The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

So I traipse through New York, killing these creatures and clipping little tracking devices to them so the Haulers can find them after the sun rises, in the relative safety of daylight. Haulers are sanitation workers that take the dead Festers and “haul” them to the city incinerator in glorified dump trucks. I know, I know, our titles aren’t very original, but why use a million dollar title when a fifty-cent one will suffice.

I spend the rest of the night in relative silence, walking the barren streets, listening and searching, or driving through long-abandoned neighborhoods watching for signs of the infected. I only encounter a couple of loners and quickly dispatch them.

The Festers are getting harder to find. In the early days of The Organization, most of the Sweepers could spend their nights atop buildings picking off one after the other from safety with a silenced rifle. Those were easier days in some ways, but harder in others. Hunting was certainly easier for those guys than how I have it now. There were Festers in abundance, and at times there seemed to be no end to them. For years the Sweepers wondered if their efforts would ever make any lasting difference. Night after night they would go out and never seem to make a dent in the endless flow of the creatures.

But it was a more difficult time for everyone emotionally. Everything the world had ever known about living in a normal society had been shattered in a few short months. The few who did survive had to deal with the loss of loved ones, friends, and neighbors. We all struggled to form some semblance of a daily routine in our hellish new existence. The suicide rate was astronomical. So many gave up. It was at least a year before people began having enough courage to get out during the daytime, but we kept pressing on little by little, step by agonizing step.

As far as the United States of America is concerned, it’s a far cry from what it used to be. The survivors gradually reestablished communication lines, though not like before. Global and countrywide telecommunications became obsolete due to the lack of manpower to maintain them. Many of the things we took for granted before, we could no longer sustain. It was far more important for the cities to have functional power plants and such, so those kinds of jobs became critical.

Out of the leadership void, a new governmental structure was put in place, headed by a small group of individuals who came to be known as the High Council of the States. Through their tireless efforts and the efforts of The Organization, we developed a new culture, established forms of work and trade, set up educational facilities, reintroduced the use of currency for goods, and began to rebuild our world. Everything is a shadow of pre-Virus times, but we continue to move forward, pushing towards a hopeful future.

I was very young when The Virus hit, and like everybody else, things were bad for me for a long time. Being an egghead didn’t help me socially in an already socially crippled society. Not that I’m being a crybaby about it. I know what I’ve been through has made me strong, independent, and a survivor. I’ve long since come to terms with my abilities. I'm aware of the advantages they give me, and I do what it takes to make it in our new world. That’s why when the opportunity to become a Sweeper presented itself, I jumped on it. I was determined to make a better life for myself, whatever I had to do.

At first, the idea of killing night after night was repulsive to me, even if it was the Festers I was offing. My first kill had been the most traumatic experience of my life. It still haunts me to this day. But I sucked it up, did what was necessary, and developed a type of numbness to it. I didn’t have a choice. This is not a world for the weak. You overcome or you die.

At 6:00 am on the dot, I pull up next to the curb and hop out of my car. I approach the complex series of gated checkpoints guarding the towering building in front of me, enter the necessary codes, and walk into the Trump Soho Hotel, its majestic shape looming high against the morning sky. At one time, this place was a monument to luxury and extravagance. It was a place for the rich to wine and dine and live it up and flaunt it in the face of the less privileged around them. Superficially, the building’s the same with the exception of the gates and barricades surrounding the lower levels. It no longer functions as a hotel. Now it’s the headquarters of The Organization’s division in New York. It’s also my home.

Although there is only one Sweeper per city, it takes a larger conglomerate of people to ensure the system works effectively. Each Sweeper has a team that backs him or her up. They’re comprised of some of the most expert people in their fields. Their jobs are to keep flow charts, tracking maps, census estimations of the Festers, and of course, provide weaponry and medical care for us guys on the front lines. You know, boring stuff. But they’re all good people.

This whole building has been commandeered for our use. It’s a terrible waste of space, but we all have huge apartments, opulently outfitted, and none of us are complaining. Besides, living space isn’t an issue for the population anymore. Wipe out several billion people and suddenly you’re not so cramped.

I walk through the luxurious lobby, the antiseptic smell of cleaning solution hanging in the air and mixing with the rich aroma of leather from the furniture. It’s a massive spectacle of marble floors and muted lighting, and it exudes a peaceful ambiance. On my left, the fountain behind the empty front desk cascades elegantly. Sometimes I like to come down here to sit and watch it. It soothes my mind. As far as I know, the rest of the staff only keeps it on for my sake. We seldom have visitors and there’s no practical reason to run a fountain twenty-four hours a day.

Very little of the building is actually used for anything, and most of the floors have been sealed off for years. What is accessible is kept in tip-top shape by live-in maintenance and cleaning personnel.

This morning I’m not stopping to watch the fountain or gaze out through the windows at my city as the first rays of the morning break out over the skyline. Today, ironically, I’m tired. It’s ironic because it was a slow night. But like any job, when you’re bored, it seems to drag on forever. So I take the elevator and lean against the wall, my eyes closed as it speeds up the shaft. After a few moments it stops at the tenth floor and the doors open onto our operations center.

Ops takes up the entire floor which has been gutted and cleared of all dividing walls. It’s now one huge, open expanse, separated only by support pillars placed throughout and delineated by multiple sections appropriated for various purposes.

To my left is the tech hub where equipment gets serviced. There’s another section not unlike an industrial laundromat used for cleaning and sterilizing the blood-and-gore-stained uniforms I come back in every day. In the far Southeastern corner is a vault like you would see in a bank. That’s the armory, and it’s chocked full of just about any death dealing device you could ever wish for. A few other stations lay scattered here and there, but for now, I ignore them and stride over to a grandfatherly man sitting near the middle of the room in front of a huge bank of computer screens. I plop into the chair next to him and swing my feet up on the desk.

His name is Frank, and I swear with his wispy hair, heavily wrinkled face, and white beard, he’s every bit the classic image of a wizard. All he needs is the robe and a wand and he’ll be all set. This is something I often tell him, much to his lighthearted chagrin. At that point he usually responds that at least he doesn’t resemble bovine excrement like I do, though his terminology is somewhat more profane. But really, he’s a great guy and a good friend, and I’m closer to him than any of the other staff.

He’s speaking into a small microphone on his desk and listening to a molded earpiece in his left ear. His voice is weathered with age, and he shoots me a cursory glance as I sit before reaching over and yanking my feet down. I feign an injured look.

“Yeah, I know,” he says into the mic. “Well, I’m about to put the system on standby. Cray’s back onsite and we’re gonna call it a night, but I’ll send over a copy of the weekly report before I do. Have fun with your graphs and numbers,” he says and smirks at me. I take it he’s talking to Ben, our lead analyst. I couldn’t think of a more morose job if I had to, but Ben seems to like it. To each his own. Frank waits, listening to whatever Ben is jabbering about on the other end of the line. His bushy eyebrows rise and fall, forming a fuzzy, white caterpillar that appears to crawl across the pale skin of his forehead. “Thanks. I’ll take a look at it later and let ya know what I think.”

He disconnects the call and turns to me.

“Wow, you look tired, Cray. Rough night?”

“Kind of dull, actually,” I say as I reach under my shirt and peel away the electrodes attached to my chest. I pull them out and toss them into the trash can beside Frank’s chair before disconnecting the wires from the small battery pack on my belt and laying it gently on the desk for use during my next shift. Frank monitors my vitals through the night. If my heart ever stops, he’ll send a Hauler for me the next day.

“Well, maybe this’ll brighten it up for ya a little. Got a call about an hour ago. Archer’s coming in this evening. Wants to meet with you first thing in the morning after your shift.”

“Really?” That does brighten up my day. It’s been a long time since Archer made a personal trip to New York. He used to come all of the time when I first started, but recently it’s been several months between visits. “Is this a routine checkup?”

“I guess. But I was kinda surprised he wanted to see you right after your shift. He usually gives you guys some time to rest up before doing a debrief.”

I don’t think that’s too strange. “Maybe he only has a little while before he takes off somewhere else.”

Frank nods. “Can’t say that I blame him. Nobody in his right mind would wanna hang around you too long.”

“Oh yeah? What does that say about you gramps?” I shoot back.

“That I’m poor and I need the work,” he says dryly.

“Stuff it, Frank.”

Then he’s serious again. “Any bumps or boo boos you need the doc to take a look at?”

Doc is Dr. Hank Stanton. Frank is a Vamp like me, up at night, asleep during the day. The rest of the team keeps a normal schedule, although they’re always on call if the need should arise.

“Nothing a hot shower and some shuteye won’t fix. No need to bother him. But if you want to send a French masseuse up later, I won’t complain.”

“I think I know just the person. His name’s Pierre.”

I give him a hard look. “Not exactly what I had in mind you moron.”

He laughs. I rise and start to walk away, but he stops me. “Hey kid, you’re doing a great job out there. Just thought I’d remind you.”

I smile in response and turn towards the armory as Frank begins the daily power down of the system.

Having left my weapons in the armory back on ten, I exit the elevator and make my way to my penthouse. I open the door, toss the room key on the foyer table to my left, and head straight to the fridge without pausing to look around at my little haven of rest. It’s a classy place, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a killer view of the Hudson. Membership in The Organization as a Sweeper has its privileges. As far as housing and pay, we’re well-compensated for our efforts. Of course, with a few exceptions, myself included, there’s a high turnover rate.

I grab a bottle of water and a cold ham sandwich from the fridge, kick the door shut, and make my way to an oversized sofa, sinking down into the soft leather and leaning my head back. It's cool against my neck and I shut my eyes for a few minutes, trying to relax my mind and shut down from the night. After a while, I open them again and go to work on the water and sandwich.

In front of me is a large, flat-screen television. Nobody makes television shows or movies anymore, but there are reruns of everything you could imagine, even commercials. I don’t turn it on. Instead, I study my subdued reflection in the glass. My short-cropped brown hair looks like a military cut. So far, I’ve been able to avoid any major scars to my face, but the rest of my body is crisscrossed with the marks of old injuries. My arms and chest bulge slightly under my uniform shirt. Every shift is a workout for me, and I’m proud of my good shape, not that I have anyone to be proud of it in front of.

I’m five feet and eleven inches tall with perhaps not the handsomest of faces, but I’m not repulsive either. Nevertheless, I’ve always been awkward around women.

It all started in kindergarten with Amelia Ross. It was love at first sight, at least for me. I can still remember the first day of school, walking into the class, and seeing her across the room. She had the bluest eyes I had ever seen, waist-length hair so blonde it was nearly white, and rosy pink cheeks that sparkled. She had on a navy blue jacket with boot-cut jeans, a My Little Pony backpack, and she was rocking some yellow sneakers with pink laces. Given the way my mind worked, I was a little forward thinking for my age, but I knew I was going to marry her and we would live happily ever after.

Halfway through the school year, I was lucky enough to sit by her at lunch one Thursday. I munched on my potato chips, casting nervous glances at her as she laughed with her friend, Thora, about some cartoon they both liked. Even though I was sitting right beside her, I was hardly able to make out the conversation for the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

I knew I had to tell her how I felt. I knew that if I could just spit it out, she would feel the same way and love me forever. I was terrified, but a couple of minutes before the bell was going to ring to signify the end of lunch, I saw my chance. I worked up the courage to lean over and whisper my profession of love. Alas, she wasn’t happy about this and proceeded to tell the whole table. She laughed at me and called me weird; I wasn’t cool enough to be her boyfriend. My cheeks burned with shame, and hot tears spilled from my eyes as the other kids around us joined in the laughter.

I was humiliated, and things were all downhill in the girl department after that. Of course, I see how silly that is now, but after The Virus and the death of my mother, the subsequent beratings I took from my adopted father only served to increase my insecurity. If it hadn’t been for Chuck, I probably would have ended up completely socially inept. He was another small boy, a fellow outcast that befriended me during elementary school. In fact, he was my only friend. Because of him, I at least learned I could talk to boys without feeling like an idiot, but I steered away from conversations with the ladies.

If only Chuck could see me now – successful, respected, a Sweeper no less, but still a blithering imbecile around girls.

Through the dim reflection in the blank glass of the television, I see the tiredness in my eyes and think back to what Frank said. He’s wrong. I don’t think it’s so much physical weariness he sees in me as it’s an outward representation of what’s inside. I’ve lived a lifetime in twenty-five years, and my baby blues have a hollow, haunted look to them. The face in the glass stares back at me and I can’t help but feel like my reflection is similar in many ways to the things I hunt. My brows are stuck in a perpetual frown, and I’m getting crow’s feet at the edges of my eyes. I squint, and imagine my reflection is the face of a Fester.

I sigh and look away, feeling a mixture of creepiness and annoyance at myself.

Streaks of sunlight are starting to glow through the small cracks between the penthouse windows and the thick, wooden shades designed to make it darker so I can sleep during the day.

I think back to Archer’s visit tomorrow. Cedric Archer is the closest thing I have to a real father, and he’s also the one responsible for the creation of The Organization. He’s the big guy, the one we all answer to.

It was Archer that found me, recruited me, and did most of my training. He always made me feel special; he made me feel like my abilities and mind were a gift and something to be proud of, unlike my real dad. Still, even my relationship with Archer is not one I would consider “close”. I’ve had one truly close relationship in my life, but that was a long time ago. I do what I do, and I survive. Being a Sweeper is a job of isolation, and it seems fate designed me for it perfectly.

Rising, I stride over to one of the large shades and pull it to the side, squinting my eyes against the bright morning sun. As they adjust, I stand there basking in the feel of the warmth on my face and gazing out at the city around the river.

The years have been hard since The Virus, and much of the once-great city is in disrepair. We simply don’t have the manpower these days to care for the entire city as we should. Many buildings are overgrown and crumble from disuse and decay. It makes me sad to see this once grand and sprawling metropolis reduced to a shell of its former glory. The other refuge cities are no different.

I shut the blinds against the glare, careful to tuck them under to maximize the darkness. Without turning on the lights, I walk to my room, quickly strip, and take a steaming shower, allowing the heat to ease the tension from my tight muscles. In ten minutes, I climb into my unmade bed. Within another minute, I’m asleep.