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

by J. Steven Butler

  “Okay, then.” She pulls out a pen, flips over the blueprints, and quickly sketches a crude map of the bunker and the surrounding area, including the security fence that encloses it a mile in each direction. After that, she draws an “X” halfway between the bunker and the eastern fence.

  “Do you remember seeing this building before?” she asks.

  “No. When I was training, everyone stayed on site. I’ve heard they can come and go now. But we hardly ever ventured out of the bunker more than a few hundred yards. I imagine that would be pretty deep in the surrounding woods.”

  She looks at me like I've lost my mind. “Uh...I was there, dumb-butt. I remember.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.” I feel like an idiot. “Sorry, I'm just distracted.”

  She rolls her eyes mischievously. “I'll say. And yes, it is deep in the woods.”

  “So what is it?”

  “The backup generators,” she says. “And not just that. It also has a hard line connection to the entire computer mainframe.”

  Finally a bit of good news. The setup is perfect. We’ll have the cover of the deep woods, Ming can access the mainframe to cut all of the power to the bunker, and be there to disable the backup generators which are on a different system.

  “That’s going to greatly simplify things,” I say stupidly.

  Ming laughs out loud. “You think so Sherlock?”

  This time, I laugh too.

  We finish our plans a little after eleven, and Ming climbs onto her bunk. I kill the lights and lie down on the lumpy mattress, but sleep eludes me. Something about my conversation with Ming bothers me.

  I thought I had no qualms about killing Archer, but our talk struck a nerve, and a trickle of doubt peeks its ugly head out of the deepest parts of my soul. I have a vile, seething hatred for Cedric Archer, and there is a huge part of me that not only wants him dead, but wants to be the one to do it.

  But I had a chance to do it, and I didn't take it. That night on the rooftop, Mira dying ten feet from me and Archer's back broken, I could have pulled the trigger. I should have pulled the trigger and ended it all then. But I didn't.

  A gnawing tears at my heart; it’s a lurking fear that I only now realize has been with me all along. What if I can't? What if I can't do it, and Mira dies? Panic threatens to smother me, an invisible blanket of agony.

  I try to cling to logic. Mentally, it's a no-brainer. Mira's life hangs in the balance, Archer is evil, and I'll take him down. But emotionally, the fear is pervasive. What if I freeze? What if my body refuses to do what my mind tells it? Isn't that what happened before? Why did I spare him? Was it because I was weak? Can I do now what I failed to do before?

  Fear. Fear of failure. Fear of being inadequate. It's only fear, I tell myself. Fear isn't real. Fear can't control me. I control it. Have to gain control. Have to conquer it.

  I take long, slow, shaky breaths, and force the fear to recede. I imagine it dissolving, a wisp of powerless smoke, dissipating into thin air. It takes an eternity, but at last, there is only darkness.

  I don’t know how long I sit that way, gazing into nothingness. The blackness is broken only by what little light peeks through the crack at the bottom of the door. I close my eyes and cling to the void like a safe-haven, terrified that at any moment the panic will come crashing back and crush me like a wave.

  I’ve never been a praying man, but I find myself whispering a prayer, a tormented plea for help. The words feel awkward and useless, but I do it anyway. And then, I just sit, willing my mind to be still. I envision darkness within, an absence of thought, and I wait.

  Around four in the morning, I stumble out of bed, bladder full and in desperate need of emptying. I finally fell asleep around one, but rest was fleeting. On top of having to take a leak, my stomach cramps up. Must have been the meatloaf I ate for dinner.

  I crack the door and scan the hallway for signs of life. Seeing none, I move down several doors to one of the restrooms to relieve myself before going back and trying to fall asleep again. As I reach for the latch, the door swings inward and I come face to face with another passenger. He stands there a moment, surprised like me. I want to cover my face, but that would be so obvious it would only draw more unwanted attention. Instead, I lower my eyes and say, “Excuse me, sir. I didn't realize this one was taken.”

  “It's no problem. I'm done,” he says, his voice scratchy with weariness. I catch his eyes again. He's still looking at me quizzically and I squeeze past him, hoping he doesn't recognize me.

  “Sorry,” I say. “It's an emergency.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he mumbles.

  I shut the door and take a deep breath.

  Chapter 13

  The bunker is located outside of Chicago. Why they didn’t choose a training facility inside the city, I’ll never know, except that perhaps the bunker was too well outfitted to let it go to waste. During the civil uprisings before The Virus, it was built as a place for high ranking government officials to be taken in the event of an all-out attack from a foreign nation, or their own people.

  Self-sustaining, with room to comfortably accommodate a thousand people, I suppose it was a logical – if not an overkill – choice for Archer to choose as the Sweeper HQ and training facility. Suffice it to say, most of that space goes unused. It’s just more than we needed. The HQ and training quarters are located on the east side of the complex and encompass less than a third of the sprawling fortification.

  When it was first built, the security of the bunker was state-of-the-art. But from what we remember from our time in training there, most of it was no longer used. At least on the outside. Perimeter fences were left open, video surveillance was minimal, and there were no guards patrolling on a regular basis. The reason was simple. There was no longer any need.

  After The Virus, the threat of a large-scale attack from another nation became obsolete. The only thing the vids picked up was Festers, and manpower was valuable. So they left the gates open. If a Fester wandered too close, they would never be able to gain access to the bunker anyway. On top of that, trainees were sent out to dispatch them as practice. It was a chance for them to deal with the real thing. Security measures may have changed now. They may no longer be lax, but it's a calculated risk, and a necessary one.

  Upon our arrival in Chicago, our first order of business was to obtain transportation. Ming called in a favor with one of her black market associates and we had a car within an hour.

  Slipping past the perimeter cameras was easy enough. We had been on foot for three miles prior to encountering the perimeter fence, threading our way through the surrounding forest. No matter how slack security might be, driving through the main entrance was suicide. A few quick snips with some hand-held wire cutters, and we were through.

  Now we talk in hushed whispers as we walk, going over the plan for the tenth time, eyes and ears all the time alert for any movement or possibility of detection. We're nearing the small out-building that houses the backup generators.

  “As soon as you transmit the second signal, I'll wait ten seconds and cut the power. You'll have three minutes to reach your objective, and then I'll turn it back on. I'll have to leave after that. When the generators don't come on, this will be the first place they head. But I'll have remote access by then and it won't be easy for them to find the connection. I'll pull back to the car and wait for you.”

  “Right,” I say. “Then I'll give the signal when I'm done, you cut the power again, and I'll come out.” I choke down my unease. This is my plan, but I have serious misgivings. “What do you think? I mean, I've never tried something this extreme before.”

  She nods her head, her mouth a thin line, her expression troubled. She suffers from the same doubts. “This is our best chance,” she says. “I could redirect the internal cameras, but it'll be swarming with people in there. You'd never make it past them all.”

  We arrive at the out-building, a low-slung concrete construction twenty-five feet long and ten feet wide.
I keep a lookout while Ming picks the heavy padlock securing the door. It opens with a click, and we push our way inside, the iron door creaking obstinately.

  Ming sets to work splicing a connection into the hard line. After a few minutes, she nods. We're ready to go.

  This is it. The moment of truth. We both stand in silence, lost in our own thoughts.

  “Thanks for everything,” I finally say. It sounds meaningless in the face of all she’s risking to help me.

  “No thanks needed. You’re paying me, remember?” She pauses. “Cray, I’ve been thinking. If you’ve been in the arctic for months and Archer had all of your assets on the mainland frozen, where did you get that kind of cash?”

  I shrug. “I ripped off a drug dealer. Ambushed him and intercepted the sale.”

  She starts to say something, then stops. After a few seconds, “I guess that took some planning, huh?”

  “Hey, I’m a Sweeper. We’re resourceful, right?”

  She unexpectedly rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but…why didn’t you just hock that fancy motorcycle of yours? Surely that would have been easier.”

  “I…” crap. “Thanks for the confidence booster,” I say.

  She shrugs with an evil smirk. “Don’t mention it.”

  I move to the doorway, but she grabs my hand and pulls me to a stop. I turn back to her and she wraps me in a hug. Heat floods my cheeks, but when she pulls away, she looks at my expression and laughs.

  “For luck,” she says. “Don't get any funny ideas.”

  I laugh awkwardly, and her expression turns serious. “Take care of yourself in there.”

  “Yeah. See you on the other side.”

  I sprint through the woods. My footfalls padding through the wet grass and leaves seem loud to my ears, but I know from experience that no one else could hear it unless they were very close. The woods are thick, but not so much so that I wouldn't see someone coming.

  I pace myself, keeping a good speed, but not to the point of wearing myself out on the half-mile journey to the bunker. It isn't long before the building comes into view, at least the part that's above the ground.

  Coming to a stop behind a large oak, I take a few moments to catch my breath. Once I feel sufficiently energized, I remove the small transmitter from my pocket and depress the single button recessed into the thin plate of metal. Ming assured me it wouldn't be enough to trigger any alarms if the bunker was scanning frequencies. It's my signal to let her know I'm at the edge of the clearing that surrounds the bunker.

  I give her fifteen seconds to be safe, but I know she already has the cameras on this side of the building under her control. I watch the nearest one swivel out and away from me.

  Straight ahead, one of the emergency exit doors stands up a short concrete stairway. The handrails on either side are splotchy, the paint having worn away over time from the elements. The door is six inch thick steel with an electronic lock.

  I run across the clearing in a crouch. Before I've finished crossing the fifty feet of open space, I hear the heavy clank as the electronically drawn bolt slides backward into the door. Ming's timing is flawless. So far so good, but the worst is yet to come.

  Once I'm inside, I stand on the landing of the stairwell and breathe deeply and slowly. This is without doubt the most audacious thing I've ever attempted. My senses are nearly superhuman, but I've never pushed myself this far before.

  I close my eyes and concentrate on the sound of my breathing – in, out, in, out. I think of Mira and allow the pain I feel to sharpen my focus. I picture her broken body lying in Damian's lair, unconscious to the world, totally dependent on me to do this. I take all of that hurt, the fear, the betrayals, the joys, everything I've ever been, seen, or done, and I focus that energy into a knife-point of awareness. I can do this. I have to do this.

  In any other context, windowless would make a stronghold safer, but in this case, it's given me the advantage I need. This place is about to become darker than a tomb.

  Damian's private office is down three floors, through a veritable maze of halls and corridors, and sitting in a centralized location in this part of the bunker. I'll be running blind, counting on my memory and senses alone to guide me. The first part is easy enough. I've memorized the layout of the place including all measurements and distances. The danger comes from changes or differences not shown on the plans. Something as simple as an open door or someone standing in the way would bring my infiltration to a screeching halt. For that, I'll be relying solely on my other senses and nothing short of echolocation. If I can hype my mind into lightning speed, I should be able to detect anything in my way in time to avoid it. At least, theoretically.

  I finger the transmitter again, and press the button – the second signal.

  The silent countdown in my head moves inexorably downward. Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…one…everything goes black and I move.

  Chapter 14

  By the time I'm through my first step, my awareness is so amped it feels like I'm running in slow motion. I crash down the stairway three steps at a time, nothing but pinpoint memory to guide me, one flight, two flights, three flights. My feet barely touch one step before I'm dropping to the next. At the last landing, I turn two paces to my left and barrel through the doorway on the landing into the first corridor.

  I allow my senses to stretch in front of and around me as I sprint down the passageway. I detect no discernible sounds or movement directly ahead. On either side I can hear the beginnings of commotion behind closed doors, but none of the people in this area have had time to come out of their offices yet.

  I turn sharply to the left at just the right instant, taking the corridor of a T-junction. Something is different now, a slight disruption in the air, the faint sounds of shuffling ahead, and unintelligible sounding moans as people form words that to my consciousness are slowed like an old record player.

  I angle my body at just the right moment, squeezing between two people by mere inches. Judging from the perfume, at least one of them is a woman.

  Fifteen strides and I turn right, allowing a mental sigh of relief. But immediately, everything is all wrong. I'm barreling down the new hallway when I realize there's a large cone of dampened sound less than twenty feet ahead. Again, the sound of dragging voices reaches my ears, but I can't detect an opening. At least three, maybe four people span the breadth of the hallway, and there's nowhere to squeeze through.

  I hold my breath and do the only thing I can. Less than five feet from them, I tilt my body and take two quick steps up the left side of the wall. My right arm skims someone's hair as I pass overhead, and I push off of the wall in a tight side roll, my feet slamming back down on the floor without missing a stride.

  Two more turns without running into anyone, down a short staircase, and I know I'm almost to the most dangerous part. Ten more steps and I emerge into the cavernous training center. It's here that Sweepers are trained into combat experts and Fester hunters. This is the most likely place to be occupied, and unfortunately, Archer's office lies smack in the center of it, built into a central support pillar that's as big around as a house.

  As I hit the open area, I sense the change in air pressure and the different way the sounds are bouncing around the room. I can tell there are lots of people here, and I come to a sudden halt. I push my awareness as hard as I can, placing each shuffle of feet, each scrape of clothing against skin, my brain forming a grid based off of what I hear. I allow no more than five seconds and I'm off again, dodging and weaving through bodies and equipment, praying I've been able to map everything correctly.

  I hold my breath, the sound of my heartbeat like a plodding thud deep in my chest. I'm less than thirty feet from the office door when I catch the slight ruffling sound as someone emerges from behind some piece of equipment right into my path. I have no time to react and slam into the man, knocking us both to the ground. I make a decision.

  "Hey, sorry bro," I say. "Are you okay?"


  With no reason to think otherwise, the man assumes I'm supposed to be here.

  "Sheesh man," he says. "Slow down. I can't see a freaking thing in here!"

  "I know. I'm sorry.” I rise from the ground. In the darkness, the other man does the same. “I guess I just got a little freaked out."

  The man grunts in annoyance. "If you're freaked out by a little darkness, you're gonna hate being a Sweeper."

  He must think I'm a trainee, and I count my blessings. Before he can say anything else, I'm up and through Archer's office door. I reach out my senses for anything, but the office is empty of any other living soul. I take a seat, breathe deeply to still my pounding heart, and wait.

  A minute passes and Ming turns the power back on. I sit quietly in the corner chair, my gun already drawn and facing the doorway.

  It doesn't take long before the door opens and Archer strides inside, barking to someone still outside the office to find out what the heck just happened. The other man says something hastily.

  “You mean to tell me we don’t have a single set of backups in this whole place that runs on batteries? For crying out loud,” Archer says. He lets out a long, creative string of expletives. “Stupid fool government hacks. What a bunch of idiots.”

  He slams the door, but he's still oblivious to my presence. He reaches out to lay a notebook on his desk and freezes, finally becoming aware there's someone in the room. Looking up slowly and eyeing my gun, he gives me a smirk.

  “You can have a seat,” I say casually, carefully watching his every move.

  Archer slips into his seat, the chair groaning in protest at the weight of his muscular frame, his eyes never wavering from me. He has to be shocked that I'm here, but he hides it well.

  "How's the back?" I say.

  Archer holds my gaze, always the tough guy. "It hurts when it rains you little turd."