by A. G. Riddle
He pointed at Dmitry. “You, stay.”
The tall soldier lumbered over to Dorian as the room cleared. “Someone took them off the train.”
“Agree.” Dorian paced back to the table. “It has to be them.”
“Impossible. We’ve searched those mountains non-stop since 9/11, they’re not there. They were all killed in ‘38. Or they could be a myth. Maybe the Immaru never existed at all.”
“You have a better idea?” Dorian said. When Dmitry didn’t respond, Dorian continued, “I want teams searching those mountains.”
“I’m sorry sir, we don’t have the manpower. The Clocktower purge, plus the end of major hostilities in Afghanistan, our forces in the region were already minimal. Everyone we have local is focused on Toba. If you want teams, they have to be diverted.”
“No. Toba is the priority. What about satellite surveillance? Can we track them, figure out where they are?”
Dmitry shook his head. “We’ve got no eyes in the sky over Western China, nobody does. That’s one of the reasons Immari Research selected that site — there’s nothing there and no reason to look. No cities, hell not even many villages or roads. We can reposition satellites, but it will take time.”
“Do that. And launch the rest of the drones in Afghanistan—”
“How ma—”
“All of them. Have them scour every inch of the plateau — focus on monasteries first. And re-assign two men — we can spare them. Toba is important, but so is capturing Warner. She survived the Bell. We have to know why. Have those two men trace the route of every train that left, question villagers, anyone that may have seen anything. Apply pressure. I want her found.”
CHAPTER 71
David was still asleep when Kate returned to his room. She sat down at his feet on the twin bed in the alcove and looked out the window for a while. The serenity of this place was like nothing she’d ever experienced. She glanced back at David. He was almost as peaceful as the green valley and white-top mountains. Kate leaned against the alcove wall and stretched out her legs next to David’s.
She opened the journal and a letter fell out. The paper felt old, fragile, like Qian. The letters flowed in thick dark ink, and she could feel the indentations on the back of the page like braille. Kate began reading aloud, hoping David would hear and that the voice would comfort him.
—————
To The Immaru,
I have become a servant to the faction you know as The Immari. I am ashamed of the things I have done, and I fear for the world — for the things I know they are planning. At this moment, in 1938, they seem unstoppable. I pray that I am wrong. In the event I am not, I’m sending you this journal; I hope you can use it to prevent the Immari Armageddon.
Patrick Pierce
11-15-38
April 15, 1917
Allied Forces Hospital
Gibraltar
NOTE: The following was transcribed from the oral recollections of Major Patrick Pierce, United States Army.
When they pulled me out of the tunnel on the Western Front and brought me to this field hospital a month ago, I thought I was saved, but this place has grown on me like a cancer, eating me from the inside out, silently at first, without my knowledge, then taking me by surprise, plunging me into a dark sickness I can’t escape.
The hospital is almost quiet at this hour, and that’s when it’s most scary. The priests come every morning and every night, praying, taking confessions, and reading by candlelight. They’ve all gone now, as have the nurses and doctors.
Outside my room, I can hear them, out in the wide open ward with rows of beds. Men scream — most from pain, some from bad dreams; others cry, talk, and play cards in the moonlight and laugh as if half a dozen men won’t die before sunrise.
They gave me a private room, put me here. I didn’t ask for it. But the door closes and blocks out the cries and the laughs, and I’m glad. I don’t like hearing either.
I reach for the bottle of laudanum, drink till it runs down my chin, then drift into the night.
The slap brings me back to life, and I see a jagged set of rotten teeth inside a wicked grin on an unshaven dirty face. “Ee’s awake!”
The putrid smell of alcohol and disease turns my head and stomach.
Two other men drag me out of bed, and I scream in pain when the leg hits the ground. I writhe on the floor, fighting not to pass out as they laugh. I want to be awake when they kill me.
The door opens and it’s the nurse’s voice. “What’s going on—”
They grab her and slam the door. “Jus having a bit of fun wit da Senata’s Boy, Ma’am, but you’s a might bit prettia den ‘e is.” The man wraps his arm around her and slides behind her. “Mights be we start with you, missy.” He rips her dress and undergarments from the left sleeve all the way to her waist. Her breasts fall out, and she raises an arm to cover herself. She fights back desperately with the other arm, but the man catches it and quickly pins it behind her.
The site of her naked body seems to energize the drunken men.
I struggle to stand, and as soon as I reach my feet, the closest man is on me. He has a knife out and it’s at my throat. He stares me straight in the eyes while he blathers on drunkenly. “Big baddy Senata Daddy done sent him off ta war, done sent us all, but he can’t save you no mooor.”
The knife bites at my neck as the crazed man leers at me. The other man holds the nurse from behind, craning his head around, trying to kiss her as she turns away. The last man undresses.
Standing on the leg sends waves of pain up through my body — pain so bad it makes me nauseous, lightheaded. I will pass out soon. It’s unbearable, even through the laudanum. The laudanum — worth more than gold in a place like this.
I motion to the table, trying to break the man’s stare. “There’s laudanum, a full bottle on the table.”
His concentration breaks for an instant, and I have the knife. I draw it across his neck as I spin him around, then I push him away and lunge knife-out for the naked man, burying the knife to the hilt in his stomach. I land on top of him, jerk the knife out and plant it in his chest. His arms flail and blood gurgles from his mouth.
The pain from the lunge is overtaking me. I’ve got nothing left for the last man, the nurse’s captor, but his eyes go wide and he turns the nurse loose and runs from the room just as I pass out.
- 2 days later -
I wake up in a different place, like a cottage in the country — that’s how it smells and how the sun feels shining in through the open window. It’s a bright bedroom, decorated like a woman would, with knick-knacks and small things women like and men never notice except for times like this.
And there she is, reading in the corner, rocking silently, waiting. Through some sixth sense, she seems to instantly know that I’m awake. She sets the book down gently, like it’s a piece of fine China and walks to the bedside. “Hello, Major.” She glances down at my left leg, nervous. “They had to operate on your leg again.”
I notice the leg now, it’s bandaged, thick, almost double the width of my leg. When they brought me in, and for two weeks after, they threatened to take it off. ‘You’ll thank us later. Have to trust us ol’ boy. Seems horrid, but it’s for the best. You won’t be alone at home, I’ll guarantee you that, be tons o youngsters back from war scootin this way and that on tin legs, just as common as a drink o water I tell ya.’
I try to lean forward to get a peak, but the pain meets me as I rise, grabbing me and throwing me flat on my back again.
“It’s still there. I insisted they respect your wishes. But they removed a lot of the tissue. They said it was infected and would never heal. The hospital is a bad place for germs and after…” She swallows. “They said you’ll be in bed for two months.”
“The men?”
“Deserters, they think. There’s to be an inquiry, but… a formality, I presume.”
I see it now, the white bottle on the table, just like it was in the hospital. I
linger on it. I know she sees me. “You can take that out of here.” If I start again, I’ll never stop. I know where that road goes.
She steps forward and grabs it quickly, as if it were about to fall off the table.
What’s her name? God, the last month is a blur, an opium and alcohol-ridden dream, a nightmare. Barnes? Barret? Barnett?
“Are you hungry?” She stands there, clutching the bottle to her chest with one hand, holding her dress with the other. Maybe it’s the drugs or having gone so long without food, but I have no desire whatsoever to eat.
“Starving.” I say.
“It’ll just be a minute.” She’s half-way out the door.
“Nurse…is it…”
She stops and glances back, maybe a little disappointed. “Barton. Helena Barton.”
Twenty minutes later I smell cornbread, pinto beans, and country ham. The smell of it is better than anything I’ve ever tasted. To my own amazement, I ate three plates that night. I was hungry after all.
CHAPTER 72
Main Conference Room
Clocktower HQ
New Delhi, India
Dorian read through the list of living and dead from the two trains. “I want to send more bodies to the US. Europe looks ok, I think.” He scratched his head. “I think the allotment to Japan should suffice as well. The population density will help.” He wished he could consult Chang or one of the scientists, but he needed to limit access to the information.
Dmitry studied the list. “We can still reallocate, but where should we pull them from?”
“Africa and China. I think they will move slower than we think. China tends to ignore or suppress public health crises, and Africa simply has no infrastructure to deal with an outbreak.”
“Or spread it, that’s one of the reasons we assigned—”
“Developed nations, they’re the real threat. Don’t underestimate the CDC. They will move fast when it hits. And we can always work on Africa after it starts.”
CHAPTER 73
Kate held David’s head up as he swallowed the antibiotics with water from the ceramic cup. The last of the water ran from his mouth, and she wiped it away with her shirt. He had drifted in and out of consciousness the entire morning.
She eyed the wound in his chest. She would have to do something soon. But not yet. She would wait until he was stronger. Or was she procrastinating? Delaying the inevitable — pulling the bullet from his chest and watching the blood squirt onto her clothes and his life slip away. How many days did she have left with him?
She opened the journal again. She wouldn’t look at the wound or think about it again, not today. She read aloud.
I lead my men through the tunnel, holding the candle in front of me. We’re almost there, but I stop, holding my hands up as the men stumble into the back of me. Did I hear something? I plant my tuning fork in the ground and watch it, waiting for the verdict. If it vibrates, the Germans are tunneling near us. We’ve already abandoned two passages for fear of connecting with them. The second we blew up under them, hopefully stopping their progress.
The fork doesn’t move. I stuff it back into my tool belt, and we trudge deeper into the darkness, the candle casting faint shadows on the walls of dirt and stone. Dust and pebbles fall on our heads as we walk.
Then the constant rain of grime stops. I look up and hold my candle closer, trying to discern what’s happened.
I turn and shout, “Get back!” as the ceiling collapses and hell pours through. The faint light of the candles wink out as I’m thrown to the ground. The falling rubble crushes my leg, and I almost pass out.
The Germans land on their feet, practically on top of me, and begin firing, killing two of my men instantly. The muzzle flashes of their machine guns and the screams of the dying men are my only guide to the carnage.
I pull my side arm and fire at them at pointblank range, killing the first two men who must have either thought I was dead or couldn’t see me in the darkness. More men are pouring through, and I shoot them too. Five, six, seven of them dead, but there’s an endless line of them, never stopping, a whole regiment, ready to pour through the tunnel and behind the allied lines. It will be a massacre. I’m out of rounds. I toss the empty pistol aside and take out a grenade. I pull the pin with my teeth and hurl it with all my might into the German tunnel above, at the feet of the newest wave of soldiers. Two long seconds tick by as the men jump down, firing at me as they come and then the explosion racks them, collapses their tunnel, and brings both tunnels down around me. I’m pinned. I can’t get up and won’t ever get out, the debris is suffocating me, but there are hands on me too—
The nurse is there, wiping the sweat from my brow and holding my head.
“They were waiting on us… connected to our tunnel in the night… didn’t have a chance…” I say, trying to explain.
“It’s all over. It’s only a bad dream.”
I reach down to the leg, as if touching it will stop the throbbing pain. The nightmare isn’t over. Won’t ever be over.
The sweating and the pain has gotten worse each night, she must see it. And she does. The white bottle is in her hand and I say, “Just a little bit. I’ve got to get free of it.”
I take a swig and the beast backs away and I get some real sleep.
She’s there when I wake, knitting in the corner. On the table beside me, three small shot glasses hold the dark brown liquid — the day’s ration of the opium-infused concoction that delivers the morphine and codeine I desperately need. Thank God. The sweats are back and the pain has come with it.
“I’ll be home before sundown.”
I nod and take the first shot.
Two shot glasses each day.
She reads to me every night, after work and dinner.
I lie there, adding clever comments and witty remarks from time to time. She laughs, and when I’ve been a little too crude, chastises me playfully.
The pain is almost bearable.
One shot per day. Freedom.
Almost. But the pain persists.
I still can’t walk.
I’ve spent my life in mines, in dark confined spaces. But I can’t take it. Maybe it’s the light, or the fresh air, or lying in bed, day after day, night after night. A month gone by.
Every day, as three o’clock draws near, I count down the minutes until she gets home. A man, waiting for a woman to get home. It calls into question the premise of the sentence.
I’ve insisted she stop working in the hospital. Germs. Bombs. Chauvinists. I’ve tried it all. She won’t hear it. I can’t win. I don’t have a leg to stand on. I simply can’t put my foot down. And on top of that, I’m losing it, making lame jokes about myself, to myself.
Out the window, I see her coming down the path. What time is it? 2:30. She’s early. And— there’s a man with her. In the month I’ve been here, she’s never brought a suitor home. The thought’s never occurred to me, and now, it strikes me in all the wrong ways. I strain to get a better look out the window, but I can’t see them. They’re already in the house.
I frantically straighten my bed and push myself up, through the dull pain, so I can sit up in bed and appear stronger than I am. I pick up a book and begin reading it, upside down. I glance up, then flip the book right-side-up just before Helena enters. The mustached, monocle-wearing poser in a three-piece suit is close on her heels like a greedy dog at the hunt.
“Ah, you’ve gotten into some of the books. What did you choose?” she tips it toward me slightly, reads the title, and cocks her head slightly. “Hmm, Pride and Prejudice. One of my favorites.”
I close the book and toss it on the table as though she’d just told me it was infected with plague. “Yes, well, a man’s got to stay up on such things. And, appreciate the… Classics.”
The monocled man looks over at her impatiently. Ready to get on with the visiting — away from the cripple in the spare bedroom?
“Patrick, this is Damien Webster. He’s come from America to s
ee you. He won’t tell me what about.” She raises her eyebrows conspiratorially.
“Pleasure, Mr. Pierce. I knew your father.”
He’s not courting her. Wait, knew my father.
Webster seems to realize my confusion. “We sent a telegraph to the hospital. Have you not received it?”
My father is dead, but he didn’t come here about that. What then?
Helena speaks before I can. “Major Pierce has been here for a month. The hospital receives a great many cables each day. What’s your business, Mr. Webster?” Her tone has grown serious.
Webster glares at her. He’s probably not used to a woman talking to him in such a tone. He could probably do with more of it. “Several matters. The first being your father’s estate—”
Outside the window, a bird lands on the fountain. It fidgets, dunks it’s head, rises and shakes the water off.
“How did he die?” I say, still focused on the bird.
Webster speaks quickly, like it’s something to get out of the way, an annoyance. “Automobile accident. He and your mother both perished instantly. Dangerous machines, I say. It was quick. They didn’t suffer, I assure you. Now…”
I feel hurt of a different kind, a crushing feeling of loneliness, emptiness, like there’s a pit inside me that I can’t fill. Like I’ll never be happy again. My mother, gone. Buried by now. I’ll never see her again.
“Will that be acceptable, Mr. Pierce?”
“What?”
“The account at First National Bank in Charleston. Your father was a very frugal man. There’s almost 200,000 dollars in the account.”