The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1) (10 page)

I am a freak. Not many people know about what I’m able to do. That would be too risky. I have somewhat of a sketchy past. It’s not that I’ve done anything wrong. It has to do with where I came from.

It's true that Eckert isn't my real father. We tell everyone I was the daughter of friends of his, Tate and Ellen Winston, and that he took me in after they were killed after The Virus hit. But they don't exist. Never did.

So who is my real father? I have no idea. If Eckert knows, he's not saying. I know very little about my origins, and he assures me it's best that way. I've tried to get him to talk a million times, but he's only given me bits and pieces.

That might make it sound like he's stand-offish and hasn't been a good parent to me. Neither are true. He's been amazing. Better than any father I could ever ask for. And I have no doubt that he loves me completely. Whatever he's hiding about my past, he genuinely believes he's protecting me.

The first time we ever talked about my past was when I was eight years old. Eckert’s always been slim, but he has a wiry strength. We were wrestling around one night and Eckert wanted me to arm wrestle him like silly fathers often do. He was trying to be the cute dad and pretend I was going to beat him. It only took him a moment to realize he couldn’t budge my little arm. I wasn’t sure how the game worked, so he told me we would try again. This time he explained that I was supposed to try to push his arm to the coffee table whenever he counted to three.

He counted off, and I pushed hard. I was shocked and terrified when I slammed his arm through the coffee table and fractured his ulna. We had to make up a story about him having an accident while changing a tire on the car. Despite my shock, Eckert showed no surprise whatsoever. That night before bed, after we spent the evening having his arm put in a cast, he sat me down and had a very serious conversation.

He explained that I was “different”. I would be stronger than I could imagine, and fast, with the ability to control sensations like pain. He had known it was only a matter of time before theses abilities began to manifest. It had just happened sooner than he expected.

I was the result of genetic engineering from a top secret program that had unraveled. He was there when it all fell apart, and had taken me for his own, to raise as his child, to protect me. At first, I was terrified of what I was, but his constant assurances eventually allowed me to relax and enjoy my differences – differences that he stressed were only to be used in times of absolute need. Otherwise, they were to be hidden with the utmost caution.

No amount of cajoling ever got him to tell me more than a few basics about my origin. He said terrible things were done. Things he wished he was never a part of.

But despite the holes in my past, growing up with Eckert was wonderful, and growing up with what amounted to powers was exhilarating. Eventually, I stopped asking questions and trusted the good man that Eckert was. Whatever he was hiding, I knew him well enough to know there was a good reason for it.

But back to the present.

I’ve never liked Avery Johnson. I’ve never worked with him personally before and I don’t know much of his background, but he has a reputation of being a brutal, ruthless, agent with a short temper. Not a good combination. Sure, he gets things done, but not always in the most upstanding way.

He’s been with the government since before The Virus, and used to be CIA with Eckert, though they ran in different circles. But Eckert heard plenty of stories about Johnson’s strong arm tactics, and this was coming from people who could be pretty violent themselves.

We’ve been in the air headed back to New York for fifteen minutes. The plane is one of those private jobs that the ultra-rich traveled around in, and I confess it’s quite nice, with plush carpeted floors, mahogany paneling, and large screen televisions mounted throughout. A single walkway runs up the middle of the plane, and on each side, luxurious cream-colored leather chairs run single file from front to back. All of the chairs swivel three hundred and sixty degrees, and I face Cray across the aisle from me as Johnson’s medic tapes up his side.

“I’m sorry, there’s not a whole lot I can do with that,” he says to Cray, who’s working to hide his discomfort.

“It’s all good,” Cray says through gritted teeth. The medic looked at the huge gash on Cray’s head and determined what I already knew. He has a concussion, but he’ll live. After a little local anesthetic, the medic stitched up the wound. It isn’t a pretty job, but it will do until we can get Cray to a proper doctor.

The medic turns to me after he’s done with Cray. “Anything I should look at ma’am?”

I offer a kind smile. “I’m fine, thank you.”

He starts to leave and looks back at Cray once more. “I can get you some painkillers if you like.”

“No thanks,” Cray says, slipping his shirt back on. “I don’t like things that dull my mind.”

The medic shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He walks to the front of the plane and takes a seat, and I watch Cray for a few moments.

“How are you holding up really?” I say, once I’m sure no one else can overhear.

He studies me a moment and I think for a second he’s going to lie.

“I feel like I’ve been stomped by a rhinoceros.”

“And here I thought you were tough,” I kid.

“So did I.”

Johnson emerges from the cockpit and walks towards us. He turns the seat in front of me so that he’s facing me and Cray, and sits down.

“Did Seth get you guys patched up?” he says, gesturing at the medic in the front of the plane. “So what happened down there?” he says without waiting for an answer to his first question.

I lean back into the warm leather chair. “Everything was going fine until we got to the airfield,” I say. “We were about to board the plane when everything went crazy. The plane blew up, and a sniper started taking potshots at us, and put two slugs into Harbin. We managed to scramble into the woods.” Cray smirks a little at me, noticing I conveniently left out the part about the car door.

“So how did you find us?” Cray asks.

“Not too hard really,” Johnson says. “When you missed the rendezvous window, the others sent me in. We saw the damage, tracked you through the woods. Tracking is one of my talents. It was kind of a no-brainer once we saw the house surrounded by Festers. That was wild. I’ve never seen ‘em in the day before.”

“Yeah. That’s what we thought,” Cray says, the distant look in his eyes reminding me of what he said earlier about the possibility that the Festers were more than what we had believed them to be.

“That’s something we’ll need to get the eggheads looking into. Anyway,” Johnson says, “what happened after you guys hit the woods?”

Cray finishes the story of our pursuit by the soldiers, Jonathan’s death, and our run to the house from the horde of Festers. “After that,” he says, “we just stayed there until you showed up. But that’s not even the amazing part.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Before he died, Jonathan Harbin said he needed to tell me a secret. He said he never worked on a new strain of The Virus.” He pauses dramatically and looks at each of us. “He said he found a cure for it.”

My initial reaction is to laugh. The greatest scientific minds in the world haven’t been able to fix this thing. But Cray doesn’t seem so skeptical.

Johnson says what I’m thinking.

“You believe him?”

“Think about it,” Cray says. “Scientists haven’t been able to come up with anything even remotely close to a cure because of the complexity of The Virus. However he did it, Damian Harbin created something light years ahead of anybody else. Whatever else you say about him, the man was brilliant. Anybody who’s studied The Virus will tell you that. If a cure was going to be found, logically, Jonathan would be the one to do it. He probably had access to his father’s research, detailed records of what was done.”

“But how do we explain his behavior?” I ask. “If he had a cure, why come forward and tell The Council just the opposite, then clam up? And then why not come clean when they started to torture him for information?”

Johnson speaks. “The man was acting like a lunatic.”

“The guy was bleeding out,” Cray says. “Why lie? And I saw the seriousness in his eyes. It’s like it was his last confession. The dude was passionate. He exhausted every ounce of strength he had left to tell me.” He shrugs. “I believe him.”

Cray’s convincing. I’ll give him that. From the looks of it, Johnson’s feeling swayed as well.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” Cray says, “but I get the feeling there’s a lot more going on here than we know so far.” His tone is casual, but there’s something odd about his expression. We make eye contact and he looks away abruptly. I know that look. I’ve seen it in Eckert countless times. He’s hiding something.

“Seems pretty sketchy to me,” I say. “Lots of unanswered questions.”

Johnson is deep in thought, weighing what Cray told us. “It doesn’t matter. We don’t have a choice. If there’s even the slightest possibility what he said was true, we can’t afford to not follow it up.”

He’s right. If it came down to it, we would look into possibilities far more remote than this if it meant we had any chance at all of curing the Festers.

“I assume he didn't give it to you,” I say. The man had nothing on him but his clothes, but it is possible he told Cray some kind of formula or something. Cray could certainly remember it, but Jonathan probably wouldn't have had the time to explain something that detailed. Or maybe it wasn't detailed. What did I know about bio-engineering viruses?

“No. He gave me a location.”

“You know where it is?” Johnson says, his eyes suddenly looking hungrily at Cray.

“More or less,” Cray says. “Nine degrees fifty-eight minutes north, eighty-five degrees east. Harbin said it’s the same place his father created The Virus.”

“That's not a lot to go on.”

“I agree,” Cray says.

Johnson sits mulling it over before he gets up and says, “You guys stay here; I need to send an encrypted message to Archer and Eckert. Let them know you’re okay, and clue them in on what you’ve told me.”

He stands and walks back to the cockpit.

From the corner of my eye, I see Cray watching me, expecting something, a reaction of some kind. But for the moment, I can't do anything, can't say anything.

Nine degrees fifty-eight minutes north, eighty-five degrees east.

My blood runs cold.

Several minutes pass. At length, Cray leans over and whispers, “Are you okay?”

I give a smile that I'm sure is unconvincing.

“I'm fine,” I lie.

I think he's about to press the issue, but one of the soldiers walks up and hands us a couple of sandwiches and some bottled drinks. I take advantage of the distraction, and we scarf the sandwiches down, neither of us pausing to say a word. It feels like I haven’t eaten in days, and I start feeling refreshed immediately. Cray looks the same, even though he winces a little every time he swallows.

I can see why he’s made such a name for himself among the Sweepers. He was amazing out there, so precise and expert. He even kept his composure pretty well when I revealed a little of what I can do. Mission first. Very professional. And he hid my secret from Johnson, for which I’m thankful.

He glances over, catches me staring, and looks back down at his food, his cheeks flushing. It's cute, and somehow endearing, but I can't focus on the reaction. My mind keeps returning to the coordinates Cray spouted. No doubt they mean nothing to anyone else on the plane, just a location. But for me, they evoke a swirling mixture of fear and excitement.

I try to imagine what Eckert's reaction will be when he hears them. I think there will be no small amount of shock, maybe dread. But truthfully, I don't know. He's told me so little about the place, I can only guess as to his feelings about whatever went on there.

As soon as we get back and I can get him alone, we're going to talk. And this time, I'm going to demand answers.

Several minutes pass, and Cray begins to doze beside me. I notice how tired I am as well, and my full stomach isn't helping. I close my eyes and lean my head against the window. Its smooth surface is cool through my hair, and I push away my swirling thoughts, forcing myself to relax. We'll have plenty of time to deal with that later, but for now, I need rest.

I’m almost asleep, in that pleasant place between waking and dreams, when the plane banks to the right. At first, I don’t think much of it. Just a simple course correction I assume, but we keep turning almost one hundred and eighty degrees. I open my eyes and look towards the front of the plane. I expect an explanation for the course change, but it doesn’t come, and several minutes pass.

One thing I’ve learned through my years of service as an agent is to trust my feelings, and right now I have a churning in the pit of my stomach. I have a foreboding sense that something’s not right. I glance at Cray. He's wide awake now, and sits there looking almost nonchalant, but there’s something about his posture, a little too alert. He senses it too, and we share a knowing look.

I’m about to head to the cockpit to figure out what’s going on when Johnson emerges and walks down the aisle of the airplane.

“I have good news,” he says in passing, an easy smile on his face, “but I need to clear something with my men first. I’ll be right back,” he says and continues down the aisle. In the back of the plane, he speaks quietly with one of the soldiers before coming back and taking the seat in front of me again.

Cray watches him with well-disguised wariness. “What’s up Johnson? Why the course change?”

Johnson smiles again, but there’s something off about his expression. Something a little unnatural about it.

“I contacted Archer and Eckert, and they want us to go to the coordinates immediately and find the cure,” he says. “Something of this magnitude can’t wait.”

That surprises me. “They want us to go now?” I say. “But Cray’s injured.” Not just that. I can't imagine Eckert will want me to go charging in there without him.

“I know, and I’m sorry, but Archer says he knows Cray’s strong and his injuries aren’t life-threatening. And this is something we need to get our hands on as soon as possible. I’ve got to go finish briefing the others. It’ll take us a couple of hours to get to the coordinates. You might want to try to get some rest in the meantime. Anything you need just let me know. I’ll be up front.”

He moves back to the front of the aircraft and takes a seat, pulling out a small laptop and conversing quietly with the other men sitting there. The roar of the engines keeps me from being able to make out the words. I turn and notice that Cray is staring at me with a serious expression on his face. He leans towards me, elbows on his knees, and smiles, making an almost imperceptible gesture with his hand to draw me closer. I lean forward.

“Just act as casual as possible,” he says, the smile still in place.

I run my hands through my hair and laugh as if he’s said something funny. Johnson’s chair is turned where he can see us. He looks up and studies us for a second before returning to his conversation.

“I don’t care what he says,” Cray continues. “Archer wouldn’t be that impulsive, and if my impression of Eckert is spot on, he wouldn’t either.”

“Eckert would never make such a stupid move,” I say. “He doesn't make rash, momentary decisions. He’s a planner. I know a cure is important, but neither of them would take needless chances with it.” And that's not the only reason he would show extreme caution in this situation.

Cray thinks for a few moments. “I don’t know what Johnson’s angle is, but I intend to find out. When the time comes, be ready to back me up, okay?” He leans back and pulls a small data pad out of the back pocket of the seat in front of him, engrossing himself in it.

I sit quietly staring out the window, watching the clouds float by underneath us, but I stay alert. I think of a thousand possible explanations for what’s going on, but don't get a settled feeling about any of them.