The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2)

by J. Steven Butler

  I sit down on the ledge and watch her while she pulls a lighter and pack of cigarettes from her inside jacket pocket. She doesn't look at me, but when the lighter clicks, the flames dance in her eyes further accentuating the haunted expression. She takes a long draw and blows the smoke slowly into the air.

  "Archer," she says. "I couldn't take Archer."

  That's not what I expected her to say, but I'll roll with it. "Okay. What do you mean?"

  She fidgets with the cigarette. "When dad died, I was at a loss. I was so overcome with grief that I was about useless. He was all I had."

  I know what she means all too well, memories of my mom flooding back like it was yesterday.

  "When Cedric Archer, the famous fearless leader of The Organization came along and offered to train me as a Sweeper, I was ecstatic. I felt like I had purpose again. Training for it, the tactics, the martial arts, weapons – it was one of the best times of my life. It helped me cope with losing my dad."

  "I remember."

  She turns with a look of surprise. "How? I never told you about my dad."

  I shrug. “I overhead you talking with Rebecca one day at lunch. I was sitting behind you. People would forget I was there. Anyway, I don't forget things."

  She smirks. "Yeah, you don't do you? When I left training, I started Sweeping in Dallas until Jason was killed and Archer asked me to take his place in Atlanta. I know you know all of this."

  I nod.

  “Archer was there a lot meeting with The Council. Sometimes he'd be there for days at a time, and when he was, he'd stay at the Westin."

  The Westin was the Westin Peachtree Plaza Hotel, the Sweeper headquarters for Atlanta. Archer had a thing for turning hotels into his bases of operation.

  Ming continues. "Archer would check in on me, hang around, do coffee. You know, pretty normal seeming stuff. Got to where we'd talk a lot. I liked it. He was kind of like a second dad to me."

  She takes another puff from the cigarette and runs a hand through her hair. Unlike Mira’s, Ming’s hair hangs in thick ringlets. She makes eye contact, but averts her gaze. When she speaks again, it's little more than a whisper.

  "After a couple of months of this, I started to notice a few things that made me think maybe his interest in me was more than just platonic. Nothing major at first. Like sometimes he would put a hand on my shoulder when he walked by and, I don't know, it would just seem to linger a little longer than normal. Sometimes I would find little gifts in my room with a note attached from Archer saying it was for doing such a great job.

  "Soon, he was starting to not be very subtle. He asked me to come to his room one morning after my shift to watch a movie and hang out. By now, I was starting to feel a little awkward. I didn't really want to go, but I couldn't think of a good reason not to. And I mean, he was my boss, you know?”

  A lump forms in my throat.

  "When I got there, he made us breakfast. We ate on the couch, watching the movie. He kept his distance, and I thought everything was okay. I was tired and full. It had been a long night." She looks away, and tosses the cigarette over the side of the building.

  "When I woke up...his hand was..." Ming clears her throat before continuing. "His hand was under my shirt. I tried to pull away, but he held me. He was so strong. He kept telling me there was nothing to be afraid of, that everything was okay, just to go with it.

  The lump turns to nausea and disgust.

  "I tried to tell him I didn't see him that way. That he was making me uncomfortable. Asked him to stop touching me, but he wouldn't. I tried to push him off..." her voice trails away again.

  "Ming." My heart is beating rapidly and my instinct is to reach out to her, to bring comfort, but I don't. "You don't have to..."

  "No!" she says, and I'm surprised at her forcefulness. "I want you to know the truth." She sits on the ledge and covers her face with her hands. Her voice is muffled, but the words are easy to make out. "He forced me." She gives a strained, painful sounding laugh and looks up at me. "Pretty sad, huh? You'd think with all of my training I would have been able to stop him or get away..." she trails off, and I see her eyes fill with tears. "I don't know how to explain it except to say that I felt trapped."

  I think I understand. "He trained you, Ming. He's one of the world's most dangerous fighters. I'm not surprised you couldn't get away."

  She shakes her head. "That's not what I mean. I did put up a fight, but not as much as I should have. He made me feel like it was my fault. Like I was somehow responsible."

  I don't want to ask the next question, but I have to know. "Did he hit you?"

  She lets out an angry puff of air and hangs her head. "Yes. I told my crew it was from Festers."

  I'm stunned silent. There was a time I would have thought such accusations about Archer were ludicrous, but that was before my own experience with his treachery. It seems his sickness was even deeper than I thought.

  "Ming, I'm so sorry." The words sound trite and hollow in light of what she's been through. "Did you try to tell someone?"

  "Tell who?" she says bitterly. "He was one of the most powerful men in the country, and he made sure to let me know that if I talked, it would be bad for me. He told me he'd make sure I disappeared."

  "My God."

  "And that wasn't the only time. He started to come regularly, demanding that I be with him. He said I would learn to like it and how lucky I was because with him I'd be set for life. It got to the point that I started avoiding the Westin when he was in town. I'd hole up in some abandoned building somewhere once my shift was over.

  "That's when it hit me one day. I knew how to get out. So I started doing side jobs, making contacts, looking for hacker work that wasn't exactly legal. I got better and better at it. Built up a reputation. I adopted the name Raven.

  "Once I had enough saved up, the rest was easy. I made sure a pack of Festers found my clothes one night. I stuffed them with meat and blood so they would tear into them. I left my tracker, and I disappeared. I let the world think I was dead."

  I sit in silence. I feel like I should say something, to offer some encouragement, but I can't seem to find the words. What comfort can you offer to a friend who's been through such a traumatic ordeal? I feel sick for her, and an even deeper hatred for Cedric Archer than I had before. What kind of man does such a thing?

  Ming is keeping her composure well in light of the confession, but her next words shock me.

  "Do you think I'm a coward?"

  "What?" I say, flabbergasted. "You can't be serious, Ming. I think you're one of the bravest people I know."

  Relief washes across her features. "But I didn't even try to tell anybody. I just left. What if he did it to someone else?"

  "Come on," I say. "You can't think like that. You were a victim, Ming. A victim of a powerful and wicked man. There's nothing wrong with the choice you made." I pause. “I'm so sorry," I say again, and she gives a weak smile.

  "So," she says, "what's your story?"

  She's ready to change the subject, and I don't blame her. I can't believe she spilled everything she did considering I haven't seen her in years. I start at the beginning and tell her everything, from the mission to rescue Jonathan to our encounter with Damian in the arctic followed by Mira's collapse and my current mission.

  She takes it all in without saying much other than asking an occasional question for clarification.

  "So, this girl of yours..."she says when I finish.

  "Mira," I say.

  "Mira," she repeats. "So you would do anything for her?"

  I don't even hesitate. "Yes."

  "So you're going to kill him?"

  "Yes. But if you don't want to be a part of this, I understand," I say.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" she snaps.

  "Nothing," I say backpedaling. "I just mean given what happened, if you don't want to get close to him again, I understand. And it's murder."

  "Is that what you think?" she says. Her tone of voice is
steel tempered with bitterness. "Do you really believe he doesn't deserve it, Cray? After everything he's done to you? After everything he's done to me?" She speaks through gritted teeth. "This feels like justice to me, and if you still want my help, I'm in. I could never have done it alone, but with you, we stand a chance.”

  She stands up and walks over, punching me in the arm like a big sister would. "But I still wanna get paid," she says with a grin.

  Chapter 11

  Ming

  Cray almost got a bullet between the eyes. Nobody’s called me Ming in so long, I hardly think of myself that way anymore, and when he blurted it out, I panicked. I was afraid my cover was blown. What are the odds that he would show up here tonight?

  He took my story pretty well I think. No matter what he says, he's having a hard time with the idea of killing one person to save another. I can respect that. Cray always was a bit of an idealist, but I've learned not to be quite so constrained in my morality.

  My full name is Ming Li Wong. My Mom died when I was young, and dad was a high-ranking employee in one of China’s premier up and coming technology firms. He was deep into the development side of the business. When he got the opportunity to do contract work for a big project with the U.S. military for three times his current salary, he jumped at the chance, and we moved to Washington, D.C.

  I was so small at the time it didn’t affect me much. I adjusted to the new culture easily enough. Dad had a harder time, especially without mom there to help him, but it worked out, and dad made a lot of money. I think he was even happy here.

  Dad only knew one thing – computers. He didn’t try to branch out, even with me. Instead of normal things like bedtime stories, he would teach me programming and coding. By the time I was twelve, I knew more about computers than most of the people Dad worked for. I loved it, too. I guess starting so young, it seemed to come second nature to me.

  By the time I was seventeen, I was working right beside him. Of course, by then The Virus had swept across the earth and we were now working for the government, mostly helping with restructuring.

  Not long after that, Dad died. It's weird how someone can survive a zombie apocalypse and then die of something as simple as a stroke. It was hard at first, really hard, but dad raised me to be strong, and I kept on without him, building on the foundations of what he taught me to do best.

  Unfortunately, my position was about to be cut. They didn’t need me anymore. That’s where Cedric Archer came in. He knew my dad from back in the day, and found out he died. I guess he heard about the cutbacks in my department and offered to train me as a Sweeper. He said maybe The Organization could even use my skills as a computer whiz one day. That’s what I was really hoping for, but being a Sweeper paid way better than anything else I was going to find, and it offered stability. So I took it.

  Fighting, training, all that stuff was fun, cool to learn, and I was good at it. I loved Sweeping. It was awesome to feel that powerful and respected, but I never lost my first love with computers. That was something special I shared with my dad. Now that's what I'm back to doing, even though I’m hanging with the scum of the earth most of the time. The black market’s hardcore, but I’ve done well and built up a solid reputation over time.

  Cray’s story borders on the fantastical. To think that Damian Harbin is still alive in and of itself is crazy, but the idea that he also has a cure for The Virus is unfathomable. Scientists all over the world have been trying to find a cure for the last eighteen years. It’s true that most people just wanted the Festers gone. That’s why the Sweepers are around after all.

  But there have always been those trying to find another type of answer. The obvious first step was to figure out why some people were immune and others weren’t. It seemed logical that whatever was keeping part of the population from turning could be developed into a cure if we figured out why. But they’d hit nothing but dead ends.

  Most had begun to give up hope. Eighteen years, and not any closer than they were at the start. The Virus was the most intricate weapon ever created, and they still had little to no idea why it attacked one and not another.

  But I guess it makes sense that if anybody was going to cure it, it would be the man who created it in the first place.

  Cray says he can’t figure what Harbin’s agenda is, and from what he’s told me, neither can I. But for now, that’s okay. Once we’re done here, there will be plenty of time to find out the particulars. At least, we hope so.

  Chapter 12

  Cray

  Traveling between New York and Chicago is no easy task. The interstates aren’t used anymore except by outsiders and lawbreakers. Unlike the southern states, the austere weather has damaged the roads here to the point of making them useless in some sections. But the biggest danger is the distance. It's too far to risk in a private vehicle because of the amount of Festers populating the countryside.

  The Wraith is out of the question. I can't exactly park it at O'Hare, and there's no guarantee I could find a hidden place to land it. Plus, I don't want to take any more risk of having it seen than absolutely necessary.

  Air travel is reserved for the government. Little travel between cities is undertaken by citizens. Those that do pay a steep price for passage on specially armored trains. The trains are slow and bulky, covered in thick armor reinforcements to keep out Festers. It's a necessary precaution as it's common for the trains to be swarmed by hundreds of Festers at once.

  Only the railways connecting the cities of the east coast and Chicago are operational. If you want to go west, you might as well sprout wings. Otherwise, you’re out of luck.

  The following morning, Ming pays for the tickets, something she assures me will be added to my fee, and we board the train at ten minutes until five in the afternoon. I'm not sure why the train is running through the night when the Festers are most active.

  The air inside is musty from insufficient circulation and lack of windows. The paneling on the walls is dingy, the carpeted walkways show heavy wear. Many of the seats don't match and have been unceremoniously bolted to the floor without any concern for uniformity where older ones have been removed. All of the trains are like this – tired, ancient relics of the past. Functional, but nothing more. We make our way along the forward cars to the back of the train where the private rooms are located.

  There are fewer than fifty passengers booked for this trip according to the clerk at the ticket window, but we need privacy to make our plans, and since I was labeled as the fugitive who attempted to kill the head of The Organization, my face has been regularly plastered on television screens. I'm wearing a wool cap that comes down to my eyes, and I do my best to avoid making eye contact with anyone, but I'm not going to risk being recognized by hanging out in the general populace coaches.

  Last night, Ming managed to procure blueprints and schematics of the bunker. She didn't say where or how, but she did say they are several years old. This presents a problem. We run the risk that the bunker has since be remodeled, and even something as simple as a door in a new place could spell catastrophe for what we're planning. But that's a bridge we'll have to cross when we get there.

  I push open the door to our room, and I'm met by the smell of mothballs.

  Ming mumbles something about a grandma, and we walk in.

  The room is tiny and spartan. To the right is a small sofa. Its dark blue cushions are weathered from age and use, and I try not to think about where some of the larger stains may have come from. Directly in front of what used to be a window is a low table with a plastic top sporting plenty of scratches and gouges. The windows have been removed and replaced with armor shielding. No chance of watching the countryside roll by.

  To our left are two fold-down bunks with a small ladder attached to the wall at their foot.

  “Dibs on top bunk,” Ming says.

  “What are you, a fifth grader?” I say. “Do you wet the bed?”

  “No, but for you I'll make an exception.”

&n
bsp; “In that case I should warn you that I shoot in my sleep.”

  We settle in, which takes about five seconds. The only luggage we're carrying are two military grade backpacks, one containing a single change of clothes for each of us. The other is filled with our gear, including guns and Ming's laptop.

  It isn’t long before the whistle sounds, its shriek muffled by the distance and armor. With a sudden lurch, the train begins to move, gaining speed until it’s clacking and rocking steadily down the tracks.

  After half an hour, we decide we need food. Ming can move about the train without having to worry about being recognized, so she leaves to get some for us.

  I reach into her pack, pull out the blueprints of the bunker, and smooth them out over the table top. I look over them with passing interest, more to distract myself from thinking about Mira than anything else. Still, I have them memorized long before Ming returns with two trays of semi-edible meatloaf and mashed potatoes with brown gravy and a couple of bottles of water. Despite the blandness of it, I dig in, only now realizing I’ve hardly eaten anything since arriving back in The States.

  After dinner, we get down to the business of working out the details of our infiltration.

  “Are you sure about this?” she says.

  “About which part?”

  “Lots of things, I guess. You don’t seem like the type to just walk in a place and kill somebody.”

  My conscience stings, surprising me a bit, but I squash it. I’ve made my decision. I’ve weighed all of the information behind it. I’m willing to do what I must to keep Mira alive. Especially knowing now what Archer did to Ming.

  “Well, I am now,” I say flatly.

  Ming looks at me for a while.

  She’s sizing me up, I think. Trying to figure out if I have what it takes to pull this job off.

  She must mistake my silence for defensiveness, because after a moment, she says, “Easy Cray. I meant no offense.”

  “None taken.” She's rattled, nervous. She does a good job hiding it, but it's smoldering under the surface. She knows the crazy risks we're taking.