After his last cold shower in Castle Rock, Matt was dressing when Bart knock on the door. They’d all left off with the bell—the saccharine nature of these tunes was too much. Pulling on a sweater, the forecast was for rain and temperatures in the 50sF. Matt still had trouble adjusting to Fahrenheit here; he generally, automatically, thought Celsius—even after four years. Still, 50s he knew would be cold—in response he was wearing a shirt, sweater, and a canvas spring jacket. “Good, you’re up—had to wake the rest. Damn shower is still cold.”
“Helped me wake up. Anyway, we should start to get used to that where we’re going.” Bart smiled and passed him some jerky. Taking this, Matt continued. “We’ll need to do some grocery shopping in Seattle—doubt there will be much up in Bellingham.”
“Wonder if there’ll be much in Seattle.” Matt shrugged at the sentiment and grabbed his bags.
After another several minutes in the lobby they were on the road again. The sun was just breaking over the mountains to the East. There was no haze of purples, reds, or pinks; it was hard, clear strips of sunshine and there were hardly any clouds in the sky. Shasta turned on the radio but there was no mention of what they were seeing on the road. If anything this was worse than the day before; what should have taken a couple of hours, or less, ended up being three and a half. Several times they were slowed by aggressive mobs that wanted the SUVs, but after shooting one or two of these the rest melted away. The shock of how easily both they and the refugees had left civility and compassion behind had shocked Feargal on an intellectual level, but not in any practical or emotional sense. The casual brutality seemed all in keeping with the world Yeats had predicted, but would never have found a place in—as many, outside the vehicles, now found themselves excluded from.
“Where do you think they’re from?” Shasta asked. Bart smiled from the back seat.
“We could stop and ask.”
“No.” Growing angry. “Do you think they are from Seattle or north of?” That paused the others.
“What do you mean?” Bart seemed to have something on his mind.
“If,” Matt answered, “they’re from the North then we shouldn’t have much trouble in Seattle, but if they are from Seattle that could make getting what we need difficult—impossible maybe.”
“Could make getting in near impossible.” Shasta continued.
“I’ve been thinking of that.” Bart answered. Matt turned, a little, from the road to look at him. “Tell them we’re on the way to Bellingham to join the Militia; offer the guards a bribe; if that doesn’t work force our way in.” Shasta shrugged, as though there seemed little choice but the direct approach.
Finally, they reached Seattle after skirting Centralia—which was little more than a smoking ruin—and from a distance they saw columns of black smoke rising into the morning sky. There weren’t many and these seemed about ready to give it up in favour of an uncertain smoulder. At the barricade all they had to demonstrate was cash and a promise to head north in not more than 24 hours. Once he’d the pass for their group they were pushed quickly through. Even as they pushed north into the city, there was the sound of periodic shots coming from the Militia held barricade to the South. As they pushed deeper into the city they heard more shots coming from neighbourhoods to their left and right. There were also definite indications of looting—broken windows, streets strewn with castoff goods, and the occasional body. At this time, no one saw any indication of police or Militia presence—only the aftermath of an engagement.
The streets were completely empty, though it was now late morning. None of the stores were open and several appeared to be boarded up with warnings spray painted on these—looters will be shot. “Not looking good.” Bart said between the pair. “Maybe we should stop and speak with the others?” Nodding Matt pulled over. As Bart conferred, Feargal checked for a signal and though there was no wifi there remained a couple of bars of data. He called the number he had for the herbal shop. After several rings someone picked up. Once having identified himself, and with whom he worked, the owner agreed to let Feargal in around back.
Having got that out of the way Matt joined the others. “We have to get out of here quickly.” Shasta was saying.
“The shop owner agreed to a meeting.” Feargal answered the looks.
“You believe we really need the cure—maybe we could get it elsewhere?” Kathy was nervous—and not much of a fan of Halton’s provocation.
“We,” Matt’s voice pointed, “may. This, as well, is the last place that I’m certain we’ll find all we need—in this area at least.” At that there was an explosion to the Northeast, somewhere near Lea Hill.
Wait in the coffee shop over there.” Pointing across the street; by some miracle the thing was still open.
“Don’t you think,” Kathy responded, glancing nervously about, “it would be better if we stuck together?”
“A heavily armed group they don’t know showing up at their back door in the middle of a city wide riot may be taken the wrong way.” Feargal was staring down the alley now. There was something about this which was making him nervous. Was this more than he should be experiencing, given the circumstances? “Besides, I only got them to meet by dropping Salt’s name—we all show up, that’s a problem.”
None of the others were happy with the arrangement, but accepted Feargal’s argument. Shasta had tried a little harder than the others to change his mind, but gave up when it became apparent this wouldn’t work. With the others in the shop—still staring anxiously across the street toward the alley—Matt moved carefully past the large dumpsters which dotted the rear of the shops. A light drizzle had tamped down the smell of refuse. Feargal eventually stopped at the ragged and scuffed St. George’s Cross door—what he’d been told to look for—then pushed the slung AR-15 to his back and knocked. There was a pause as someone shuffled behind the door and stopped. Matt supposed they were checking him out. After a moment a series of locks gave and the door swung in.
“Hello, Matt.” The man was not just old, but wizened, maybe in their 70s if the life had been rough—looked to have been rough. The bags beneath the eyes appeared heavy and nearly translucent. A blueish tint clung to these, which appeared to have been irritated by sleeplessness. This was reasonable enough with what had been going on since they’d crossed the Rockies. The watery edges of his cloudy grey and harshly bloodshot eyes were shockingly red. The eyes themselves were anxious—bordering on terrified—and darted to either side of the young man, even as he stepped back to allow him past. “My name’s William.” Stepping in Feargal smiled and on the other side he held out a hand, as William closed and bolted the door.
Once finished, the old man took the hand, firmly, and pumped this a couple of times. “We’re on the second floor of the shop.”
“How many?” The tension in the voice was clear.
“My family and a friend—brought them here when the trouble started.”
“When,” Matt asked, passing into the front of the shop, pointing with his chin toward the boarded front windows, “did this begin?”
“Almost two days ago—once news about Bellingham filtered south.”
“Any news about the engagement?”
“It was supposed to have been Bellingham but the troops seem to be converging further north on Blaine, just on the border.” They were climbing hardwood stairs ill-fitted so the creaking in these was loud. As William led, Matt rested his right palm on the weapon—prepared to swing it about if there was time and if it were necessary. Even though Salt had given him the name and number this was no reason to be complacent. Then the steps opened onto the second floor.
“This,” William spoke in a shaky voice, “is my daughter, Felicity, and her children.” The woman was in her early 40s, short, stocky, with cropped, dun hair, and hard, small eyes which spoke of disappointment, anger, and a middle aged bitterness which divorced women appeared to possess an extraordinary body of knowledge of. Her mouth, squashed beneath these, was hard, tight,
and turned down at the edges. Behind her pushed out the heads of two teenage boys; these had cowed faces and little by way of élan. Growing up with Felicity, Matt had little doubt where these broken, empty glances came from. “And this,” the old man pointed toward the front of the room and the street, “is Ivan.”
Matt pulled the weapon forward. This close to the front he was anxious, but confronted with a Meta he’d not been warned of had not enhanced his calm. “No, no,” the elder continued, moving forward and in front of Feargal, “he’s a friend and has important information.” From behind Matt could hear Felicity pushing back against her sons with an anxious harrumph. With a step back, toward the stairs, Matt glanced past William.
“What info?”
“China is being held in Lynden.” William answered. The shock on Feargal’s face must have been palpable because the Meta took a step back and smiled at the same time. He wasn’t particularly tall, not quite 178cm, and stretched the concept of gaunt. Emaciated may have been closer to the mark. The Meta’s seam was pronounced and reddened—fear was plain on the face, even without the darkening seam. The skin was not albino, but a milk-chocolate brown; the eyes were all one colour—a mercurial grey. His hair was cropped short and appeared a yellowish-green with shots of grey in this.
“How do you know?” Matt asked, brushing by the old man and pushing the AR-15 forward. Panic was now full on the Meta.
“Don’t, please. I escaped from a Detail guarding her in Lynden.” Pushing him back against the wall between the windows, Matt pushed the muzzle up under his chin.
“And my daughter?”
“Never saw her. We were only guarding the woman.” Matt questioned him for another several minutes, but there was not more he knew; seemed to know. In the end he had to let him go. All the Meta could say was that it was somewhere in the centre of town, where wasn’t clear because she was constantly being moved.
Once finished with the Meta, he collected the herbs and thanked William before leaving. Was it true? Matt didn’t know, but had no choice but to follow up.
***
Once in the alley, Matt backed towards the street. Certainly he should not take what the Meta had said as truth. His mind told him it was all wrong, but the location was so close to where he’d been drawn to. It, of course, wasn’t hard on the North Cascades, but it wasn’t all that far. With elemental myths now wandering the sidewalks of the world, there seemed little point in belittling premonition. And so Matt had no choice but to follow up on the lead. Selling this to the others was going to be difficult, most especially for its location. Then he stepped into the road. Shasta waved from a table at the window.
In the shop, Matt dropped the bag of herbs on the floor beside Shasta and ordered a latte. With the coffee he returned to the table and flopped in the chair across from the woman. She and the others, at their own tables dotted about the front of the shop, stared at him. “Get everything?” She eventually asked, as it became apparent he was not about to say anything. Sipping the coffee he nodded, the distraction in his expression appeared to annoy the woman. Putting the coffee down he looked about.
“Why are they still open?” Shasta shrugged.
“Didn’t bother to ask. We should get going.”
“Apparently the engagement has moved from Bellingham to Blaine.”
“What?” Kathy asked from behind Lien. The whole team started at the cypher’s resurgence.
“According to the guy I met.”
“At least that’s further north.” Stephen answered across from Lien. Matt nodded as he screwed up his courage. No one was going to like what was coming. While he did this he’d opened his map app on his tablet—for whatever reason the wifi was working in the shop. Lynden was far closer to Blaine than he’d like, but still quite a ways from Seattle—two hours in normal traffic. They’d be lucky to get there before six if the roads north of Seattle were anything like those to the south.
Feargal suspected worse—since whatever was happening up in Blaine should dislocate the entire region. Whatever was happening up there was the mystery. Was this a battle, skirmish, probe—language didn’t seem able to grasp this. His concern, however, wasn’t with Bellingham or Blaine—it never had been. He came to Seattle for medicine and the Cascades because this was where his compulsion had driven him. Matt couldn’t exactly call it a dream, but there was something coming from outside of him that had drawn him to the Pacific Northwest. No, obviously, it was China—if, in fact, she were being held in Lynden.
“I have to go to Lynden.”
“Lynden,” Bart choked, “what’s in Lynden—where’s Lynden?”
“About two hours northeast of here, and about 16 miles east of Blaine.” The group, as a whole, paused. If Lynden hadn’t stopped them its proximity to Blaine had.
“But...” Niran began, however Feargal stepped on the objection.
“No one need come with me. I’ll catch you up later.”
“But,” Shasta opened suspiciously, “why do you need to go to Lynden?”
“Same reason I wanted to get to the North Cascades.”
“China?” Bart asked. Matt nodded. “But how did you...”
“There was a Meta at the herb shop that had escaped from Lynden—he saw her.”
“Can you,” Shasta opened cautiously, “trust them?”
“I’ve been wondering as much. But William, the owner, is one of Salt’s people and they appeared to trust them—at least enough to have them share the information with me.” That William was one of Salt’s people stuttered the group, but there was an obvious reticence. “Even if she isn’t there—or, more likely, if this is a trap—I have to go.” Shasta wanted to argue, that much Feargal could see, but the Meta appeared to be losing an interior dialogue. He could have projected himself into their thoughts, if only rhetorically, and seen the arguments, but he, as they, knew there’d be no point in this. Matt was going, and that was pretty much it.
Shasta appeared about to speak when there was a report from down the street, followed by a shriek, and another sharp pop. There was no mistaking this; they’d been hearing them all over town, but at a distance. Scowling, Matt grabbed the AR-15 from the bag of herbs, where he’d laid it, and then grabbed the bag before heading for the door. Several more reports, lower and harder, pursued this. Shadowed by the others, he crabbed across the street. At an electronics store several men were firing into a plate glass display window—there followed an explosion of glass and what might have been a groan, perhaps a muffled shout.
As this was happening, another group rounded the corner, by the store, and fired on the first. By this time Matt and Shasta, followed by the rest of the team, were at their vehicles. Feargal tossed the herbs in the back of the truck and moved toward the driver’s door. Finished, almost as quickly as it had begun, the second group had killed the first and now had taken notice of the SUVs. The first shots bit the tarmac several metres in front of them, but the rounds were ticking up the distance. Disinclined to wait Matt aimed and let go. It wasn’t the first time he’d been grateful for the full-auto conversion, but it was the first time—he was certain of—that it saved his life. The first three went down almost at once, and then another followed before the remaining four disappeared around the corner.
In less time than he would have supposed they were in the trucks and heading north again, and as far from the firefight as they could get.
***
They’d been on the road for the better part of an hour—Matt had found it was necessary to skirt toward the ferry to find a clear street. Feargal didn’t want to pick up the I5 again until they were out of the city, since this would have been a natural arterial exit and because of this probably blocked—it would also be the natural choice of the Militias to feed troops north toward the border conflict; though border, as a concept, was a bit iffy since the collapse of BC and much of Alberta. Rumour was the Canadians were mounting a counter-offensive to break the hold the Transhumanists now appeared to have on those western pro
vinces, but how effective this would be was questionable.
While debating this with Shasta and Bart, Matt was also juggling Lien’s worried calls about which was the best route. In the end there was little choice—Matt simply wound, almost hopelessly, from one blocked street to the next which was open, heading in a generally northern direction. Then there were the looters, neighbourhood militias, and hooded anarchists who added their own flavour to the arcade shuffle. Eventually they found themselves on 1st Avenue and heading north at a nice clip. Looking over he smiled at Shasta, and she returned the gesture but with less certainty.
Feargal had just crossed north of Marion when a report was followed by a screech of tires and the crunching thud of Metal on Metal. As he slowed to look back the rear window exploded and he swerved to the opposite side of the street to nestle just south of Madison amongst a cluster of stairs reaching up the hill. When he exited the truck the others were hiding behind theirs and pointing at the front of the vehicle—flat tire. He called Kathy. “You okay?”
“No one’s hurt. I think the sniper took the tire, but we can’t fix it with them up there.”
“Did you see which building?” There was another crack and Matt looked up. It was coming from the fourth floor of an office building.
“You armed?” She was. “Can you make it across the street without being hit?
“How the fuck can I promise that?”
“Well, try. Leave the others there; make sure they keep them busy—they should also give you some cover.” Ending the call he turned to Bart. “Wait here, if we don’t get them you’ll have to.” That didn’t go down well, but before Shasta or Bart could disagree more Matt had the AR and was edging back toward the building. Meanwhile, Kathy had bolted from cover just as the others opened up. The shooter attempted to catch her, but was kept off-balance by the suppressing fire. However, their SUV was taking a lot of damage.
End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity) Page 10