Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set

by Bridget E. Baker

  “Look there!” I hop down from the steps and shove my way past some fishing poles and a mop.

  Wesley boosts me up and steadies the wire shelving while I climb. I cling to the gaps in the rack with my left hand and the fingers on my right hand close around the briefcase handle. I tug, but it doesn't budge.

  “It's stuck.”

  “Of course it is.” Wesley grunts.

  I let go of the shelving and grab the handle with both hands. I yank it as hard as I can and the handle flies off. I tumble to the floor, landing squarely on Wesley. It reminds me of the last time we were in a cell together, right after I saw Sam alive for the first time since he got shot. I was so happy he was alive that day. This time when I collapse on top of Wes, my stomach's churning. If we can ever get it down, the key to all of this might be hiding inside that little rectangle of dead animal skin.

  Wesley and I brush ourselves off, and I tuck a screwdriver I found on the floor into my waistband before climbing up again. The entire rack shakes and shivers each time we move up a shelf. Once I’m within arm’s reach of the briefcase again, I wedge the screwdriver between the ceiling and the black leather. I pull it toward me and it pops the briefcase loose. It falls to the floor with a thump. I almost wish we could collapse in a pile again, but this time we climb back down as slowly as we scaled it. One wobbly shelf at a time.

  My heart races, my pulse hammers in my throat, and my fingers stiffen, making my fingers even fumblier than usual.

  Wesley and I both cross to where the black briefcase lays on the filthy concrete floor. Wesley holds his flashlight on the latch, and I try to open the case.

  “The handle’s so rotten it flies right off, but the lock’s completely functional.” I roll my eyes. “Of course it is.”

  My hands shake, and my breath puffs in front of me as I key in my dad's birthday. It doesn’t work. I try my birthday. No dice.

  I swear. “Why won't this open? What other number would he use?”

  Wesley hands me the flashlight. “Maybe it's the right number, but it's sticky. It has been in this nasty garage for more than ten years.”

  Wesley picks up the briefcase and whams it against the concrete floor once and then twice. He pushes on the release buttons.

  The latch clicks open.

  I reach for the documents inside with stiff fingers. The first page is a letter to a Xander Smith. I lift it up. The next page is an invoice for supplies. The next is an equipment rental statement, then a lease document. Both of them list the partnership name, Jack-of-All-Trades. Cute. My dad signed for each one as Donovan Behl. My hands shake as I lift page after page, but every single one lists either Jack-of-All-Trades, or Donovan Behl on the recipient line.

  Wesley puts one arm around me and uses his other hand to wipe away a tear I didn't realize had leaked out. “It was always a long shot.”

  I shake my head. “No, we have to know. The answer has got to be in here somewhere. I wish I knew more about businesses.” I look through the papers again with no luck. I slam the briefcase with my hand, and my frozen fingers cry out in pain. A yellow paper slides out from somewhere. An invoice for mice.

  I poke at the interior and realize there's an inside pocket that adhered to the lining of the briefcase. I reach inside and pull out a thick, stapled bunch of papers. A yellow post-it note still clings to the front with the words, “Chuck, let me know what my options are to get out of this” scrawled on it. The handwriting is my dad's.

  The first page says “Jack of All Trades Partnership Agreement” in bold letters. I can't breathe. My shaky, numb-with-cold fingers flip too many pages and I have to flip them back slowly, painstakingly.

  Wesley runs his hand through his hair. “I think this is it, Ruby.”

  Thank you, Captain Obvious.

  I finally reach the second page. My eyes scan the legal language. This Partnership Agreement, dated blah blah. I skip ahead to the names of the parties.

  Donald Carillon, and Jonathan Roth.

  Wait, Sam's dad was my dad's partner? My mind spins. How could it be John Roth? The partner's name is Jack, not John. No one ever called him Jack.

  “It can't be right,” I say. “We’ve known John for years and years. If he had the cure, he’d have done something about it, obviously.”

  Wesley's jaw drops. “I never even thought of this, but Jack's a nickname for John sometimes.”

  “When?” I ask. “That makes no sense. They're the same length, Jack and John. Nicknames are shorter. Besides, we've always known him. I'd have recognized John Roth if he was Dad's partner.”

  Wesley shakes his head. “No you wouldn't. I mean, you'd know who he was, but that explains why you don't remember seeing your dad's partner come over. You didn't see a partner. You saw an old family friend, someone who your dad knew. And you'd have seen him so many times before and since, in totally different capacities, that if you did ever think of him as a partner for your dad, any memory of that evaporated because he had other, more important labels in your mind.”

  I can't stop staring at the paper. It can't be right.

  “This is good news, actually. It means we know who has the hacker virus. We can reach him, and maybe we can even save Rafe. Obviously he'll want to save his own son.”

  I don't think anything is obvious with Jack Roth. My dad's partner would have known what Tercera was. If the hacker virus worked, he'd have known how to cure all those people. He didn't say anything, and that’s the bajillion dollar question.

  Why didn't he do or say anything?

  He could have saved his wife and his other son. He could have saved the world. He should’ve come clean. Why didn’t he?

  I recall Sam's story, that his mom's brother was one of the first infected. The first person I’ve heard of being Marked was a man Jonathan Roth knew and actively disliked. A man he didn't approve of. A perfect test subject, in a limited contact environment. An inmate in a prison.

  After the Marking, it would've been safe for John to travel, but he hid in a cabin in Nebraska with us instead. Somehow, between then and now, he's taken over leadership of the Unmarked. I shake my head. We've vastly underestimated my dad’s partner for years and years.

  My breathing becomes choppy and too frequent when I realize we told him where we planned to go. I need to warn the others right away. My knees wobble, but I force myself to my feet, paper clamped between clumsy fingers. “I have to be the one to tell Sam.”

  “Okay,” Wesley says, “but I don't think he's going to be that upset. He doesn't like his dad much anyway.”

  I race up the stairs with Wesley only a step behind me. I fling the door open and my stomach drops when I stare right into familiar golden eyes.

  “Well, well, little Ruby Behl. Or should I say Carillon? You're supposed to be in Galveston. Someone needs to teach you to obey.” Black boots, black pants, and a black coat seem fitting for John Roth, now that I know who he really is.

  I shove the paper behind my back as I glance around. Three men with guns pointed at my head stand behind him, but I don't see Sam, my uncle, Rhonda or Job.

  John tsks, and leans toward me. Faster than anyone I've seen except maybe Sam, his hand shoots out and snatches the papers out of my hands. Another man holds a lantern up so he can read. “It looks like that moronic secretary did send our partnership agreement to your aunt after all. I couldn’t really ask about it, not without alerting them to its importance.”

  I can barely force the words out of my lips. “You stole Tercera. You killed billions of people.”

  John frowns. “I didn't kill them, and I didn't kill your father either, no matter what story Solomon concocted to ease his conscience.”

  “You have the hacker virus,” I say. “Why didn't you share it? Why not release it?”

  John Roth lifts his chin. “It’s kind of cute that you think you have any standing to be asking questions.”

  “Where's Sam?”

  Jonathan Roth's laughter is the last thing I hear before his f
ist knocks me on the temple and everything goes black.

  14

  Someone slaps my face. Whap, on the right. Whap on the left.

  I moan and mumble, “Stop.”

  The slaps let up and I open my eyes, but it's so dark I can't see my attacker, or anything else for that matter. My hands are tied, but at least they're in front of me this time. I reach out, but my fingers touch only frosty air. I'm sitting on icy concrete, my legs extended out in front of me, and a rushing sound fills my ears. My ankles aren't tied, so I shift one knee up and rest my face against it. I pull back immediately, because the right side of my face throbs when I touch it, like I took a beating. The last thing I remember is. . .

  Jonathan Roth is Jack. He stole Tercera and sold it, laying waste to the world.

  Sleet laced wind lashes my face and hands. I struggle against the rope, but it doesn't make a difference. I blink repeatedly, trying to adjust to the pitch black.

  “Ruby?” I can barely make out Sam's voice over the sound of roaring water, but I think he's only a few feet away.

  I shift myself one icy, bum-bruising hop at a time toward the sound of his voice. “I'm here. Are you okay? Where are we?”

  “I'm not sure,” he says.

  I bump into something solid. My eyes have adjusted enough that I can see Sam's coat. I reach my hands out, and he takes mine in his huge paws.

  “I found the partnership agreement,” I say. “It was in the garage.”

  “It was my dad.” Sam's voice cracks. “I should've known. How did I not see it?”

  “No one did.” I squeeze his hands. “Can you undo the rope?”

  Sam shakes his hands and I hear a faint jingle. I shift my fingers up to his wrists and feel handcuffs. He broke those before. I shift my hands further. A second set of cuffs. I slide my hands up a little further. A third.

  “Your dad knows what you can do.”

  Sam grunts. “He's the reason I can do it, so yes, he knows.”

  “You should be thanking me.” John Roth's boots step into view next to my thigh. There's a whumping sound, and then a humming noise as a bright light floods the area.

  I close my eyes and blinding, circular, retinal burns cover my line of sight. I blink, even though I know that doesn’t clear them any faster.

  John says, “If I hadn't enrolled you in those clinical trials, you'd be as average as your mother. I've made you spectacular. I'm the only reason little Ruby likes you in the first place. You think she'd have liked boring, shy, unimpressive Sam?”

  When I reopen my eyes, I can actually see the asphalt beneath us. Sam's booted feet stick out in front of him, tied together with the same type of rope as my hands. His shackled hands still rest over mine, thawing my fingers slightly. His father stares at us pensively.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “Not far from the old cabin. Harlan County Dam,” John says. “I made sure when the grid went down that two spillways were left open. For a while, your uncle and I pulled electricity from the flow and kept the area clear of debris. It's held up pretty well, thanks to the extensive remodel that took place a few years before the Marking. We're standing above the open spillways now, and they're still running. I'm delighted with how well it's weathered the apocalypse, actually. I thought it would've become backed up with sediment and overflowed by now. If it had, we couldn’t be sitting right here. I didn't even imagine this road might still be passable. Remarkable feat of engineering, really. It's quite lovely during the day I imagine. I’m thinking of sending some Unmarked here, re-settling it. It’s a shame to let this free electricity go to waste.”

  “Where's everyone else?” I ask. “Wesley? Rhonda? Job? My uncle?”

  John smiles. “Just arriving. I'm not usually one to make a big production out of things, but you don't just shoot your oldest friend and his family in the head and leave them to be eaten by wild animals. Besides, the dam was so close it was practically begging me to bring you here.”

  “You're shooting my aunt in the head when you get back home,” I say.

  John snorts, which I can see but can't really hear. “Not at all. Her mind, like your dad's, is far too fine to waste. It's more complicated to keep her around now that she's Marked, but as you’ve figured out, she can't infect me. I'll receive a formal request from the Queen of WPN and pardon her, and then I'll tuck her away in my private research facility in Nashville. Who knows what she might come up with in the next few years.”

  “You killed my dad, even though he was producing.”

  Several men in camouflage coats and pants walk along the bridge, pulling Rhonda and Job. I presume Wesley and Uncle Dan are behind them, but I can't make them out yet.

  John Roth’s face contorts in anger. “I most certainly did not kill Donald Carillon, and I’m sick of being accused. I would never have done that.” When John Roth paces, he looks exactly like his son.

  “David Solomon told me that he shot him, but that his gunshot wound wouldn't have killed Dad. He said you came after he did, and you set him on fire—”

  John's eyes flash. “That's ridiculous. I found your father laying in a pool of blood, and I couldn't feel a pulse. I should never have called your real father in the first place, but I was trying to motivate Donald. If I'd had any idea how that would play out, I never would have—” John shakes his head. “The point is that from the moment Solomon showed up on the scene, everything that could go wrong did. He shot your dad, instead of threatening him or calling the police, the two logical actions I prepared contingencies for. When I showed up and checked his pulse, your father was already dead. I'd left fingerprints on him, and a neighbor had alerted the police, so I didn't have time to clean things up rationally. I searched the office for any paperwork implicating me, grabbed other essentials, and cleaned up my tracks by setting the papers on fire underneath a fire alarm. I wiped his body with alcohol, to clean off my fingerprints, and I guess that caught fire somehow. I never intended to set his body on fire, but I guess it happened. Trust me when I say, he was not alive. I’d have called 911 immediately if there had been any hope of saving him.”

  “You released Tercera,” Sam says. “Almost wiping out the human race.”

  Two men in camouflage walk toward us, each carrying people over their shoulders. The first one dumps the body next to Sam, and blonde hair spills from a red cap. Rhonda.

  I gasp. “Is she okay?”

  “They're fine for now,” John says. “We knocked them out, same as you. It took me a good five minutes to wake you up, and I only completed that onerous task so my son would stop badgering me.”

  The next guard dumps another body. I crane my neck until I can make out Job’s nose and mouth.

  Two more men walk Wesley and Uncle Dan past me and toss them to the concrete like bags of rice. Wesley shifts with a groan, and then collapses face down a foot and a half away from me. Uncle Dan slowly sits up, his arms flexing and releasing, like he's testing the strength of his ropes. His feet are lashed like Sam's. The four guards line up behind John Roth, guns in hand, eyes on us.

  “Should we wait for them to wake up?” I ask. “Wouldn't want them to miss the show.”

  John rolls his eyes. “I doubt they'll miss much.”

  “I don't know,” I say. “You were just going to tell me why you released Tercera and destroyed the world. I've wanted to know the answer to that for a long time.”

  John crouches down on the concrete so we're on eye level. “I'd like to blame the terrorists, but I suppose technically it was me. I found a motivated buyer who was willing to pay, but he wanted a demonstration.”

  Sam’s voice is flat, almost emotionless. “You demonstrated on Uncle Chaz.”

  John smiles. “A stroke of brilliance, really. Did your mother ever tell you why he went to prison?”

  Sam frowns.

  “She called him to complain any time our marriage hit a snag, no matter how small. One night she called him about steps I'd taken to curtail her frivolous spending. Chaz turn
ed up drunk on my doorstep after that call and tried to kill me. He had a knife, which I easily divested him of, but his attempted assault crossed the line. I couldn't simply let that go. What if I'd been sleeping? No, I pressed charges and he pled guilty. Any regret I felt evaporated when he swore in the courtroom to kill me in vivid and imaginative ways. He told me he'd make contacts in prison that you can't buy on the outside, and thanked me for the networking opportunity. Releasing Tercera in a prison provided the demonstration I needed, ensured I infected people who deserved to die, and eliminated a threat all at once. An elegant decision, don't you think?”

  “You deemed any visitors, guards, and other personnel to be acceptable collateral damage, I suppose?” I ask.

  “I warned Jaclyn not to visit him,” John Roth says. “I told her he was dangerous and begged her to stop on multiple occasions. She ignored me, and she and Rafe came home Marked that day. Her process server had handed me divorce papers an hour before she returned home, so I let her go.”

  Uncle Dan coughs and coughs, and then he wipes his mouth. “Why didn't you sell the hacker virus? You could've made a fortune. Or even if you didn't feel good about selling it, how could you let everyone die? I don't understand.”

  John laughs bitterly and crouches down in front of me and Sam. “That's the question everyone wants answered, I'm sure. I can only say that Donald Carillon was as magnificent a liar as David Solomon. I stole the two remaining syringes from Don’s lab, along with the sheath of papers and notes he kept with them. I knew he'd been working on a cure. He told me all that remained was perfecting the delivery mechanism. He said it was nearly ready, and the only difference was, it needed to be injected so it could bind to the recipient's blood at present, and wouldn't pass via touch.”

  “And?” I ask. “You refused to sell it because it wasn't easy to manufacture?”

  John glares at me. “Yes. I've always been a sadistic mass murderer. All my initial attempts at wiping out humanity were foiled, but this one... this one finally succeeded.”