The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) (8 page)

Ming continues. "Archer would check in on
me, hang around, do coffee. You know, pretty normal seeming stuff.
Got to where we'd talk a lot. I liked it. He was kind of like a
second dad to me."

She takes another puff from the cigarette and runs a
hand through her hair. Unlike Mira’s, Ming’s hair hangs in thick
ringlets. She makes eye contact, but averts her gaze. When she
speaks again, it's little more than a whisper.

"After a couple of months of this, I started to
notice a few things that made me think maybe his interest in me was more than
just platonic. Nothing major at first. Like sometimes he would put
a hand on my shoulder when he walked by and, I don't know, it would just seem
to linger a little longer than normal. Sometimes I would find little
gifts in my room with a note attached from Archer saying it was for doing such
a great job.

"Soon, he was starting to not be very
subtle. He asked me to come to his room one morning after my shift to
watch a movie and hang out. By now, I was starting to feel a little
awkward. I didn't really want to go, but I couldn't think of a good reason
not to. And I mean, he was my boss, you know?”

A lump forms in my throat.

"When I got there, he made us breakfast. We
ate on the couch, watching the movie. He kept his distance, and I thought
everything was okay. I was tired and full. It had been a long
night." She looks away, and tosses the cigarette over the side of
the building.

"When I woke up...his hand was..." Ming
clears her throat before continuing. "His hand was under my
shirt. I tried to pull away, but he held me. He was so strong.
He kept telling me there was nothing to be afraid of, that everything was okay,
just to go with it.

The lump turns to nausea and disgust.

"I tried to tell him I didn't see him that
way. That he was making me uncomfortable. Asked him to stop
touching me, but he wouldn't. I tried to push him off..." her voice
trails away again.

"Ming." My heart is beating rapidly and
my instinct is to reach out to her, to bring comfort, but I don't.
"You don't have to..."

"No!" she says, and I'm surprised at her
forcefulness. "I
want
you to know the truth." She
sits on the ledge and covers her face with her hands. Her voice is
muffled, but the words are easy to make out. "He forced
me." She gives a strained, painful sounding laugh and looks up at
me. "Pretty sad, huh? You'd think with all of my training I
would have been able to stop him or get away..." she trails off, and I see
her eyes fill with tears. "I don't know how to explain it except to
say that I felt trapped."

I think I understand. "He trained you,
Ming. He's one of the world's most dangerous fighters. I'm not
surprised you couldn't get away."

She shakes her head. "That's not what I
mean. I did put up a fight, but not as much as I should have. He
made me feel like it was my fault. Like I was somehow responsible."

I don't want to ask the next question, but I have to
know. "Did he hit you?"

She lets out an angry puff of air and hangs her
head. "Yes. I told my crew it was from Festers."

I'm stunned silent. There was a time I would have
thought such accusations about Archer were ludicrous, but that was before my
own experience with his treachery. It seems his sickness was even deeper
than I thought.

"Ming, I'm so sorry." The words sound
trite and hollow in light of what she's been through. "Did you try
to tell someone?"

"Tell who?" she says bitterly. "He
was one of the most powerful men in the country, and he made sure to let me
know that if I talked, it would be bad for me. He told me he'd make sure
I disappeared."

"My God."

"And that wasn't the only time. He started
to come regularly, demanding that I be with him. He said I would learn to
like it and how lucky I was because with him I'd be set for life. It got
to the point that I started avoiding the Westin when he was in town. I'd
hole up in some abandoned building somewhere once my shift was over.

"That's when it hit me one day. I knew how
to get out. So I started doing side jobs, making contacts, looking for
hacker work that wasn't exactly legal. I got better and better at
it. Built up a reputation. I adopted the name Raven.

"Once I had enough saved up, the rest was
easy. I made sure a pack of Festers found my clothes one night. I
stuffed them with meat and blood so they would tear into them. I left my
tracker, and I disappeared. I let the world think I was dead."

I sit in silence. I feel like I should say
something, to offer some encouragement, but I can't seem to find the
words. What comfort can you offer to a friend who's been through such a
traumatic ordeal? I feel sick for her, and an even deeper hatred for
Cedric Archer than I had before. What kind of man does such a thing?

Ming is keeping her composure well in light of the
confession, but her next words shock me.

"Do you think I'm a coward?"

"What?" I say, flabbergasted.
"You can't be serious, Ming. I think you're one of the bravest
people I know."

Relief washes across her features. "But I
didn't even try to tell anybody. I just left. What if he did it to
someone else?"

"Come on," I say. "You can't think
like that. You were a victim, Ming. A victim of a powerful and
wicked man. There's nothing wrong with the choice you made." I
pause. “I'm so sorry," I say again, and she gives a weak smile.

"So," she says, "what's your
story?"

She's ready to change the subject, and I don't blame
her. I can't believe she spilled everything she did considering I haven't
seen her in years. I start at the beginning and tell her everything, from
the mission to rescue Jonathan to our encounter with Damian in the arctic
followed by Mira's collapse and my current mission.

She takes it all in without saying much other than
asking an occasional question for clarification.

"So, this girl of yours..."she says when I
finish.

"Mira," I say.

"Mira," she repeats. "So you would
do anything for her?"

I don't even hesitate. "Yes."

"So you're going to kill him?"

"Yes. But if you don't want to be a part of
this, I understand," I say.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she snaps.

"Nothing," I say backpedaling. "I
just mean given what happened, if you don't want to get close to him again, I
understand. And it's murder."

"Is that what you think?" she says. Her
tone of voice is steel tempered with bitterness. "Do you really
believe he doesn't deserve it, Cray? After everything he's done to
you? After everything he's done to me?" She speaks through
gritted teeth. "This feels like justice to me, and if you still want
my help, I'm in. I could never have done it alone, but with you, we stand
a chance.”

She stands up and walks over, punching me in the arm
like a big sister would. "But I still wanna get paid," she says
with a grin.

Cray almost got a bullet between the eyes. Nobody’s
called me Ming in so long, I hardly think of myself that way anymore, and when
he blurted it out, I panicked. I was afraid my cover was blown. What are
the odds that he would show up here tonight?

He took my story pretty well I think. No matter
what he says, he's having a hard time with the idea of killing one person to
save another. I can respect that. Cray always was a bit of an
idealist, but I've learned not to be quite so constrained in my morality.

My full name is Ming Li Wong. My Mom died when I
was young, and dad was a high-ranking employee in one of China’s premier up and
coming technology firms. He was deep into the development side of the business.
When he got the opportunity to do contract work for a big project with the U.S.
military for three times his current salary, he jumped at the chance, and we
moved to Washington, D.C.

I was so small at the time it didn’t affect me much. I
adjusted to the new culture easily enough. Dad had a harder time, especially
without mom there to help him, but it worked out, and dad made a lot of money.
I think he was even happy here.

Dad only knew one thing – computers. He didn’t try to
branch out, even with me. Instead of normal things like bedtime stories, he
would teach me programming and coding. By the time I was twelve, I knew more
about computers than most of the people Dad worked for. I loved it, too. I
guess starting so young, it seemed to come second nature to me.

By the time I was seventeen, I was working right beside
him. Of course, by then The Virus had swept across the earth and we were now
working for the government, mostly helping with restructuring.

Not long after that, Dad died. It's weird how someone
can survive a zombie apocalypse and then die of something as simple as a
stroke. It was hard at first, really hard, but dad raised me to be strong, and
I kept on without him, building on the foundations of what he taught me to do
best.

Unfortunately, my position was about to be cut. They
didn’t need me anymore. That’s where Cedric Archer came in. He knew my dad from
back in the day, and found out he died. I guess he heard about the cutbacks in
my department and offered to train me as a Sweeper. He said maybe The
Organization could even use my skills as a computer whiz one day. That’s what I
was really hoping for, but being a Sweeper paid way better than anything else I
was going to find, and it offered stability. So I took it.

Fighting, training, all that stuff was fun, cool to
learn, and I was good at it. I loved Sweeping. It was awesome to feel
that powerful and respected, but I never lost my first love with
computers. That was something special I shared with my dad. Now
that's what I'm back to doing, even though I’m hanging with the scum of the
earth most of the time. The black market’s hardcore, but I’ve done well and
built up a solid reputation over time.

Cray’s story borders on the fantastical. To think
that Damian Harbin is still alive in and of itself is crazy, but the idea that
he also has a cure for The Virus is unfathomable. Scientists all over the
world have been trying to find a cure for the last eighteen years. It’s
true that most people just wanted the Festers gone. That’s why the
Sweepers are around after all.

But there have always been those trying to find another
type of answer. The obvious first step was to figure out why some people
were immune and others weren’t. It seemed logical that whatever was
keeping part of the population from turning could be developed into a cure if
we figured out why. But they’d hit nothing but dead ends.

Most had begun to give up hope. Eighteen years,
and not any closer than they were at the start. The Virus was the most
intricate weapon ever created, and they still had little to no idea why it
attacked one and not another.

But I guess it makes sense that if anybody was going to
cure it, it would be the man who created it in the first place.

Cray says he can’t figure what Harbin’s agenda is, and
from what he’s told me, neither can I. But for now, that’s okay.
Once we’re done here, there will be plenty of time to find out the
particulars. At least, we hope so.

Traveling between New York and Chicago is no easy
task. The interstates aren’t used anymore except by outsiders and
lawbreakers. Unlike the southern states, the austere weather has damaged
the roads here to the point of making them useless in some sections. But the
biggest danger is the distance. It's too far to risk in a private vehicle
because of the amount of Festers populating the countryside.

The Wraith is out of the question. I can't
exactly park it at O'Hare, and there's no guarantee I could find a hidden place
to land it. Plus, I don't want to take any more risk of having it seen
than absolutely necessary.

Air travel is reserved for the government. Little
travel between cities is undertaken by citizens. Those that do pay a steep
price for passage on specially armored trains. The trains are slow and bulky,
covered in thick armor reinforcements to keep out Festers. It's a necessary
precaution as it's common for the trains to be swarmed by hundreds of Festers
at once.

Only the railways connecting the cities of the east
coast and Chicago are operational. If you want to go west, you might as
well sprout wings. Otherwise, you’re out of luck.

The following morning, Ming pays for the tickets,
something she assures me will be added to my fee, and we board the train at ten
minutes until five in the afternoon. I'm not sure why the train is
running through the night when the Festers are most active.

The air inside is musty from insufficient circulation
and lack of windows. The paneling on the walls is dingy, the carpeted
walkways show heavy wear. Many of the seats don't match and have been
unceremoniously bolted to the floor without any concern for uniformity where
older ones have been removed. All of the trains are like this – tired,
ancient relics of the past. Functional, but nothing more. We make
our way along the forward cars to the back of the train where the private rooms
are located.

There are fewer than fifty passengers booked for this
trip according to the clerk at the ticket window, but we need privacy to make
our plans, and since I was labeled as the fugitive who attempted to kill the
head of The Organization, my face has been regularly plastered on television
screens. I'm wearing a wool cap that comes down to my eyes, and I do my
best to avoid making eye contact with anyone, but I'm not going to risk being
recognized by hanging out in the general populace coaches.

Last night, Ming managed to procure blueprints and
schematics of the bunker. She didn't say where or how, but she did say
they are several years old. This presents a problem. We run the
risk that the bunker has since be remodeled, and even something as simple as a
door in a new place could spell catastrophe for what we're planning. But
that's a bridge we'll have to cross when we get there.

I push open the door to our room, and I'm met by the
smell of mothballs.

Ming mumbles something about a grandma, and we walk
in.

The room is tiny and spartan. To the right is a
small sofa. Its dark blue cushions are weathered from age and use, and I
try not to think about where some of the larger stains may have come
from. Directly in front of what used to be a window is a low table with a
plastic top sporting plenty of scratches and gouges. The windows have
been removed and replaced with armor shielding. No chance of watching the
countryside roll by.

To our left are two fold-down bunks with a small ladder
attached to the wall at their foot.

“Dibs on top bunk,” Ming says.

“What are you, a fifth grader?” I say. “Do you
wet the bed?”

“No, but for you I'll make an exception.”

“In that case I should warn you that I shoot in my
sleep.”

We settle in, which takes about five seconds. The
only luggage we're carrying are two military grade backpacks, one containing a
single change of clothes for each of us. The other is filled with our
gear, including guns and Ming's laptop.

It isn’t long before the whistle sounds,
its shriek muffled by the distance and armor. With a sudden lurch, the
train begins to move, gaining speed until it’s clacking and rocking steadily
down the tracks.

After half an hour, we decide we need
food. Ming can move about the train without having to worry about being
recognized, so she leaves to get some for us.

I reach into her pack, pull out the
blueprints of the bunker, and smooth them out over the table top. I look
over them with passing interest, more to distract myself from thinking about
Mira than anything else. Still, I have them memorized long before Ming
returns with two trays of semi-edible meatloaf and mashed potatoes with brown
gravy and a couple of bottles of water. Despite the blandness of it, I
dig in, only now realizing I’ve hardly eaten anything since arriving back in The
States.

After dinner, we get down to the business
of working out the details of our infiltration.

“Are you sure about this?” she says.

“About which part?”

“Lots of things, I guess. You don’t seem like the type
to just walk in a place and kill somebody.”

My conscience stings, surprising me a bit, but I squash
it. I’ve made my decision. I’ve weighed all of the information behind it. I’m
willing to do what I must to keep Mira alive. Especially knowing now what
Archer did to Ming.

“Well, I am now,” I say flatly.

Ming looks at me for a while.

She’s sizing me up
, I think.
Trying to figure
out if I have what it takes to pull this job off.

She must mistake my silence for defensiveness, because
after a moment, she says, “Easy Cray. I meant no offense.”

“None taken.” She's rattled, nervous. She
does a good job hiding it, but it's smoldering under the surface. She
knows the crazy risks we're taking.

“Okay, then.” She pulls out a pen, flips over the
blueprints, and quickly sketches a crude map of the bunker and the surrounding
area, including the security fence that encloses it a mile in each
direction. After that, she draws an “X” halfway between the bunker and
the eastern fence.

“Do you remember seeing this building before?” she
asks.

“No. When I was training, everyone stayed on site. I’ve
heard they can come and go now. But
we
hardly ever ventured out of the
bunker more than a few hundred yards. I imagine that would be pretty deep
in the surrounding woods.”

She looks at me like I've lost my mind. “Uh...I was
there, dumb-butt. I remember.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” I feel like an
idiot. “Sorry, I'm just distracted.”

She rolls her eyes mischievously. “I'll
say. And yes, it is deep in the woods.”

“So what is it?”

“The backup generators,” she says. “And not just that.
It also has a hard line connection to the entire computer mainframe.”

Finally a bit of good news. The setup is perfect.
We’ll have the cover of the deep woods, Ming can access the mainframe to cut
all of the power to the bunker, and be there to disable the backup generators
which are on a different system.

“That’s going to greatly simplify things,” I say
stupidly.

Ming laughs out loud. “You think so Sherlock?”

This time, I laugh too.

We finish our plans a little after eleven, and Ming
climbs onto her bunk. I kill the lights and lie down on the lumpy
mattress, but sleep eludes me. Something about my conversation with Ming
bothers me.

I thought I had no qualms about killing Archer, but our
talk struck a nerve, and a trickle of doubt peeks its ugly head out of the
deepest parts of my soul. I have a vile, seething hatred for Cedric
Archer, and there is a huge part of me that not only wants him dead, but wants
to be the one to do it.

But I had a chance to do it, and I didn't take
it. That night on the rooftop, Mira dying ten feet from me and Archer's
back broken, I could have pulled the trigger. I
should
have pulled
the trigger and ended it all then. But I didn't.

A gnawing tears at my heart; it’s a lurking fear that I
only now realize has been with me all along. What if I can't? What
if I can't do it, and Mira dies? Panic threatens to smother me, an
invisible blanket of agony.

I try to cling to logic. Mentally, it's a
no-brainer. Mira's life hangs in the balance, Archer is evil, and I'll take
him down. But emotionally, the fear is pervasive. What if I
freeze? What if my body refuses to do what my mind tells it? Isn't
that what happened before? Why did I spare him? Was it because I
was weak? Can I do now what I failed to do before?

Fear. Fear of failure. Fear of being
inadequate.
It's only fear
, I tell myself.
Fear isn't
real. Fear can't control me. I control it. Have to gain
control. Have to conquer it.

I take long, slow, shaky breaths, and force the fear to
recede. I imagine it dissolving, a wisp of powerless smoke, dissipating
into thin air. It takes an eternity, but at last, there is only darkness.

I don’t know how long I sit that way, gazing into
nothingness. The blackness is broken only by what little light peeks through
the crack at the bottom of the door. I close my eyes and cling to the
void like a safe-haven, terrified that at any moment the panic will come
crashing back and crush me like a wave.

I’ve never been a praying man, but I find myself
whispering a prayer, a tormented plea for help. The words feel awkward and
useless, but I do it anyway. And then, I just sit, willing my mind to be still.
I envision darkness within, an absence of thought, and I wait.

Around four in the morning, I stumble out of bed, bladder
full and in desperate need of emptying. I finally fell asleep around one,
but rest was fleeting. On top of having to take a leak, my stomach cramps
up. Must have been the meatloaf I ate for dinner.

I crack the door and scan the hallway for signs of
life. Seeing none, I move down several doors to one of the restrooms to
relieve myself before going back and trying to fall asleep again. As I
reach for the latch, the door swings inward and I come face to face with
another passenger. He stands there a moment, surprised like me. I
want to cover my face, but that would be so obvious it would only draw more
unwanted attention. Instead, I lower my eyes and say, “Excuse me,
sir. I didn't realize this one was taken.”

“It's no problem. I'm done,” he says, his voice
scratchy with weariness. I catch his eyes again. He's still looking at me
quizzically and I squeeze past him, hoping he doesn't recognize me.

“Sorry,” I say. “It's an emergency.”

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles.

I shut the door and take a deep breath.