effort
if you would just give me the new one."

"Done," he says without hesitation. "But
that's child's play for you. What do you really need?"

I take a deep breath. Frank’s perceptive.
He knows I could get weapons and tactical gear someplace else. "What I
really need is information."

"What kind of information?"

"How are things going around here?" I ask,
dodging the question for the time. Now that I get to it, I’m a little
worried about Frank’s reaction. “I assume I've been replaced?"

Frank gives me one of those squinty-eyed looks, but
plays along.

"Yeah. Marek's here now."

"From Chicago? And who took his place?”

“Newbie,” Frank says.

That surprises me. “They put a newbie in
Chicago?”

Of the refuge cities, Chicago, like New York, was considered
a class one city based off of its size and population. Typically, new
Sweepers didn’t go right to a class one city. Usually they worked for a
while in one of the smaller ones before being moved up, not that any of the
refuge cities were actually “small”.

Frank just shrugs as if to say, “I’m not the boss.”

"Marek’s not you,” he says, “but he's doing a good
job. Talented kid, pretty nice around the office. Archer gave him your
apartment. God knows why when they had a billion others available. Took 'em a
week to clean it up. That place was a mess, buddy.” He gives me a hard
look. “Want to tell me about it?"

Memories of Mira's bloodied, broken body flash through
my mind, Eckert's head exploding from the gunshot.

"Not really," I say, averting my eyes as I
force the memories aside. Along with those memories comes the ever-present
gnawing of the beast that’s been devouring me from the inside out. The fact
that Mira is dying, and what I have to do to save her. I clear my throat to
hide the sudden gag reflex that threatens to make me heave. After a moment, I
regain control and look back up at Frank. "Besides, you're safer not
knowing."

He sighs and slides a little deeper into his chair,
crossing one leg over the other. "That's what I figured. Since it happened,
I've been keeping a low profile, not rocking the boat. I don't know what all
went down, but I don't want Archer to get the idea I think he's a liar."

"You're right about that. And that’s why you need
to forget I was ever here tonight.” I might as well own up to the real
reason I came to see Frank. “I need to know where to find him.”

Frank looks at the table and taps his fingers
absentmindedly. I figure he’s processing all the possible reasons I might
have for wanting to know Archer’s whereabouts.

"Are you going to kill him?" he asks finally.
He's obviously disturbed at the prospect, but doesn't throw up an immediate
objection. Maybe this was a bad idea, bringing him into this, but he’s the best
chance I have of tracking Archer down. He has access to the man that few
people do, but I notice again how old and tired he looks, and I feel guilty for
the added strain I must be putting on him by placing him in this situation.

"Actually, no,” I lie, my conscience stinging. “At
least, I don't intend to. But I need important information I think he
has."

I feel like the ruse is completely idiotic, but Frank
looks relieved. He may not trust Archer, he may even think he's the devil
incarnate, but Frank's a good man uninterested in getting involved in something
like murder, and if I can save him some psychological stress for now, so be it.

He gets up heavily, walks to the refrigerator, and
comes back with a couple of sodas. He opens both and sets one in front of me
before taking several long swallows of his own. He stares at the floor a
while before coming to a decision.

"Ever since you left,” he says, “he's been holing
up at the bunker. Hardly ever leaves. If you asked me, he's paranoid. Probably
thinks you're going to come after him, which of course, you are."

“When you say he’s holed up there, are we talking a few
days at a time, weeks?”

“Months, kid. Word is he’s only left a couple of
times for brief stints. Both of those were trips to Atlanta. He’s
hasn’t been to any of the other cities. Been running things like a
recluse.”

That complicates things. The bunker is a slang
reference for the S.T.F., the Sweeper Training Facility. It's where every
Sweeper is trained, including me. It's also the headquarters of The
Organization. It isn't the kind of place you can just walk into.

I take a minute to consider my options while Frank sips
his drink. They're not good. I hate what I’m about to ask, but I
don’t see another feasible way.

"In that case, I'm going to need a hacker – a good
one. Anyone you could suggest? Someone from the black market?"

Crime and punishment are of a different nature post
Virus. After the initial outbreak and subsequent devastation, the newly
reformed government got brutal. They didn't have time anymore to worry about
petty theft, misdemeanors, and minor infractions. So they came up with a
solution. It was much like martial law, and the police force was all-powerful.
In a way, it had to be, or it wouldn't have been effective. There were too few
of them to keep the peace otherwise.

As a result, most crime disappeared fast. According to
the new laws, if an officer even suspected someone of a violation, the person
was shot on sight – murder suspects, shot on sight; thieves, shot on sight;
jaywalkers, shot on sight. Okay, just kidding about the jaywalkers, but you get
the picture.

However, organized crime and black marketing did still
exist, and the players became more dangerous and cunning in direct proportion
to the unrestrained brutality of the new police forces. But they're very well
embedded, and you have to know where to look to find them. You need a lot of
bargaining power, and if you cross them, death by Fester would be a mercy in
comparison. If you plan to deal on the black market, you've got to be tough,
smart, and have stones of steel.

"I don't know, Cray.” It’s obvious Frank
isn’t keen on the idea. “You really want to mess around with those
guys?"

"I can take care of myself. Just point me in
the right direction."

Frank was my eyes and ears for years on patrols, and he
knows the city in and out. Not just the physical city. He's been around a long
time, knows people, and has built up a lot of contacts. He was never one
to dabble in the black market, but that didn't mean he didn't know where to
find them.

He’s still not happy about it, but I can see the
resignation in his expression.

"There's someone I've heard of,” he says.
“Calls himself Raven. Supposed to be as good as you can get with computer
stuff. I know somebody that can probably get him a message, set up a meet for
you."

"All right then," I say. "Let's do
it. But make sure nothing can be traced back to you."

First couple of problems solved. I know where to find
Archer, and I now have weapons. Now on to the next issue – money. I need some,
and lots of it. Too bad I didn't consider this possibility before leaving the
fortress. I'm sure Damian has a few gazillion dollars holed up there somewhere,
but it's too late now, and he certainly didn’t offer. I'm just going to have to
make do. For that matter, I should have asked him for a gun too. For a
smart guy, sometimes I’m an idiot.

Like I said, the black market is a rough bunch, but
they’re not a gigantic singularity. In actuality, the term “black market”
is just a catch-all phrase that refers to anyone or anything operating outside
the realm of what's considered legal. All of the unsavory types: pimps,
thieves, drug dealers, all the way up to the more traditional mob family type
organizations. Together, they all comprise the black market.

I’ve had little contact with the black market
types. One exception was the doctor that treated Mira’s injuries, but I
would consider him more of a fringe vagrant, a doctor willing to look the other
way for profit. But there was one other time.

Most people are too afraid to go against the law and
roam the streets after dark for the simple fact that they don't want to be
eaten by Festers, but black marketers thrive at night.

I was on a patrol on July 16 a year ago at 3:00 am.
Having tracked what I thought was a pack of Festers into the ground level of
the long-abandoned Chrysler building, I rounded a corner with guns raised and
very nearly killed five men in their late teens and early twenties. I barely
stopped myself from pulling the triggers. Instead, I had stumbled onto some
type of clandestine meeting.

They were startled, but always aware of the possibility
of Festers, they were all carrying and jerked their guns up. The room exploded
in gunfire as I dived back around the corner. After a moment, the shooting
stopped, and there was silence, the acrid smell of gunpowder hanging in the air
like a fog.

Far away, I could hear the screech of Festers start up
and knew they would be moving in the direction of the sound. I spoke before
anyone decided to be stupid enough to approach the corner.

“Easy fellas,” I said. “I'm not a cop. I didn't mean to
interrupt your little soiree.”

There was another moment of silence before a deep voice
called back dubiously.

“Who are you, then? And why shouldn't we bust a cap in
your head?”

Bust a cap?
I rolled my eyes. Somebody had
definitely been watching too many old thug movies.

“Three reasons,” I said. “First, I'm a Sweeper. Second,
you would all be dead inside of ten seconds. Three, we've got a flock of
Festers heading this way, and you don't want to be around when they show up.”

I could hear them whispering hurriedly.

“You think he's telling the truth?”

“Maybe. Probably. Even cops don't come out at night.”

“Dude, what about the stuff?”

“Are you a freaking idiot? You heard him. Those things
will be here soon. We can do the deal someplace else, but I don’t wanna get my
guts ripped out tonight by Festers.”

“Fine, fine, Chester. Let's just get outta here. I'll
contact you again in a couple of days.”

Drug dealers most likely, I thought.

“How do we know you're telling the truth?” the deep
voice asked again, directed towards me.

“Because I'm going to set my guns down and walk out
with my hands up to show you can trust me, then I'm going to let you all walk,
or preferably run, out of here. I'll stay and mop up the pack coming this way.”

It was a calculated risk, but I set my guns down on the
floor and kicked them out from behind the corner where the group of men would
be able to see them in the moonlight filtering in. Slowly, I eased out into the
open, my hands up. From here I could see them all clearly enough to record
their faces forever in my mind.

“Tick-tock boys.” I said.

They all continued staring for a few moments.

“Come on,” the deep voiced man finally said from
directly in front of me, a huge brute of a guy with a crew cut and a t-shirt
that was obviously meant to accentuate his bulging biceps. But despite his
imposing appearance, he gave me a wide berth as he and the four others slipped
cautiously by me, their guns still leveled at me in case I decided to double
cross them.

The truth was, the moment I said I was a Sweeper, the
nature of our encounter changed. They were right, cops didn't come out at
night. Sure, the police knew there were deviants like these guys that took the
risk, but if you were stupid enough to do it and the Festers got you, that was
just less work they had to do later. Plus, nobody, not even the lowest of the
low, would kill a Sweeper. Sweepers were perhaps the only group universally
respected by everybody, whether old or young, rich or poor, upstanding citizen
or criminal; Sweepers helped protect
everyone
.

I certainly didn’t approve of their career choices, but
hunting down criminals was not my job, so I let them go. Of course, what they
didn't know was that over the next several days I spent my spare time going
through the citizen registry looking at all the photos of men with the first
name Chester until I found the leader of the little rag-tag group. Once I had
his name and info, I was able to identify his other associates, and I tipped
off the police about their extra-curricular activities.

They were all eventually rounded up, with one
exception: Chester. And considering the brutality and swift justice of the law
that could have meant only one thing. He had connections. My best guess was
that he had a family member or someone close to him high up in the police hierarchy.
Someone was keeping him off the radar. After a while, I stopped checking up on
him. After all, I had more pressing matters like staying alive every night. But
now, I have an idea, and I hope good old Chester is still roaming free.

I must have hit him harder than I thought because he's
still out cold, even with all of my wrangling and hoisting. Given Chester’s
size, I would have thought he could take a hit better than that. Of
course, there’s the possibility that he was so doped up on his own stuff that
it only took a little bit of a beating to really put him under, but it couldn’t
be avoided.

I stand on the lowest landing of the aged apartment
building's fire escape, the bottom rungs of the ladder pulled safely up and
away from the sidewalk to make sure no Festers can climb to my position. Below
me, Chester is lying unconscious on the wet pavement despite the chilling rain
pounding down on us. The wind whistles down the narrow street punctuating
the icy rain to add insult to injury. Heavy storm clouds obscure the sky,
and in this part of Hell’s Kitchen, there are only a few working street lights
struggling to hold back the hazy night.

I’m almost jealous of Chester. He’s blissfully
unaware, while I’m getting to enjoy Mother Nature in all of her irritating
glory.

Thankfully, no Festers have strayed this way yet, but
as soon as he starts to move that's going to change.

Getting him here wasn't that hard. Neither was finding
him.

There's a cheesy little club where daring rich kids
hang out at night, dancing and getting wasted. It's a weird little place – half
bar, half sleazy hotel. They have to keep rooms for the patrons, because once
they're in for the night, only the gutsiest would risk going home before
sunrise.

While researching Chester last year, I found out it was
a place he often went to make deals or get high himself. Sure enough, it only
took a few hours staking the place out before he came along. I met him in the
alley and took him down before he even knew what hit him.

I took his keys, threw him in the trunk of his own car,
and voilà. I'm not too excited about having to walk back to my motorcycle
later, but I couldn't very well bring him here on the Hellcat with him flopping
around like a piece of soggy bacon.

Movement catches my eye, and I follow the line of the
rope looped through the railing of the fire escape down to Chester where it's
tied securely around his chest like a harness. He raises his head a little and
blinks stupidly in the rain splattering his face.

Showtime.

Reaching over to my backpack filled with the supplies I
took from the Soho, I pull out a steel encased flashlight and begin banging
hard on the metal railing. Two things happen. The noise helps cut through
Chester's fogginess, and I hear the screeching call of Festers in the distance
as they begin to close in on the sound.

I'm in luck, because they're close. Chester looks up
with uncomprehending eyes fueled by fear. He sees me banging on the rail and
hears the hunting cries of the on-comers, then stands quickly but shakily and
runs in the opposite direction, still oblivious to the fact that he's tied up.

In a few steps he hits the end of his slack, the sudden
stop nearly yanking him off of his feet. From here, I can hear his wheezing
breath as he turns back to me, realizing for the first time the true horror of
his situation.

He claws madly at the knot for several long seconds,
then begins to whimper at the sickening knowledge that he'll never get it loose
in time. Now he looks up again and runs directly underneath my fire escape.

“Are you crazy!? Please pull me up or cut me loose!
What did I ever do to you?”

I stare, unmoving, unresponsive to his pleas, and he
begins to scratch uselessly again at the knot, letting out a painful scream as
one of his fingernails breaks off at the effort. Blood quickly covers the knot,
and now it's both tight and even slicker than it was from the rain alone.

A terrible shriek rifles down the street, and Chester
freezes in complete panic as a group of Festers rounds the corner at breakneck
speed.

He starts wailing like a little girl and begins begging
again.

“Please, let me up, please God, please!”

The Festers continue their mad romp towards him, and
his cries become more and more desperate.

I make of show of considering his request and finally start
to haul him up into the air a little at a time.

“Hurry, please hurry!”

“Alright, alright,” I say feigning unconcern. “Keep
your shirt on.”

I continue to pull him up about ten feet, then let the
rope jerk to a stop.

“That's about good enough for now,” I say, tying off my
end of the rope.

“What?”

The crazy-mad-pleading look in his eyes intensifies.
The Festers are right below him now, and they begin jumping up trying to grab
his feet. A couple are successful in wrapping a couple of fingers around the
toes of his shoes, but he's just high enough for them not to be able to get a
grip.

Crossing my arms, I lean over the rail, oblivious to
his cries for help.

“Ah, looks like I got that height just about perfect,”
I say loudly over the Festers below.

Chester is still pleading for his life, and I'm
suddenly tired of this game and just want the information I need.

“Why are you doing this?” he says again.

“Well, pal, I need money. It's really as simple as
that. And I happen to know that you're a big-time dealer with connections
keeping you off of the cops’ radar. The way I see it, I'll let you slide,
provided you give me what I want.”

He's still writhing and whimpering, but I see a flicker
of hope cross his features.

“Sure, sure,” he stammers. “Anything, just let me up,
please.”

“That's a good chap. Very cooperative of you. I need
forty grand.”

“What!? I don't have that kinda stash, man!”

I sigh deeply for show. “In that case...” I reach for
the knot and start untying it, prompting another wail from the punk swinging at
the other end. “You see, I think you do have it. But if you're unwilling to
donate, I'm going to let your little friends down there eat you an inch at a
time; although, I don't expect you to survive much past them munching on your
feet. You know, blood loss and all that.”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait! I can get it, I swear. I can
do it.”

Pausing, I lean over the railing. “Okay. I'm
listening.”