The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) (13 page)

I'm awestruck by what I see beneath me.

I stand at the window of a skywalk
connecting the main part of the building to the upper roof of the parking deck.
There used to be similar walks connecting to each of the four tiers of the deck
below this one, but according to Andrew, they destroyed them. One of the most
amazing things they've been able to accomplish is the sizable oasis covering
most of the topmost deck across from us.

When they first moved into this place as a
refuge, they knew they would need to grow their own food. Some of that was done
indoors when viable, but through cautious and painstaking work, they moved tons
and tons of rich sod to the top deck, packed it tightly, and created a massive
crop growing field, high out of the reach of Festers and animals. It's an
amazing feat, and I'm supremely impressed by it.

According to Andrew, they sealed up the
entryways between decks with huge blockades that have held for years. In fact,
he said the Festers in the area have seemed to learn they can't be breached and
no longer attempt to break through them.

I let my eyes wander down the side of the
parking deck, peering into each empty level in turn until I get to the lowest
deck, and that is where one of the most frightening and troublesome things I've
ever seen resides.

In the blinding daylight, the shadows at
the edges of the openings are broken enough to see the writhing mass inside.
Bodies, Festers, lie on the floor, and not just one or two or twenty. Hundreds.
The whole bottom floor is filled in what appears to be a form of huddled hive
sleep.

Andrew has been speaking, and I was
distracted. I force myself to pay attention.

“Fascinating, isn't it? It only took us the
first day being back here for all of them to show up and give us the scare of a
lifetime. That's why we had to do all the reconstruction on the deck. Not just
for our crops, but to keep them below.

“And they don't try to get in the building?”
I say.

“Not really, other than the occasional
stray. Don't you see, it's their way of protecting themselves during the light?
They all hole up in one place together and sleep until dark, or whatever it is
they do that's like sleep. But it sure looks like sleeping to me.”

“I agree,” I say. Despite the twisting, and
turning, and rolling, for the most part, their eyes appear to be closed from
this distance. I think that's exactly what they're doing. That also goes a long
way to explain the disappearance of the Festers every day in the cities. They
find places of refuge to sleep, to wait for night. It's just another revealing
piece of the puzzle that implies there's some remnant of intelligence, or at
least instinctual survival, hidden deep inside them.

Strange that the ones at Damian’s fortress
didn’t sleep during the day. Could it be that trapping them inside, away
from sunlight, affected their sleeping rhythms? Or maybe it was the
isolation. Maybe they only slept when they were together, not separated
in cells.

I think again about how uniformly and
without remorse we just started killing them off as soon as possible. But the
small uninfected population was terrified, and fear can cause you not to think
clearly, not to take chances. At the time, and even now, the general consensus
is that's it's us or them. But the cure changes all of that. They're no longer
just animals.

Which brings me back to the terrible truth
that now there actually
are
infected animals, and unlike the Festers,
they can transmit The Virus through biting.

Andrew speaks along the lines of my
thoughts.

“We never wanted to kill 'em,” he says.
“Course I already told you that, but after we saw this behavior, we knew even
more it was wrong. I believe there's something of their humanity left in there.
It doesn't seem right to snuff out what little light is left inside.”

“So what do you do?”

“About them? Nothing really. I don't know
what we
can
do. We've tried to tell people in the cities from time to
time what we think, but most of ‘em think we're all crazy religious nuts. We
ain't got no scientists here to try to work on cures and stuff like that, and
even if we did, I'll bet we don't have anywhere near the setup it would take.
So mostly, we just trust God to take care of us, and take care of them.”

“That seems like wishing into a well,” I
say.

If the preacher is offended, he doesn't
show it.

“Does it?” he asks. “Son, if life has
taught me one thing that I know beyond all doubt, it's that God is real, and
He's full of love. He takes care of all things in His time.”

Some deep, primal part of me wants to
believe that. Wants to believe so badly that God is somewhere looking out for
us, but I just can't reconcile that idea with all of the bad I've seen.

Andrew is a simple country man, but he's
not stupid, and he's one of the most genuinely kind and trusting individuals
I've ever encountered. I want to know what he thinks, but I'm careful to
approach him with gentle steps so as not to be offensive, and I find myself
surprised by that, because I would usually walk over just about anybody's
feelings if it suited my argument.

“I just don't understand that,” I say
finally, quietly. “Isn't that what people have always wanted to know? How can a
loving God be real and let so much bad stuff happen? I just can't figure it.

Andrew speaks without pause, and I know
from his quick response that this is something he has pondered long and hard
for a very long time.

“I understand that skepticism,” he says. “I
really do. But if I may be so bold, I think the logic is fundamentally flawed.”

I stifle a chuckle, not because I'm being
rude, but because I'm not used to people telling me my logic is flawed.

“You see, here's what I've figured out,” he
continues with soft conviction. “God had a choice. He could give us free will,
or make us robots. Nobody wants to be loved by a robot, cause that ain't real
love. Real love is a choice, and God, above all else, wants real love. But in
giving us free will, He knew He was giving us the ability to hurt ourselves and
others. So instead of denying us that, he gave us that free will and promised
that when things did go bad, He would always be there to help us, if, and this
is a big 'if', if we want Him to, because He's not going to force Himself on
nobody.”

We remain quiet for a while, each lost in
his own thoughts. From the corner of my eye, I see an easy smile on Andrew's
face, and I envy his ability to be at rest despite the crummy world we live in.
What would it be like to have that kind of peace?

Far below, movement catches my attention as
a Fester jerks suddenly and then becomes still.

“So you don't believe in any kind of
killing?” I say.

This time, the preacher doesn't answer
right away. There's a pained look in his expression, and I wonder if he's ever
killed anyone before.

“I wouldn't say that,” he says at last.
“Defense, protection of the weak, I guess there are times when it’s warranted.”

I look out over the small city laid out
before us and think of my past. “I've killed indiscriminately,” I say. “Festers
and
men. Does that make me evil?”

The preacher looks pointedly at me, and I
see a gentleness in his eyes that almost breaks my heart.

“Cray, I can't judge your actions or point
any fingers at you. I don't know what you've done, and I don't want to know.
What I do know is this. You've got a good heart. I think you try to do what's
right by you. There's no doubt you're a tough cookie, but from my short time
around you, I know I would trust you with my life and the life of my people.”

After that, we stand in silence for a long
time and I weigh his words, turning them over and over in my head.

“If you knew all I've really done, I don't
know if you'd still feel that way,” I say.

“I know who you really are,” he says. “I
know what you've done. Toby told me.”

I guess I'm not really surprised. “Toby
doesn't know all the truth. I did try to kill Cedric Archer. That's why I'm
here. That's how I got shot.”

“
Did
? So you failed? Why did you
try?”

I take a deep breath. I don't know why I'm
about to tell him this, but I feel the overwhelming need to do so, like it will
somehow cleanse my soul. I start from the beginning and tell him everything. I
don't leave anything out. I talk for twenty minutes straight. When I'm done, I
wait for his response, condemnation, to hear that he detests me for what I've
become.

But those words never come. Instead, he
turns to me, and I see a tear trickle down the right side of his face.

He places a calloused hand on my good
shoulder. “I'm so sorry you've been put in that position, son. But you're
wrong. I haven't changed my mind about you.”

“Even though I’m not good?”

“None of us are good, and I’m no better
than you. Only Jesus was good, and it’s because of Him that God takes us
as we are.”

It's been four days since I came out of my drugged
sleep, and although I'm grateful for the help and like the people here, it’s
time to go. Mira is weighing more and more heavily on my mind with every
passing moment.

Ming and I stand looking out over the rooftop garden
from the skywalk. Beautiful rows of corn, and various other vegetables grow
full and enticing. Some of the residents move about tending to the crops,
pruning, watering, or whatever they do to make them grow.

To the right and on the far side, I see Toby's young
form as he works with an older man, taking instructions, and helping with
various chores. From time to time, I see them laugh, and I’m thankful that this
young child has found this oasis in the chaos.

Ming speaks, continuing our conversation.

“I checked the SUV. Everything's still in working
order. It smells horrendous from all the blood you spurted in there, but the
biggest problem is gas. There's less than a quarter of a tank.”

Gas is a rare enough commodity in the safe cities. Out
here, it's next to non-existent. Even if there was gas left at an old station
and it was possible to siphon it, it's been sitting there for over a decade. It
would be long past its usefulness.

I sigh in frustration. I estimate we're approximately
three hundred miles from the air strip where I stashed the Wraith, and I have
no idea how hard it will be to get there. Every moment is another moment I come
closer to losing Mira forever.

“I'll talk to him,” I finally say. “See if we can brainstorm
and come up with something.”

I look out over the garden again and spot Andrew standing
near the skywalk’s entrance. As we emerge from the entrance onto the upper
deck, the sun splashes us with warmth and a breeze rushes across us, cool
enough to dampen the afternoon heat.

We walk towards Andrew who smiles good-naturedly when
he looks up and sees us. He shakes our hands with vigor as we come up, and
neither of us can help from smiling in return.

“Happy to see you two out and about,” he says. “First
time out of doors since you've been here, Cray. Well, whaddya think of our
little field project up close?

“I wouldn't call it little,” I say, glancing around at
the garden I previously saw from the window, “and it's incredible the job you
guys have done.”

He speaks again. “Yeah, well we need to eat, and we
have a lot of time on our hands. So this is just what we do.”

I pause. “Andrew, we need gasoline. I hate to ask for
help after all you've already done, but I have to get back. There's too much at
stake. Do you know where we can get some, or if there's even any to be had?”

The preacher doesn't hesitate. “We've got a stash,
enough to fill up your vehicle and keep enough for us too.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Getting from here to New
York by car is going to be nigh near impossible. The roads are trashed
and the countryside’s crawling with Festers.”

“We don’t have a choice I say. We’ll make it
work.”

Andrew looks thoughtful. “Promise me one thing,
Cray.” I watch this gentle man the I owe my life to. “When you get back, if
everything doesn't go south and that cure is real, remember us? Remember little
Kylie and her mom?”

I feel a lump form in my throat and steel my voice.

“If there's anything I can do, you have my word.”

Andrew smiles, silent understanding passing between us.

“Cray!”

I turn to see a smiling Toby running up to me.
His face and hands are covered with dirt as are most of his clothes.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, and he launches into a monologue
of all the “exciting” things he's been learning about gardening. I'm about to
laugh at his enthusiasm when I hear a sound that fills me with dread.

In the distance, approaching fast, I hear the thump of
helicopter blades. I cast a quick glance at Ming who meets my stare knowingly. Before
I even say anything, she' running in the direction of the workers, shouting for
them all to get inside.

At the same instant, I grab the preacher's arm and echo
Ming's words.

“We have to get everybody inside, now!”

He looks around confused, but moves off to help Ming
with the others.

Choppers are only used by the government, and although
it's not impossible that there could be a random reason for it to be passing
through here, it's highly unlikely. I'm not hopeful.

I close my eyes and listen intently. No doubt about it.
It's coming straight for us and closing quickly. The workers are starting to
move from the far end of the deck towards the sky bridge, but I already know
the awful truth. They're not all going to make it in time.

From the corner of my eye, I notice Toby is still
standing next to me. The chopper is visible now, bearing down on us like a
storm. I'm about to push Toby towards the sky bridge when I see a flash and a
puff of smoke come from the side of the helicopter.

It only takes a second for me to realize what it is and
calculate the trajectory. I dive on top of the boy a split second before the
rocket hits the sky bridge and blows it to kingdom come. That was our only
escape route. We're sitting ducks.

My ears are still ringing from the explosion. Toby is
screaming underneath me, but a quick exam reveals he's not injured.

Rolling to the side and into a crouch, I pull out my
gun as the chopper moves into a hover over the deck. I squeeze off a perfectly
aimed shot at the pilot behind the windshield, but nothing happens. The
bullet didn't punch through and the pilot is unharmed.

A quick mental check, and I know I only have two
bullets left. I bring my weapon up again, but a side-mounted machinegun on the
chopper spits fire and I dive to the side as bullets slam into the ground.

Four lines drop simultaneously from the sides of the
helicopter, and a man drops down each of the lines, all carrying assault
rifles. I fire my last two shots from the ground and two of the men drop dead
to the deck. But now I'm out of ammo. I start to rise, and when I look up, I
freeze.

There have been very few times in my adult life that
I've been stunned into inaction, but what I see stops me dead in my tracks, and
I curse myself for being a fool. I assumed Toby would run for cover after the
explosion. He didn't. The bullets meant for me found him. He kneels a few feet
away, pain and shock distorting his young features, his hands soaked in blood and
holding his abdomen. He's been gut shot.

Oh dear God no! No, no, no, no, no!!

The two remaining gunmen have made it to the deck and
are firing on anything that moves.

Suddenly, Ming crashes at me, grabbing Toby and me and
shoving us both behind a small pile of debris from the demolished sky bridge.
Immediately, she slams her hands onto Toby's stomach trying to slow the
bleeding as tears stream down his small face.

I finally shake off my daze. “Your gun?” I shout to
her.

“Inside,” she yells.

Blast! I have to do something now or we'll all be mown
down like grass. Sunlight glints off something to my right and I leap from
behind the debris rolling as fast as I can to where a discarded shovel lies on
the ground.

I come up with the handle firmly in both hands and
charge the nearest gunner who's already turned to bear on me. I throw all of my
senses into overdrive a moment before he squeezes the trigger, but even before
that, I calculated the angles and swung the metal head of the shovel into the
path of the five bullets that leave the barrel. They ding powerfully into the
shovel, almost ripping if from my grip, but they don't get through it.

One of the slugs ricochets into the leg of the second
gunman, sending him sprawling. The first man fires again and I'm just barely
able to deflect them fast enough this time, but now I'm nearly on top of him
and I swing the shovel down with all of my might, nearly severing his right
arm.

Beside us, Andrew roars and leaps onto the second man
and begins wrestling for his machine gun.

I spin in a quick, fluid motion and my second strike
with the shovel buries deep in the first man's neck. He slumps unmoving to the
ground. Without even stopping, I dive to Andrew's aid, snapping the neck of the
other attacker.

I look around in desperation. All of the men that
rappelled from the chopper are down, but fly boy up there still has his
freaking Gatling gun and rocket launcher, and with the bridge blown to Hades,
we’re fish in a barrel. All he has to do is fly out and pummel us from a
distance. I wonder why they didn't just do that in the first place, unless the
first objective was to take hostages. Either way, I can't afford to give him
the chance. To my right, Ming works desperately to stop Toby’s bleeding, but it
doesn’t look good.

The pilot is hovering by the end of the deck and any
second he could pull away and open fire on us again. In that instant, I know
what I have to do, and I break into a dead run, adjusting the angle to give me
the best possible chance of success. He's fairly close, and I hope he doesn’t
bank away at the last second. This is really going to suck.

I leap onto the barrier circling the rooftop and launch
myself into open air about the same time the pilot does exactly what I didn't
want and banks hard to pull away from the deck. Everything flashes by in an
instant of awareness – the ground far below, the roar of the helicopter's
engines, the whump-whump of its blades, and the fleeting sense of flight before
gravity regains control over my momentum and begins to pull me down.

I reach one of the dangling rappel cords with less than
a foot of space to spare and grit my teeth against the agony in my shoulder as
I rap my hands around it and pray to God I can hold on. Somehow, I manage to
keep my grip as the chopper pulls me into its own momentum. I swing wildly,
struggling to climb a few feet, until I can twine the rope around my right leg
for support.

My weight threw the chopper off balance for a moment,
and when I look up, I can see the pilot leaning out the side window to catch a
glimpse of me swinging below. Now that I’m here, I curse my circumstances. It’s
a long way up, and saying these are less than ideal climbing conditions is a
ridiculous understatement.

The chopper pulls out and away from the top deck of the
parking garage, and I struggle up a few more feet of the rope, careful to keep
my leg looped in case my arms decide they don't want to cooperate any more. Far
below, I can see the Fester's milling about, drawn by the commotion, arms
outstretched and faces upturned to the chopper, their skin a macabre sight in
the sunlight.

I start to pull up a little higher, but the pilot makes
a sharp turn, centrifugal force swinging me out wide beneath him. My leg aches
from the rope being pulled tight on it, and already my palms are covered in
rope burns, but I fight upward, an inch at a time, until my eyes catch a
glimpse of what's ahead.

There's nothing I can do but close my eyes and hold on
tight as the masochist piloting the aircraft plunges me headlong into the tops
of the trees neighboring the hospital. Limbs and foliage slash and pummel me,
my body bouncing wildly around. Thankfully the clump of trees is small, and by
some miracle, I manage to hang on and emerge from the other side.

From the corner of my eye, I see the flashes of muzzle
fire, and look back quickly to find the preacher has picked up an assault
rifle. Not good! I appreciate the attempt, but he's no soldier, and he's liable
to hit me. Even if he does manage to disable the craft, I'm still hanging
beneath it. I try to loosen my grip enough to wave him off with one hand, but
Ming comes charging across the rooftop from where Toby lies motionless and grabs
the gun from the preacher. Thank God for small blessings.

The pilot peeks his head out at me again and I can read
his lips when he cusses about the fact that I'm still here. Abruptly, he
changes course. Now it's my turn to cuss because I instantly know what he's
thinking. We race back at the parking deck, and my options just went from bad
to terrible. The pilot is going to slam me into the side.

My thoughts race furiously. If I let go at the right
moment, I can survive by slipping through the opening between decks, but that
will leave him free to circle back and open fire on the roof. But then I see
something, and a crazy-stupid idea forms. It’s a longshot, but I’m desperate.
I kick my senses into light speed, allowing things to slow.

I'm suddenly thinking of Mira, the beautiful, amazing
creature that she is. I wish I had a little bit of her strength and speed right
now because I could really use it. I've pulled off some crazy stunts before,
but as it is, I just don't know if I can move fast enough.

It seems like a minute has passed, though in reality,
it's only been five seconds. The side of the deck is looming closer, and those
left on the roof dive wildly for cover as the pilot takes the opportunity to
squeeze off a few rounds. I will my body to relax as much as possible, letting
the tension that could slow me down leak from my muscles like air from a
balloon. I unwind my leg from the rope, my arms protesting the added strain.

Three…two…one! I loosen my grip and slide down several
feet of the rope, pulling my feet up and angling through the opening between
the top deck and the one immediately beneath it. As soon as I crash to the
concrete, I begin to roll, my elbows and knees getting trashed from the impact,
but I manage to hang on to the rope. I regain my footing just enough to make an
insane leap at my target about four feet to my right.

On this level, the stairway remains intact, and my
chest smacks into the top bar of the railing. But I'm already moving as fast as
I can. With the little slack left in the rope, I loop it around the top of the
rail. One time. Two times. I lean against the loose end making the loops as
tight as possible.

The helicopter overhead reaches the end of the slack
and groans, nearly managing to rip the rail from the deck, but the loops hold.
The groan is followed by a sharp smack and I know the chopper has been thrown
to the deck above. I can only pray none of our people were in the way. A
gunshot rings out above the drone of the helicopter, and a few moments later,
the engines die and the craft whines as the blades begin to slow to a stop.

By now, my whole body is on fire with agony and I’m so
weak I can no longer stand. I collapse onto my back and I wait.

Time passes, and I’m unable to determine if it’s
seconds or hours.

"Cray," Ming screams from above.

I breathe a sigh of well-deserved relief.

"I'm okay," I manage to shout back. "I
just need to rest for a while," I quip. With that, I close my eyes and get
lost in exhaustion and pain.