Orpheus: Homecoming (The Orpheus Trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

Holt fiddled with his tie for the tenth time in half as many minutes. He looked through the tinted windows and could just make out the dozens of humanlike shapes lining either side of the entryway. He could sense their energy, hidden just below the surface, waiting to explode.

He felt a light punch in his thigh. “Chill, Dad. If you looked anymore handsome, you'd be me. Am I right, ladies?”

Rachel said, “Make it stop.”

“You're both handsome, sweetie,” Jackie said.

Ethan smirked. The driver opened the door. Ethan said, “Let's do this!” as he grabbed his fiancée’s hand and led her out the door. There was a barrage of camera flashes and cheers. Ethan raised his arms above his head and yelled, "Hello, Boston!"

Holt didn't move from his seat. He closed his eyes and bobbed his head subtly back and forth, trying to calm himself.

Jackie squeezed her husband's hand. “You okay?”

“Not as okay as that kid, apparently. I don't know how he bounced back so quickly.”

“He doesn't know what you went through as a parent. Hopefully, he never will.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Come on. I'll distract them with some leg.”

She stayed true to her word. She took the driver's offered hand and exited slowly. Holt didn't know about the throng, but the distraction certainly worked for him.

He climbed out after her and was immediately blinded and engulfed in sound. The cacophony soon coalesced into a chant of “Or-phe-US! Or-phe-US!” as if he were a rock star. As dour as he had felt a few moments prior, he couldn't help but feed off of it. He threw up a hand in acknowledgement and they roared louder.

This is absolutely insane.

Jackie, seemingly in complete agreement, mouthed something that could only be, “Holy shit.”

Several pens were thrust at him. He grabbed a few and signed some autographs, which is the one thing he actually had become familiar with during his months of celebrity.

They made it to the entrance and were greeted by none other than Martin Trager. He hugged Jackie and kissed her cheek. After he released her and she walked across the threshold, Trager firmly shook Holt's hand. He looked in Jackie's direction as she disappeared into the sea of people and said, “I mean this in the nicest way possible, but if you don't hit that tonight, you're dead to me.”

“No comment.”

“That's okay.” A waitress approached them with a tray of champagne. Trager handed one to Holt and toasted him. “You can tell me all about it tomorrow. Now go mingle, I'll come get you when you're on.”

Holt protested, “But … what am I supposed …?”

Trager walked backward, arms outstretched, grinning. “Meet your people!” Trager turned his attention from Holt to a clearly star struck young woman.

Holt tried to make his way through the sea of flesh, but it was slow going. Every hand had to be shaken, every cheek kissed. The atmosphere was electric, and even he found it easy to forget why they were there.

He finally spied Jackie at their table. She was flanked by Ethan and Rachel. Next to his son were Fish and Jen, and they certainly acted like they were still a couple. Holt didn't know the two men, but he had to assume that they were Ethan's friends from the island. Rounding out the group was Tim. There was something in his posture, a look of maturity about him that Holt didn't remember, but it looked good on him. The kid was a leader. 

He barely had time to wonder where Lena was when she nearly knocked him over. She wrapped her arms around him in her best impression of a bear hug, given their respective sizes. “CAM!”

He hugged her back and laughed. “Whoa, you're like a tattooed hurricane!” He was vaguely aware of another barrage of camera flashes.

Lena pulled away, laughing and wiping tears at the same time. “I'm sorry we haven't talked. Everything was just so overwhelming, and then we've been working with Martin, and I just …” She wiped another tear. “ … I just never got a chance to say how happy I am for you. You deserve it. You deserve all of this.”

He kissed her forehead, a moment that would eventually become the iconic image of the event. “We all do, kid. Come on, I want you to meet my wife.”

They made it to the table, and Jackie was already on her feet. “And who is this gorgeous girl?”

Lena surprised everyone by hugging Jackie fiercely. “Omigod, I'm so glad to meet you Mrs. Holt! Cam talked about you so much, I feel like I know you!” Lena straightened her dress. “Sorry, I'm Lena.”

Jackie said, “My turn,” and hugged her back. She then held her at arm's length, her hands on Lena's shoulders. “Thank you so much for helping me get my boys back. You ever need anything at all, you just ask.”

Holt greeted his young friends. He was introduced to Harold and Jason, and expressed his gratitude for their part in his son's survival and his own rescue.

Harold motioned to Jason. “I didn't do much, but you should've seen this guy go.”

Jason smiled widely and said with unadulterated cheer, “And I still have nightmares about it, too!”

Holt clapped them both on the shoulder. “There seems to be a lot of that going around, fellas. I'm glad to meet you both.”

They all eventually settled in. Dinner was served, drinks were poured, and stories were shared.

Jackie, the only one of the group who had gotten off of the island right in the beginning, was enraptured. “This stuff is just incredible to hear. Horrifying, but incredible. It sounds like it can't be real. I mean, I saw some of it firsthand, but I don't think it ever really sunk in that they were dead people. Back here, it was just so abstract.”

Tim said, “We were in the middle of it for months, and it was still pretty hard to believe.”

“Trager's heading to the podium,” Fish said, abnormally subdued. All eyes in the hall focused on the man on the stage.

He cleared his throat. “Good evening, everyone, and thank you for coming. My name is Martin Trager, the former CEO of what used to be the Lost Whaler Island Hospital and Research Center. None of that matters now, if it ever really did. Rubble, all of it.” He paused and shuffled his papers.

“Heroes. We throw that word around far too often for it to maintain its true meaning. The qualities that we used to believe in for our heroes … honor, courage, self-sacrifice … have somehow morphed into batting average and salary commanded per movie.

“But, ladies and gentlemen, heroes do exist. I'm looking right at a table full of them. They fought tooth and nail to not only survive the worst conditions that man has ever known, but to endure. To thrive. To help others do the same. Two separate groups, only reunited near the end, did it the same way: through faith in each other, a steadfast refusal to give up in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, and, forgive me, massive brass balls.”

Laughter rippled through the audience.

“They saved people. It did, unfortunately, go poorly at the end, and most were lost. But that doesn't cheapen what was done.

“I have a confession to make. Less of a confession, I guess, than a statement of fact. The people at that table did a lot more than the old Martin Trager ever would have. He wasn't one to put anything above himself. He would orchestrate and manipulate, but he would never truly put himself in harm's way for anyone else, until he saw what true selflessness could accomplish. That man was given a second chance, and for no better reason than someone believed in him, and someone else believed in
her
enough to personally rescue a selfish bastard.

“Let me tell you about the first time I met Cameron Holt. He'd fought through miles of Hell to make it to the hospital. Within minutes, I knew he was the most driven man I'd ever met. He was understandably obsessed with finding his wife and son, and I knew I could use that to get what I wanted. To be fair to myself, my motives were pure-ish. I took my responsibilities at the hospital very seriously. The people in my charge deserved care for as long as I could find a way to provide it.

“Anyway, Holt walks into my office. I shake his hand hard, a power thing to set the tone. I mean, I'm giving it everything I've got, and I don't think he could've cared less. We locked horns immediately. After we came to a mutual agreement, do you know what that guy does? Steals a $40,000 bottle of Scotch. And not subtly. It was practically a Broadway show. And it was all to dare me to try and stop him. Do you know what's funny? Somewhere down the road, I realized that he was going to get out there and do what needed to be done regardless of whether he was asked to, solely because he knew that people were relying on him. He put aside his own agenda to pursue the greater good. And he absolutely would
not
fail. That's Cameron Holt in a nutshell: a man of honor, a force of nature.

He motioned to the table. “Cameron Holt.
Orpheus
.” Martin Trager stood back and led the ovation.

Holt took the podium amidst a standing ovation. He let it go for a minute, not to bask in the adoration, but because trying to calm it down wouldn't have done any good. This was a release for a lot of people in the room who had yet to come to grips that the horrors of the world had taken a quantum leap forward.

“Thank you, thank you. I'm not very comfortable with this sort of thing, so please be patient. I didn't prepare a speech, because I was pretty sure I'd screw it up.” He chuckled, and others followed it.

“When I first heard of this event, I wanted to run and hide. Despite Martin's generous introduction for me, I'm not that force of nature he spoke about. I was just highly motivated, no more or less than others. Some things worked out. For me, at least. After that was over, all I ever wanted was to just forget. I wanted to get back to my life, and let the island fade away until it was nothing more than something that popped up in a bad dream from time to time. I wanted to spend every possible moment with my wife. I wanted to plan my son's bachelor party, and then dance with my new daughter-in-law at the wedding. I wanted to keep in touch with the rest of my friends from that other place, and talk about anything but that place for the rest of my life. I wanted to put Orpheus to rest for good. I wanted to get on with living by ignoring the dead.”

Holt cleared his throat.

“I still want those things with all of my heart, but I realize that I can't insult the dead by selfishly forgetting about them. We lost
tens of thousands
of people. Our friends, families, lovers, neighbors, random smiling faces on Main. My son lost so many people, people to whom I can never express my gratitude for giving him back to me. I lost my two best friends in the worst way possible, because they died saving me. They gave me back my life. One of them had salvation
in his hand
and gave it up to save someone else. How can anyone repay that sort of debt?”

He let that sink in, almost unsure what to say next.

“I don't want to bring the party down, and I don't want to scare you, but the world has changed. A nightmare has been made real, and it could happen again. This time, we may not be … lucky isn't the appropriate word, but I think you'll understand if I use it … lucky enough for it to happen on an island where it contained itself due to geography. On the lower 48, it could mean the end of everything we know.

“So I think the best way to honor the memories of the people on The Whale isn't to forget, to pretend it didn't happen. We need to learn from it. A handful of people outlasted thousands upon thousands of undead whose sole purpose was to kill everything.” He motioned to his table. “Just a few people, with no warning, no help on its way, and no belief that there was anything left but the people at their side.”

He paused as the applause rose. He had no intention of stopping it, because they deserved every second of it.

“Not everyone made it. Randolph Mutters, Sam Barnes, Sister Ann McCourt, Mickey Potts, Denise Munn, and so many others fell. But each one of them died nobly, and allowed others the chance to live, to be returned to their loved ones. And if we learn only one thing from them, it has to be this: There is no such thing as insurmountable odds. Together, we can survive. Don't ever forget that. Don't ever forget them. Thank you.”

He stepped away from the podium, waved to the crowd, and lost himself in the applause.

O

Holt excused himself from a group of people to use the restroom. He washed his hands and walked back into the hallway, which was empty. Instead of taking a right to rejoin the party, he took a left and snuck out the back door. He pulled out his pocket square and used it to make sure that the door didn't shut behind him. He looked around him, and was pleased to find out he was exactly where he wanted to be: alone for a moment. He texted his wife so she wouldn't worry, then pulled a cigar case out of his jacket and lit up.

His solitude didn't last long. He heard the door open behind him, and said without looking, “Make sure you keep that square there.”

“Roger that.”

Holt turned to observe the man as he fumbled with the pocket square. Even in the dim glow of the solitary light, he could make out a man in his late-50's, buzz cut, solid build.

Military. And I bet I already know his rank.

The man finished with the door and stood a few paces away. “Great speech.”