by Duncan, Ian
Eighteen
ONLY FOUR BLOCKS from Pennsylvania Avenue, Trubilinski was certain he was being followed. He had been wary passing through the crowd of demonstrators. No one seemed to recognize him, a constant possibility since he had become, during the first two outbreaks, a household name, his somber face looming on every television set in America. Mr. Doomsday, many in the media had taken to calling him.
The danger of a flash mob forming had not failed to occur to him. After all, many of the talking heads on television now routinely threw his name into the mix with the likes of Pol Pot, Trotsky, and Stalin, and—though the moniker had nearly been worn out from its repeated use in political warfare—Hitler himself.
Trubilinski entered a crowded coffee shop, ordered an Americano, paid cash for it, and took his drink to a small table, where he sat listening to the steamer and watching the front windows for his tail. An amateur, someone only hoping to take his picture and post it online, or someone that wanted him to sign their HEPA respirator with a Sharpie, as had happened once—mere curiosity seekers—would not hesitate to walk by the front windows or even to come inside; they would not, as a professional would, wait outside for hours and resume the tail when he returned to the street.
He began to listen to the conversations around him: Millennials talking about Cordyceps, horror stories they’d heard out of Dallas or Los Angeles or New York, the likelihood of it already being released in Washington, and of their own vain plans, based largely on the television shows they’d watched, to survive.
Trubilinski sipped his Americano and used the time to allow his blood pressure to return to normal. He had the thought that the true purpose of the meeting might have been nothing more than to create an opportunity for the tail, and the objective of the tail was only too easy to surmise. His fame, or infamy, depending on how one regarded it, and his deep ties to the military were a threat—perhaps the biggest threat in America—to the Cicada Project. Even if they didn’t want him dead it was only because they had something worse planned. They meant to lay their hands on him and send him outside the city bearing all their sin and shame.
An hour later, he left the cafe by the main entrance, setting off down the sidewalk in no particular hurry, using the reflections in the plate glass storefronts and tinted car windows to check, as best he could, the sidewalks behind him and on the opposite side of the thoroughfare. He crossed the street at several busy intersections, using the moments when he turned and waited for traffic to scan behind him. At the second such crossing he spotted him, half a block back, behind two women carrying shopping bags effusing tissue paper. Trying to use them as a visual shield. And he had changed clothes, Trubilinski noticed. Pro.
Several blocks later, Trubilinski entered a drugstore and perused the aisles for several seemingly random items. In the middle of one aisle he paused, withdrew his cell phone from his pocket, and texted the words alas babylon to one of his contacts. At the checkout he paused to glance at a tabloid showing what were obviously Photoshopped pictures of sprouted climbers on recognizable landmarks all across the country: the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, the Statue of Liberty, the Washington Monument, and Mount Rushmore, all grouped under the bold heading: the nation falls.
Trubilinski laid his items on the checkout counter: a weighted desktop tape dispenser, an aerosol can of spray starch, a four-pack of D-cell batteries, a pair of women’s sheer pantyhose, and a small combination screwdriver. If it was a strange assortment the clerk made no mention of it, mindlessly beeping the items across his scanner and bagging them. His attention was distracted by a small television set that showed nothing but static, and to which, Trubilinski noticed, the clerk’s eyes kept flitting. He paid cash. As soon as he handed the bag across the counter, Trubilinski saw the clerk turn to the tiny TV, pressing buttons on it, quietly cursing it, even slapping the side of it.
Trubilinski was about to exit the store’s airlock onto the street when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He stopped there while the automatic doors, confused, unfolded and refolded before and behind him.
The text message on his screen read: Have your 20. Proceed to Checkpoint Charlie.
Trubilinski slid his phone into his pocket and exited the store. He did not break stride until he crossed Constitution Avenue and entered the gardens of the National Mall. The broad, open sidewalks there would make it difficult for his tail to follow closely and should buy him some time—hopefully enough time. He followed the long, curving sidewalk past the pond, where Canadian geese cruised motionlessly and weeping willows reflected in the tranquil water. In the distance, the Washington Monument shone in the sunlight, white and pure and somehow obscene to Trubilinski: what struck him, in that moment, not as a part of the landscape but a threat risen over it, a turgid growth extended upward until nothing was hidden from its influence.
Trubilinski followed the sidewalk past the pond to a remote set of public restrooms. He was certainly giving them the perfect opportunity. It remained to be seen whether they would avail themselves of it. He entered the men’s side, looked under the stall dividers to confirm that he was alone, and dumped the contents of his drugstore bag on the counter between the sinks. He tore into the hosiery package and removed the leggings, the silky material sticking to the calluses on his fingers. He ripped open the four-pack of D-cell batteries and dropped them, one by one, into the first legging, then double-bagged the first legging inside the second and gave them a good knot behind the bulge of the batteries. He laid this aside and attacked the clear plastic packaging of the tape dispenser with the screwdriver, ripping it open and cutting himself once in the process. When he had the tape dispenser free he began to pry at the base of it with the screwdriver, removing a rubber pad and working the flat head of the screwdriver around a seam in the plastic until he had loosened the bottom plate, lifted it, and laid it aside. He held the breast pocket of his shirt open and poured the white sand of the tape dispenser’s ballast into it until it hung heavily against his chest. He gathered up all the packaging and the remains of the tape dispenser and tossed them into the wastebasket. He picked up the can of spray starch and the battery-laden hosiery, glanced at himself once in the mirror—the terrible pallor of his face under those fluorescent lights—then he crossed to the furthest stall, and closing the door behind him, began to arrange his weapons.
Nineteen
“WAKE UP,” said a voice.
Cole opened his eyes and shut them again, unsure whether the voice had come to him in the last moments of a dream or in the first seconds of waking.
“Wake up,” the voice said again.
He opened his eyes and turned his head, his hand closing over the Glock, finding the pistol’s grip.
The same weak fluorescent light in the garage. She was standing over him, wearing the same clothes, holding the same pistol. At least she wasn’t pointing it at him this time. Behind her, the door to the house stood open.
“Someone’s come to the door,” she said.
Cole stared at her and blinked. Her voice was different than he remembered, a foreign lilt to it, and he realized he hadn’t heard her speak more than a few words until just then.
“They’re asking for you,” she said in a decidedly British accent.
“What?” Cole sat up and looked around him, still disoriented, seeing the teddy bear flattened beneath him and realizing how ridiculous it must have looked, but she didn’t seem to notice. “What time is it?”
“You’ve only been here a few hours. They’re getting on about how they need to have a word with you. I swear, I didn’t open the door or say a word. They just showed up.”
Cole rubbed his face, then reached for his boots. The sound of hard knocking carried all the way from the front door.
“Is someone looking for you, then?” she said.
“What do they look like?” Cole asked.
“I couldn’t see very well from the window. They’re
in white suits—containment suits with masks over their faces. They have guns like yours and there’s something like a tank that they’ve pulled right up into the yard.”
“Shit.” Cole had the boots laced. He got to his feet and started pulling on the vest and pack.
“Are those government men? What do they want?”
“Damned if I know.” Cole buckled the vest and cinched the straps of the pack. He picked up the AR and checked the chamber.
“What are you going to do?”
“I guess we’ll have to parley, huh?”
He started across the garage toward the house with her close on his heels.
“Wait a minute!” she said. “What do you know about these people?”
Cole stopped in the doorway and turned to look at her. “About as much I know about you.”
She turned her eyes to the floor and hesitated. She brushed an errant strand of her hair over her ear. “Look, I’m sorry I was, I was a bitch, alright?”
Pounding came from the front door, a muffled voice shouting.
Cole stepped into the laundry room. “I’m sorry,” he said, determined not to let her off easily, “what was your name again?”
She looked at him, her pale blue eyes suddenly vulnerable, or deciding to be. “Emily.”
“Alright, Emily,” Cole said, continuing into the kitchen. “Are we going to be friends now?”
She blinked hard, and Cole pushed through the swinging door into the hall.
Emily followed. “What do you know about these people?”
Cole stopped by the grandfather clock and turned. “Why are you so worried about me all the sudden?”
Emily opened her mouth, but stopped as though surprised by what she was about to say. “I—”
Cole stepped to a nearby window and pulled ever so slightly at the edge of the heavy curtain. He could see them on the front sidewalk in biohazard suits just like she’d said. Both carrying M4’s, one of them obviously covering the one banging on the door.
Cole heard the man shouting again, his voice muffled by his full-face respirator. “COLE MCGINNIS! WE NEED TO TALK!”
The armored vehicle was there, dominating the tiny front lawn, bits of shredded turf clotted in its huge tires.
“What the hell?” Cole whispered.
“I lost everyone,” Emily said behind him, her voice broken.
Cole looked at her and saw that her eyes were wet and her cheeks were flushed. “I won’t slow you down—not as much as you think. I can shoot, and I’m resourceful.”
Cole caught himself staring at her. He’d always had a weakness for foreign accents. Damned if he didn’t pick the one house on the street with a half-crazy pregnant woman in it.
“I don’t think you need to worry,” he said. “These jokers have been pestering me for a while and if they wanted to kill me they could have done it several times already.” He stepped to the door, the AR barrel pointed at the ground. “Just follow my lead. Don’t start shooting unless I do, okay?”
Her eyes looked vacant.
“Okay?”
She nodded.
Cole reached for the door knob. “Shit, we can’t open this without you wearing a respirator.”
“What?”
“We can’t open this door unless your face is covered. There are spores everywhere out there. I left my respirator in the sink. I was washing it earlier.”
Emily disappeared into the kitchen and came back with the mask a moment later.
“Put it on,” Cole said.
She looked at it. “What about you?”
Pounding on the door again. They didn’t give up easy.
“Don’t worry about me. It’s either too late for me or I’m not going to get it anyway.”
Emily looked puzzled, but she cupped the mask over her face and pulled the straps over her head, the elastic bands pressing her hair close to her head.
Cole reached for the knob and flung open the door.
Both men started as though it was the last thing they’d expected, but neither of them swung their rifles on him. Behind them, the armored vehicle’s diesel engine grumbled at a low idle. Another man in a biohazard suit stood atop the vehicle with a light machine gun in his hands, keeping watch.
“What the fuck do you people want from me?” Cole demanded.
They stared at him for a moment, their breath thudding inside their masks. The one closest to Cole had his M4 slung over his shoulder. He held up both hands in a gesture of peace. “Just to talk.”
“Bullshit.”
The man in the biohazard suit pointed behind him. “Our producer is waiting in the vehicle to speak with you.”
“Your producer,” Cole repeated. You have got to be kidding me.
The man beckoned to Cole, looking, in the suit, like some envoy to an alien planet. “You can bring your guns. We mean you no harm.”
We mean you no harm, Cole thought. Shit innocent people don’t say. Cole didn’t budge. “You tell that sonofabitch if he wants to talk to me he can get his ass out of his tank and talk to me right here in the sitting room.”
The man started to protest, but Cole left the door standing open and turned to Emily. Her eyes were wide.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Cole muttered, half joking. He walked into the dining room and turned on the light. He went to the head of the table and pulled out the chair, clawfeet dragging through the deep nap of the rug. He propped the AR against the china cabinet behind him. He took his seat and laid the Glock on the table in front of him for dramatic purposes. He’d seen it once in a movie about a drug lord and it seemed to work pretty well.
Emily stood in the doorway.
“What are they doing?” Cole said.
Emily’s voice reverberated in the mask. “Going back to the vehicle to get him, I think.”
“Good.”
It was impossible to sit comfortably in the chair wearing the pack, and Cole stood to remove it. He had another idea and pulled the AR pistol from the pack and when he sat down again he laid it on his leg where the tablecloth concealed it nicely, keeping his right hand on the grip and his trigger finger just outside the guard.
Emily came in and stood beside him, still holding the pistol at her side.
“Be cool about that gun,” Cole said. “Don’t keep your finger on the trigger.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“I know you’re not, but shit still happens.”
“I suppose I’m just to stand here beside you like your damn henchman.”
“Fine by me.”
Cole had another thought. “Loud noises, like gunshots, it wouldn’t”—he gestured awkwardly at her belly—“you know, hurt the baby?”
Emily’s eyes widened again. “I don’t—I don’t think so, but—”
Across the room, a man appeared in the doorway. He was wearing civilian clothes, a red Hawaiian shirt and cargo pants, and wore only a sophisticated-looking respirator with a clear lens that afforded a full view of his face. He was perhaps in his mid fifties with dark eyes and salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin.
“Hello, Cole,” he said. He had the winsome voice and quick, whitened smile of a media personality. He approached the table. “I’m Ray Walsh.”
He held out his hand.
Cole made no move to accept it. One of Walsh’s men stood in the doorway behind him, holding his AR as casually as someone that had spent far too much time pulling such duty. Cole noticed the dark lenses of his face mask turned curiously toward Emily.
Walsh retracted the rejected hand and nodded gravely as though to say, fair enough. He retreated to the opposite end of the table and pulled out the chair and sat in it with the aplomb of a man more accustomed to summoning people into his presence than being the one summoned.
“Cole, I don’t expect you’ve ever hea
rd of me, but I’m the executive producer of a television show called Cordyceps Nation.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” Cole said.
“I’ll cut right to the chase. Cole, you’re one hell of a guy.” Walsh chuckled into his mask and glanced at the sentry in the doorway. “These guys have seen some things and they think so. You’re tough, you’re resilient, and you have a way of falling into just absolute shit and coming out smelling like roses.”
“I guess I’m just lucky,” Cole said.
“What I have to offer you, Cole, is a chance most people don’t get.”
“Are you trying to say you want to make a show out of this?”
Emily turned to Cole. “Is that what this—?”
Walsh interrupted, his demeanor changing. “I’m already shooting the footage, okay?” He held up his hands as though coming clean entirely. “I’m making the show. What I’m asking for is your cooperation. We can make it that much better, that much quicker, get the scenes we need, get some really badass capture, and then we can get the hell out of here.”
For a moment neither Cole nor Emily said a word. When he finally spoke, Cole’s voice was low and even, admitting neither anger nor enthusiasm. “And if we say no?”
Walsh held up his hands in frustration. “I mean, you can, but it doesn’t really have an upside for either of us. We just keep playing cat and mouse out here, and you probably wind up dead like everybody else on their own in this shit storm—and even worse, you don’t make any money when it airs. I’m talking about six figures or more here. This is going to be a big show. Nobody’s done this kind of thing before. Nobody.”
Emily was obviously aghast. “You can’t just film us for your goddamn show! I’m nine months pregnant! You can’t just film us without our permission! That’s illegal, isn’t it?” She looked to Cole for support.