The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) (3 page)

Eventually, Mira rises stiffly from her chair.

"I need to rest," she says. "I'm going
back to the room."

I take her hand and we walk slowly through the corridors
of the massive complex Damian has constructed. I look at Mira out of the corner
of my eye. The limping is much more pronounced than it was a few weeks ago, her
face pale and drawn, the look of someone under constant duress.

She's changed me. I know it with more certainty than
anything I've ever known in my life. When I first met her, I was afraid to even
speak around her for fear of tripping over my words and sounding like an
imbecile. She on the other hand, was openly flirtatious, and had no problems whatsoever
about increasing my misery. In fact, I think she got a kick out of seeing me
fumble. But there was so much more to her than I ever dreamed in that first
meeting. After our insane rescue mission and kidnapping, after her injury, we
spent months in hiding, recovering, and planning our next move. What started
out as a deep attraction, moved from one stage to the next.

"How are you feeling?" I ask.

She takes a moment to answer, weighing how honest she
wants to be.

"It's getting harder to control the pain,"
she says finally. Judging by her expression, I feel that's probably an
understatement.

Mira possesses the ability to suppress pain, or at
least she did before the grenade. Recently, something is malfunctioning, and
her ability to disconnect her pain receptors seems to be waning.

"Don't look at me like that," she says,
noticing my concerned gaze.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm broken," she says. She attempts a
weak smile, but it doesn't make it all of the way to her eyes. Still, I can see
the strength of her spirit bubbling beneath the surface and remember that
though her body is battered, she is still the same indomitable Mira whose inner
power far outweighs anything on the surface.

"Not broken," I say, feeling a pang of guilt
for having offended her, “just hurt."

But she blows off any offense and giggles with a
playful twinkle in her eyes.

"Yeah, well, if you don't stop fighting in those
stupid games, you're gonna end up just like me."

We make our way lazily back through the dome. I'm
careful not to move too fast, to give Mira the time she needs to not aggravate
her body. In times like these I feel an overwhelming need to protect her; it’s
so strong that it’s almost a physical sensation. I can't believe how much I
care for her after only months.

As we pass some of the lingering locals, several nod or
wave at me with admiration. I throw up a hand in greeting.

I catch Mira rolling her eyes and stifle a chuckle.

"Are you proud of yourself, Rambo?"

I puff my chest out in mock pride and stroke my stubbly
chin like a celebrity deep in thought.

"I'm merely appealing to my public," I say.

“Good grief,” she says, “if your ego gets any bigger
your head will explode.”

We walk a little farther, but before we reach the
tunnel leading to our assigned quarters, we cross paths with Graelin, his arm
in a sling and looking a good bit worse for the wear.

He steps in front of us, stopping our progress, and
claps a massive hand on my shoulder. I tense in reaction, expecting a blow, but
instead he offers me a huge smile made crooked by the fact that the left side
of his face is swollen. For a moment he reminds me of Frankenstein.

"Sorry about the limb,” he says. “I got carried
away in the moment. No hard feelings?" he says.

I'm tempted to ask if he's crazy. He definitely took
the bigger beating.

"No hard feelings," Mira volunteers for me
before I can answer. "Are you okay?"

Is
he
okay
?
Whose side are you on?

He holds his injured arm up like it's a trophy.

"Me? Oh, yeah. This'll heal up in a couple of
days."

A slim, auburn-haired woman walks up beside him, a
sprinkling of freckles lightly peppering her face. She's tall, at least as tall
as me, and she has the appearance of a sprinter with long, slender muscles and
a strong gait.

"He's just glad he lasted as long as he did with
you," she says to me. Her name is Elizabeth, Beth for short. She's
Graelin's significant other, or however that works here.

"We may be far removed from society,” she says,
“but your dad has kept track of you all these years.” She speaks with a smooth,
controlled tone, belying an intelligent mind. “The way he's described you, your
fighting skills are legendary."

I'm unsure how to respond. Coming from anyone else, the
praise might seem trite and condescending, but from these two, there’s genuine
respect. It reminds me of the way the other Sweepers treated me before I fell
off the face of the earth.

"So, dad's kept up with me, huh?" I choke on
the word
dad
, but say it for their sakes. That's how they see my
relationship to Damian, whether I do or not. No matter how much I wish it
wasn't true.

Beth glances at Mira then drops her gaze. I get the
feeling she thinks she's said too much, and it only takes a second before she
confirms it.

"Sorry," she says. "I think Damian would
prefer to tell you those kinds of things himself."

One of the most disarming things about this place is
how nice the clones are. As I said before, the guards can't seem to stand us.
It's probably just distrust. The clones, on the other hand, treat us like
family, with the exception of lining up to take me on in a fist fight, and even
that in its own freakish way is endearing.

After a minute, people begin filing out of the dome in
different directions and we hear a faint sloshing sound high overhead. Every
other night, a sprinkler system incorporated into the latticework of the dome
comes on at ten o'clock and runs for an hour, drenching the little oasis of
trees and plant life they've created here in the middle of reindeer land. The
manpower and wealth it took to create this place must have been staggering. I'd
love to know how it was done. Maybe I'll beat it out of
dad
one night if
I'm feeling sprightly.

Graelin and Beth say a brief goodnight, and Mira and I
head into the tunnel that leads to our "apartment". After taking the
elevator to the second floor, we move down the hall a couple of doors. Like the
lab on the island, the computer registers our presence and the door unlocks
automatically at our approach.

After Damian threatened to have the system attack me, I
tried to see if it would respond to my commands as well. No such luck.

Mira heads to the closet and retrieves some pajamas,
but I make a bee line for the shower. I'm covered in grime and sweat, and the
steaming water soothes my sore muscles.

Mira wasn't the only one who sustained injuries in our
encounter with Archer and the events leading up to it. Though my injuries were
not as severe as hers, I had been put through the ringer. As I step out of the
shower, I wrap the towel around my waist and turn slightly to see my back in
the small patch of the mirror not fogged over by the steam. Ignoring the
multitude of older scars, I focus on the long, raking scars snaking down across
my back from my shoulder. They were the result of the claws of a powerful
aberration of an animal that was more or less a giant tiger on steroids. Though
healed now, the scars are still dark in comparison to the others that have
lightened over time.

Every now and then I'll get a cramp in my right lat, a
none-too-gentle reminder of the rip the muscles took from the beast. It’s
just one of many aches and pains I’ve collected over the years from the abuse
I’ve sustained in countless battles.

I throw on some flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt I
had left on the bathroom floor that morning, and slip back into the bedroom,
careful to douse the light before opening the door in case Mira is already
asleep. A couple of candles burn in wall sconces, and I can distinguish her
sleeping form wrapped heavily in blankets on the bed. Leaning over, I kiss her
temple, savoring her smell and the luxurious warmth of her skin on my lips. I
run a hand gingerly down her side, willing the pain away, wishing I could carry
it for her.

I stand there for several minutes watching her. Her
breathing is steady, and I savor how blessed I am to have her in the midst of
such chaos and uncertainty. After a while, once I'm confident that she's
sleeping well, I move back into the great room and retrieve an ice pack from
the elaborately outfitted kitchen. Striding to the small balcony overlooking
the dome, I plop into one of the posh leather armchairs and gaze out over the
rain-soaked vegetation, the ice pack pressed to my pounding face.

The apartment we've been given is just as high class as
my old one in the Trump Soho, if a bit smaller. Rich furniture, extravagant
tapestries, and posh, multicolored rugs complete an ensemble that would seem
like a dream vacation getaway except for its bizarre locale.

I consider Damian, my would-be father. He's done
nothing to harm us here, other than his initial threat to have his computer
shoot me. In fact, he's been overwhelmingly hospitable since then, if still as
silent as the grave regarding any additional details of his work. But I don't
trust him in the least. I’ll never trust him.

I lean my head back and watch the ice storm rage
against the clear dome top. I sit there long into the night turning things over
and over in my head and savoring my hatred for my father.

I wake with a jolt, pain screaming through my body, a
red hot spear sticking into my lower back. Years of waking up in strange places
puts me immediately on guard. I try to roll away from my attacker, the sadist
who's trying to skewer me like a pig, but my body won't cooperate.
God help
me!
I have to get away. Something moves beside me and I try to slide away
from it, my eyes tracing the shape in the darkness, looming close to me like a
demon threatening to suck my life away. I feel hazy, smothered, until my mind
begins to clear and I come fully awake. The shape next to me is Cray, snoring
gently, peaceful and at rest. I belatedly realize my attacker doesn't exist;
I'm being tortured by my own body.

I bite my lip, push slowly to a half sitting position
and slide off the side of the bed. My feet hitting the floor causes a fresh
wave of fire to slice through my back, arcing into my extremities, and I stifle
a whimper. I stagger awkwardly across the thick carpet into the bathroom and
ease the door closed before sinking into a heap on the cold tile. I force
myself to breathe and concentrate on the coolness of the floor pushing through
my thin pajama pants, the darkness around me.

Closing my eyes, I will myself to ignore the agony
until I slowly regain some semblance of control. The pain begins to ebb from me
like a brook, dreadfully slow, infuriatingly slow. But with each passing
second, it becomes more and more bearable. It takes several minutes, but I'm
finally able to control it to the point where it is just a dull ache. For the
first time, I realize my face is wet from the tears that have squeezed themselves
from my eyes, and I wipe at them angrily, feeling weak that they're even there.

I told Cray the truth. The pain
is
getting
harder to control. But even he doesn't know just how hard it's become. There
are times when it threatens to break through my best efforts, like water
bursting from a dam, trying to drown me, to pull me under. After that night in
the tower, I've been on a downward spiral, and I'm scared to think of where I
will be a year from now. What if I get to the point that I lose all control? I
balk at the thought of being a cripple.

The doctor that patched me up after the explosion did
okay with what he had to work with, but the damage was extensive. I can't be
sure, but I suspect the source of my current pain is related to a piece of
shrapnel lodged in my spine that he said was too dangerous to remove. I think
my ability to control pain is somehow related to my central nervous system, and
this shrapnel is blocking the signals.

After a while, I rise deliberately, careful not to
re-aggravate the injury by moving too fast. I've found I can control it better
when I'm still. But right now, I'm wide awake, I want some fresh air, and since
I'm not going back to sleep for a while, I'm going to take the opportunity to
spy this place out some more.

Damian has put up a good façade, but it's obvious he's
full of secrets. I can't imagine what bizarre atrocities he may have
hidden around here if what we found on the island is any indication.

One thing I haven't seen yet and would love to find out
more about is the place where the clones are bred and formed. Especially since
it hits so close to home for me.

After sneaking through the apartment and out the door,
I plod down the darkened hallway, the slab flooring cold on my bare feet, my
steps silent as I limp along awkwardly.

I try my best not to think much about what I once was.
I have no regrets about how I got my injuries. I cared for Cray then, but
since, I have grown to love him more than anything. I would gladly sacrifice my
body and even my life for him. Still, it hurts to remember the things I was
able to do – the speed and the strength. I still have them, but just walking
down the hallway is difficult now. If I tried to draw on my body’s reserves too
often, I don’t know what would happen, but I fear eventually tearing myself
apart.

It all happened so fast, the grenade in the air, the
look of terror and realization on Cray’s face. I knew in a heartbeat what would
happen, and I was diving to cover him before a split second had passed. There
was no doubt about the effect. I didn’t expect to survive, but I did. Cray had
the same idea, to shield my body with his own, but I was faster. He’s never
said it out loud, but I can tell he struggles with the fact that it was me that
got hurt and not him. Kind of like survivor’s guilt, I guess. I wish it weren’t
so, and I try to show him I’m glad it was me, but I don’t think that feeling is
something I’ll ever be able to take away from him. It's something he's
going to have to come to terms with.

At the end of the hallway, I take the small, functional
elevator down to the ground level, and move through the Geo-dome. The
ground is still wet from the faux rain, and the smells of the trees and plants
remind me of the Island, the place I was “conceived”, the place where Cray and
I found out how totally screwed up our world is. I think of Ilana, alone there,
living among the nightmarish creatures Damian created, and I wonder how she’s
surviving.

Of this much I'm sure, none of our movements here go
unnoticed. This place is just as state-of-the-art as the lab on the island was,
probably more so, and even though I can't see them, I'm sure there are cameras
and sensors everywhere. Heck, the computer can open our apartment based on our
proximity and recognizing our DNA signature. Heaven only knows what this system
can do. But I also know that we haven't been forbidden to move around the
facility, or even given instructions to avoid certain areas. I guess if Damian
has something he's hiding, he's confident he can keep it that way.

I still can't figure him out. I know the atrocities
he's responsible for, the terrible things he's done, but in person, he comes
across as amiable. I'm not an idiot, and I know this could be a total ruse, but
I guess a part of me expected him to be completely deranged and dripping with
crazy. But so far, he's gone out of his way to treat me and Cray with apparent
kindness.

Cray has a hard time talking to him. It's frustrating
for him. He wants info as bad as I do, but he can't be around Damian without
wanting to kill him. Cray's only loved one who never betrayed him was his
adoptive mom. She was taken by The Virus. The logical progression is that Cray
blames Damian. In his shoes, I would probably do the same, as indirect as it
may have been.

I've been methodically exploring this place over the
several weeks we've been here, gradually working my way deeper and deeper into
its bowels. I only do this at night when everyone's mostly asleep. I
haven't told Cray. There's no real reason to keep it a secret, but I guess in a
way, it makes me feel like my old self, sneaking around, avoiding guards, and
trying to uncover Damian's deepest, darkest secrets.

The mass of the building on the surface is just the
beginning. I've already mapped out two floors beneath the dome level, though
I've found nothing out of the ordinary there. The first floor is mostly
relegated to barracks for the security staff and storage, at least for the
rooms I've been able to get into.

The floor beneath that, however, starts to get a little
more interesting, and when I say interesting, I mean impenetrable. Mazes of
hallways and doors line the expanse, none of which are unlocked, and several
have bio hazard warnings on the doors.

I make my way slowly through the first floor and down
to the second, checking every door again, hoping to find one open this time.

I've explored the entire second floor three times now,
and so far, I don't see that there's anything beyond this level. If there is, I
can't find a way down to it. Still, I have the itching feeling that I'm missing
something, and I'm determined to find out what it is.

As every time before, I find no open doors, but I
decide to push my luck tonight. I run a very good chance of setting off an
alarm, but like I said before, I'm pretty certain I'm being watched anyway, and
since nobody has tried to stop me yet, I decide to take a slightly more
decisive action.

I move to one of the nearest doors, one that is
not
marked bio-hazard, and place both hands against the cold steel. Like all the
others, it's easy to tell it is thick and sturdy from the feel alone. Bracing
my feet to keep from slipping – and my mind for the upcoming torment – I begin
to push against the door with both hands, about a quarter of my strength at
first, then building until I'm putting everything I have behind it. Pain rages
up and down my back and legs from the effort, and I struggle not to let my feet
slide, my toes digging into the concrete floor.

Suddenly there's a loud popping sound, and the door
bulges in slightly near the lock, but it holds fast, despite my best efforts,
and I relax, huffing in frustration. I sink to my knees and fight my way
through the pain until I can get it under control again. I curse under my
breath. This place is like Fort Knox.

I sit there for several minutes, straining for any
sound that may indicate I've drawn an audience, but I hear nothing, and slowly
rise to my feet again. I perhaps pushed myself too hard and decide not to keep
going tonight. I turn and make my way back the way I came.

Maybe it's time to bring Cray into my explorations.
Maybe there's something I'm missing that he can put together, or perhaps he can
figure a way to get beyond those doors to see what's lurking inside.

Moving through the labyrinth, I pass a junction of
hallways, when I hear a faint hissing sound to my right. I stop, alert, and
prepare for anything, but what I see surprises me. One of the large doors has
slid open to reveal an elevator I didn't know was there. I'm instantly filled
with equal portions of caution and excitement.

The door remains open, beckoning, waiting. It seems
obvious to me that this is not an accident. Whoever has been monitoring the
surveillance equipment has just given me an opportunity. The question is
whether or not I should take it. It could be an invitation to learn more, or it
could be a trap.

Common sense says I should proceed with caution and go
get Cray for backup. But at the same time, I'm terrified the chance will pass
and I'll miss out on something important. I finally step to the elevator and
move inside. If someone were trying to trap or hurt me, it would have likely
come long before now. Time to put my money where my mouth is.

As soon as I enter the elevator, the door slides closed
with another hiss, and almost immediately, the floor drops and I begin to
descend. There are no buttons for floors to be pushed. I'm at the mercy of the
elevator, or whoever is controlling it. I don't have to wait long, only a
couple of seconds, before the descent stops and the door opens again.

I step out into a hallway and peer down its expanse.
The texture is different here. Rather than concrete, polished marble covers the
floor, walls, and ceiling. A deep thrumming moves like prickles across the
soles of my feet, more felt than heard. The hallway is lined with potted plants
that look exotic, with a few chairs scattered here and there. It reminds
me of a fancy, elongated waiting room. There are no doors that I can see, and
the far end of the hallway is another flat, marbled wall.

“Hello, Mira.”

The voice comes from behind me, and I spin
instinctively, my right hand moving in a flash into the pocket of my pants,
through the hole I’ve cut there, and to the blade strapped to my thigh. I have
it out and against the neck of the newcomer before I even realize it’s Damian.

“Sorry to startle you, dear,” he says calmly, despite
my blade against his throat. “I meant no harm.”

“Habit,” I say, gritting my teeth against the new flash
of pain budding through my back and limbs from the sudden movement. I take a
deep breath, and lower the blade back to its hidden sheath, allowing the pain
to subside to its tolerable form.

Behind Damian, a section of the wall has opened
inwardly, so quietly I never heard it. I would have sworn there were no cracks
there a moment before to indicate any type of entrance.

“You’re up a bit late, aren’t you?” Damian says.
“Trouble sleeping?”

“You could say that,” I respond. He knows I'm
snooping, and I want to kick myself for getting caught, but he has to be the
one who let me in here in the first place. I hold my head high and meet his
gaze evenly. “I’ve seen your handiwork before,” I say. “I have a feeling
there’s a lot more going on here than what we’ve seen so far. I’d like to know.
You could save me the trouble and just show me instead of making me spy this
place out in the middle of the night.”

I expect him to get angry and lash out at me, or to
threaten me for sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, but in the end he
does neither. After a moment of silence, he smiles charmingly, his bright teeth
sparkling in the darkness.

“Of course,” he says. “These are my personal quarters,”
he says glancing at the open doorway. “If you’d like to come inside, there are
many things I would like to discuss with you.” When he sees my obvious
hesitation, he adds, “I’ll leave the door open if you like.”

I'm tempted, but I don't want to show any weakness.
Besides, even as bad off as I am, I can still take him if it's just the two of
us. "No need for that," I say, giving him a pointed look.

He smiles again, and turns to move into the room beyond
without waiting for me. I follow, and as I round the corner from the doorway,
my breath catches in my chest.

The room is one of the most stunning, ornate places
I've ever seen. The suite Cray and I are staying in looks like one from a
five-star hotel, but it pales in comparison to this. An expansive white
marble fireplace sits across from two decadent black leather sofas with dark
burgundy stitching. A blazing fire crackles melodiously. Several
high-arching hallways lead off of the great room in various places, and
directly in front of me with no barrier between it and the imposing space, is a
kitchen with a ten to twelve foot island, it's top covered with sleekly
polished, hard wood, probably mahogany. The walls are adorned with magnificent
paintings, each of varying themes and eras, but somehow flowing together in
harmony. The entire floor, like the fireplace, is white marble.
It’s so polished that it mirrors everything above it