by Chris Fox
“Garland, I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess you’ve tried a few drugs before,” Liz interjected, giving Garland a smile that might have been a little friendlier than strictly warranted.
“Drugs? I’ve got some opium if you want. We can smoke that once we’re up,” he shot back, warming at Liz’s attention. “Goes great with a little beer. Just the right mix of mellow and mellower.”
“Have you ever done ayahuasca?” she asked, pitching it low like a secret.
“Nah, that shit’s almost impossible to get ahold of. You have to know a shaman and…”
“I know a shaman, Garland. If you take us down to Cajamarca, I’ll get you ayahuasca. You can even do it with a real shaman,” she offered. His eyes lit up as though he were Indiana Jones being told where to find the Holy Grail.
“All right, I’ll cover gas. But I want one more thing, or it’s no deal,” he said cagily, though bits of a smile threatened to surface.
“What’s that?” Trevor asked, wary but looking hopeful. He folded his arms across his chest, shifting his weight as a plane taxied in the distance behind him.
“Your hot sister has to ride up front with me.” He grinned, giving Liz an obvious wink.
Trevor turned to his sister. She closed her eyes in weary resignation and then gave a tight nod. Blair couldn’t blame her. It was going to be a very long flight for them, but it would be longest for Liz. She was definitely taking one for the team.
“Sure, Liz would love to sit up front with you. You can tell her all those stories about when we worked at Computers for Everyone together,” Trevor said. They all laughed, except for Liz. She was not amused, as evidenced by her sour expression. “We’ve got some stuff to load up. Listen, we’re not going to get inspected, are we? They’re, umm, not street legal.”
“Man, if they inspected me before I flew out, they’d have impounded Henrietta and dumped me in Guantanamo,” Garland said, slapping the side of the dilapidated aircraft with a metallic thud. He grabbed the handle of an oval door, yanking the metal open with a groan of protest. “Stow your stuff in the back, and take seats close to the front. That will help balance the load. Liz, why don’t you help me do preflight? I’m sure they can handle it.”
Liz gave a shrug and a sheepish smile in Blair’s direction. “At least it gets me out of work, I guess. Have fun carrying luggage.”
Garland gestured chivalrously at the door, and Liz ducked inside, heading for the cockpit. Trevor nodded back to the luggage they’d piled on the Tarmac. Fortunately, Trevor had stowed two green nylon packs in his Rover for camping. They’d used them to haul what little they’d salvaged. Next to the packs was a pair of long blanket-wrapped bundles containing the few guns Trevor had managed to rescue before they’d made their escape.
Blair waited for Garland and Liz to disappear inside the plane before he broke the silence. “How reliable is this guy?”
“Garland? Incredibly. I know he looks like a roadie who never left the ‘80s, but he’s a hell of a pilot. He’s flown under the influence of every drug you can imagine so many times that it’s all instinct now,” Trevor said, bending to heft one of the packs.
“Where do you know him from?” Blair asked, genuinely curious. The association was a strange one.
“We were both techs at a computer store back in the mid-nineties. I’d just started school and spent all my time smoking weed and playing video games at the store after hours,” he explained, picking up the lighter of the two gun bundles. Blair hefted the heavier with almost no effort. “Garland was the ‘old man’ back then. He knew all sorts of things the other techs didn’t. We all learned from him. Not everything computer related. He used to do lines of white powder off his hand in the back of the shop. I still don’t think he realizes we all knew. Anyway, he fixed computers all day long and was high the entire time. Piloting is the same for him.”
“You’ve vouched for him. That’s enough for me. Besides, if you’re wrong, it’s not like we’ll be around to complain,” Blair said, hefting the remaining pack in his free hand. They started for the plane. “Sounds like you’ve got a hell of a lot of stories. You’re a fascinating guy. I’m glad we met, and not just because you’ve saved our asses repeatedly.”
Trevor gave him a wide-eyed look and then a sudden grin. “Honestly? This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. There’s no way I would have missed this. If the world’s going to end, I want to be in on the group that tries to stop it.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Blair said, ducking inside the plane. The dimly lit room smelled of sweat and stale smoke. He dropped the guns and the pack in the rear corner next to a pair of battered bucket seats. “Listen, we haven’t had a chance to talk about the Mohn attack.” He glanced into the cockpit where Liz and Garland sat. The faint sounds of their conversation drifted back.
“I figured we’d discuss that together once we’re in the air,” Trevor said, dropping his own packs. He slid into one of the seats. “No sense doing it now just to have to explain it to Liz later.”
“It’s not Liz I’m worried about. I saw something horrible, Trevor. I’m not sure how Garland will react,” he said, settling into the seat next to Trevor. The stuffing in the cushions had been compressed into what felt like concrete, and the cracked leather smelled like Garland. “Can we trust him with everything? Or do we want to keep some things back?”
“I think we can trust him, but now you’ve got me worried,” Trevor said. He took the seat across from Blair. “What the hell happened back there that you haven’t told me?”
“We didn’t escape on our own,” Blair admitted. He buckled the frayed seatbelt. “Ahiga showed up. He saved my ass from Jordan, the commander of Mohn’s forces back at the pyramid. It was Ahiga that took down the first helicopter, and he’s the reason those coyotes attacked. He held Mohn off long enough for us to get away. They killed him for it.”
“That’s shitty, Blair, but not ‘keep it from Garland because he might freak out’ shitty,” Trevor said, clearly expecting more.
“As he died, he initiated something he called a mindshare. He showed me things. Trevor, he showed me the end of the world,” Blair said, seizing Trevor’s gaze. “The ancient enemy we mentioned? They’re zombies, Trevor. The virus was engineered, just like the werewolf virus. Only it creates zombies. Zombies just like the ones you’ve seen in movies. The ones on The Walking Dead.”
“Holy. Shit,” was all Trevor had.
“Here’s the thing. This is going to happen when the virus gets enough energy to ‘wake up.’ It gets its energy from the sun. Ahiga says there will be a massive solar event and that it will happen soon. He described a CME, Trevor, just the sort of thing you warned us about. When it hits, anyone suffering from HIV is going to die, but they aren’t going to stay dead,” Blair explained.
“My God,” Trevor said, blood draining from his freckled face. “So the zombie apocalypse is going to start right after most of the world loses power? All those contingency plans. Theories about people using social media to spread the word if it ever happened. None of that will work.”
“That’s why what we’re about to do is so important,” Blair said, inwardly cringing at how long he’d fought waking the Mother. How many people could have been saved if he’d gone back sooner? “Every town, every city…they’re all going to be cut off from each other. Some people will live, those with guns and in remote areas. But the rest are in real trouble unless they have help. Unless werewolves can somehow stop the zombies. To do that, we need to wake the woman who set this all in motion.”
64
Desperate Measures
Jordan was decidedly uncomfortable in a suit. It wasn’t that the charcoal pants didn’t fit or that the matching jacket was too confining. The suit had been expertly tailored for his broad frame and had probably cost more than his mortgage payment. What bothered him was the lack of proper pockets. No place for a weapon or anything other than a pair of keys and maybe his
wallet. It was the uniform of a businessman, not a soldier.
Yet as he stepped into the elegant ballroom, he knew it had been the correct choice. The Director had been right. Jordan glided down the impractically plush carpet, starting up the wide marble steps to the Plaza’s second floor. At least the place was air-conditioned. Panama was humid, and it was hotter than shit out there. The last thing he wanted was a sweat stain.
Jordan crested the stairs and headed to a pair of tall doors on the right. They were cut from some sort of dark-brown wood, not stained oak. Mahogany, maybe? What kind of trees did they even have down here?
A pair of men in black suits flanked the doors. Each had the telltale bulge under the arm of his jacket. They pulled the doors open as he approached, nodding for him to enter. Jordan swept past them and into the conference room, trying to keep his confidence. He’d never been to a meeting like this. Had anyone?
The room contained about sixty chairs arranged in a giant horseshoe. A row of narrow tables followed the line of chairs, most of which were empty. Light from the setting sun streamed through the tall windows lining the western wall. Perhaps two dozen men stood in small clusters throughout the room. Every last one wore a suit.
“Jordan, over here,” the Director’s familiar voice called. He stood in a tight knot of greying men who probably controlled more power and wealth than most nations. Jordan recognized only one, and his legs turned to jelly. That was Leif Mohn himself, the old man. The founder. He shared Jordan’s height but looked much more at home in his immaculately pressed suit. His hair had been perfectly styled, so blond it was almost white. It gave the man an indeterminate age, which only fueled the rumors. He’d been CEO since at least the mid-‘80s, but he could be anywhere from his late forties to his early sixties.
Most of the men drifted away as Jordan approached, leaving only the Director and Mohn. Jordan kept his shoulders squared, posture stiff. He wasn’t going to be intimidated. He’d done everything a man could be expected to do, but the situation had grown beyond one person. This wasn’t his fault.
“Mr. Mohn, I’d like you to meet one of our best operatives. This is Commander Jordan, the man who led the first team into the pyramid,” the Director said, gesturing at Jordan as he stepped up to the pair.
“He’s also the man who let Subject Alpha wipe out a village, then elude him again in San Diego,” Mohn growled. He ignored Jordan’s proffered hand, staring icily with those grey eyes. “You may have directly ushered in the end of the human race. You realize that, right?”
“Me? Who sent me in with too little intel and even less firepower? I’m betting it was you that signed that order,” Jordan shot back, struggling to keep a leash on himself. He failed. “You weren’t there. You didn’t watch friends die. You weren’t asked to fight mythological, almost un-killable creatures with no intel on their capabilities. We did the best we could, but we were outclassed. Even if we’d caught Subject Alpha, there’s no guarantee that would tell us anything. So keep your fucking opinions to yourself. You don’t like the job I’m doing? Maybe you should come out of that goddamned ivory tower once in a while, and do it your goddamned self.”
Jordan didn’t give the man time to respond, stalking away and taking a seat near the far edge of the U. He studiously ignored both Mohn and the Director. He was done being a punching bag, done apologizing for failures he couldn’t control. If they wanted his resignation, they could have it.
“That was one hell of a stunt,” the Director said, settling into the chair next to Jordan. “I’ve never seen anyone stand up to Mohn before, not even the board. He rules them like a tyrant.”
“How did he take it?” Jordan asked sullenly. Lashing out had felt good, though he knew there’d be a price. There always was.
“He smiled,” the Director said, adjusting his glasses. “That’s something we almost never see, so I’d say you made an impression.”
“He was happy I was insubordinate?” Jordan asked, finally turning to face the Director. His salt-and-pepper hair was immaculate, suit pressed to perfection. But Jordan could also see exhaustion.
“I didn’t say that. I said he smiled,” the Director replied, shaking his head as if Jordan were truly dense. “The last time that happened, a multibillion-dollar corporation went bankrupt, and there was a trail of bodies from Iraq to Venezuela. You want my opinion? The only thing that might keep you alive after that show is a world-ending werewolf apocalypse. Thankfully we happen to have one of those. I told him you’re the best. We just can’t afford to lose you right now. So I guess if you had to fly off the handle, your timing was impeccable.”
The lights flickered on and off three times in rapid succession, indicating everyone should take a seat. He’d never seen so many powerful people scurry before. The few women still managed to make it look graceful, a testament to how high they’d risen in what was unfortunately very much a man’s world. People at this level held on to old ideas hard. Sexism was alive and well in the lofty halls of power.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a man’s British voice called from the back of the room, “please find your seats. Each of you will find a tablet on the table before you. All relevant research and statistics have been loaded in the Mohn Crisis Management app. Feel free to follow along with the presentation. Be aware that a vote will be taken afterwards.”
“A vote on what?” Jordan whispered, leaning toward the Director.
“I don’t know. They called us last night and said to get everyone here. People came from as far away as London. I’ve never seen this sort of urgency before. Whatever it is, I think we’re about to find out,” he replied, crossing his arms and slouching in his chair. Bad posture was probably the most overt show of defiance he was willing to make. The Director didn’t reach for the iPad, so Jordan followed his lead. He could study whatever it contained later. He wanted to stay focused on whatever theatrics the board had come up with.
The lights dimmed, and a multicolored world map sprung up on a massive screen in front of the U, perhaps forty feet across. Jordan hadn’t even realized they made screens that large. Then the presentation began to play. A pin appeared in Peru, labeled first incident. As a calendar advanced on the upper-right-hand corner of the screen, more pins began to appear. The whole thing took maybe forty-five seconds, beginning with January 7 and ending on March 4. Two months and a sea of tags covered South and Central America, as well as Mexico. A crosshatch also covered the southwestern United States with outbreaks appearing sporadically throughout the rest of the country.
Europe, India, and Asia had their share as well. Africa was curiously empty, with only two outbreaks. Both were labeled contained, leaving the continent completely free of the werewolf menace. That didn’t make any sense. The military forces in Africa weren’t equipped to deal with werewolves, which should have torn through large population centers. Yet they hadn’t. What was Africa doing that the rest of the world wasn’t?
“As you can see, now is not a good time to be a citizen of the Americas, and soon the same will be true of the rest of the world,” the polished British voice explained. “This is what the world will look like in another sixty days.”
More pins began to fall, much more quickly now. South America became a sea of them. Then Mexico. The United States made it thirty days before it too was completely covered. Canada began to fall. At the same time, Europe was overrun. Asia and India fared better but were still over eighty percent covered. Africa had sporadic pockets of red as well. Jordan wondered who’d come up with these numbers.
The lights came up. A man in an electric wheelchair zoomed smoothly to the center of the U, commanding everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, the world is coming to an end. We simply cannot contain the outbreak. Conventional warfare is useless. Our enemy can hide among us, completely undetectable until they strike. Even our top-tier teams have lost engagement after engagement.”
Eyes shifted to Jordan. He glared back defiantly, daring someone to say something. No one did
.
“All of this is dire, but it doesn’t mean the world has to end for us. Our illustrious CEO has created an oasis of technology, a place where we can gather in comfort and strength,” the Brit explained. Then he rose from the wheelchair, a few people gasping in surprise. More than one looked angry at the subterfuge. “That chair was my prison for nearly a decade. Now I can not only walk but also run far more quickly than I could in my younger years, all because of the technology we control. The new world is coming regardless of what we want. The only question is, will we be consumed by it…or will we rule it?”
A short, hairy man with dark skin and smoldering eyes stood. He had a faint French accent. “Your presentation is quite impressive, but what exactly are you proposing? You mentioned a vote but have yet to elaborate.”
“A valid question, Mr. Rutger,” the Brit retorted smoothly. He walked to the hairy man’s seat. “I am proposing that the board move all assets and all relevant personnel to Syracuse. Most of our research and development is done there, and it is remote, making it the ideal location to start over.”
Jordan had heard enough. These people had unleashed a plague on the world, and now they were tucking tail and running, abandoning everyone. Nearly seven billion people. He wasn’t going to stand for this. He found himself on his feet, hands balling into fists. “So you’re just giving up, then? You’re letting it all go to shit. The people on your special list get saved, and everyone else dies. That’s what I’m hearing, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Jordan. That is precisely what you’re hearing,” the Brit gave back with a smug smile. “The world is ending. That is a tragedy without equal, but this company is in no position to change that fact. We did try, as you know better than anyone. Had you succeeded, things might have been different, but now we need to face reality. A reality you had a direct hand in crafting, I might add.”