The Smiling Man Conspiracy (Evils of this World Book 2)

by C. J. Sears

  Michael steadied himself, then raised the rifle and pointed it at the nearest turret. He discharged a dozen rounds into the hull. Hot lead pierced the wiring inside the shell and the unmistakable cackle of electrical sparks hit his ears.

  Pumping his fist in triumph, he peered over at Evelyn and saw that she too had taken one of the sentry guns down. A mixture of pride and admiration—plus a little fear—charged him. His adrenaline kicked into overdrive.

  Michael leapt over the barrier, dragging Evelyn along with him to the next battlement. Zachary was still running. As they took cover, he watched as the gray-flecked man stopped at a pair of caged recesses in the wall. They looked about the same size as the vent in the hallway where Jorge died.

  “That’s not good,” said Michael, well aware of what was about to happen.

  Zachary’s running wasn’t aimless. He had a plan to let one of those things inside.

  The irregular snarl of the creature was unlike the feline beast that killed Jorge. Still frightening, but it sounded divided, almost as if there were two voices: one high-pitched and melodic like a birdsong and the other a low rumble not unlike the bellow of a gorilla.

  Michael was wrong. Two monsters emerged from behind the grates.

  *

  After crossing the drained gorge and letting Kasey chase after the madman in charge, Donahue thought it made a kind of asinine sense that there’d be a desert underneath the manor. Why not? Anyone with enough money and no sense could bastardize the concept of reality their own way.

  Between Kasey’s sudden departure, the weird artificial landscapes, and the monster from before, she had already had enough of the Smiling Man’s games. If she found the button to send the whole thing up in flames, she’d press it.

  That would have to wait until after she rescued the hostages. Donahue knew she must be close. The not quite muffled gunfire and panicked shouts gave it away.

  Not that she could get to them from where she stood. On the opposite side of a glass wall, a mountainous dune divided the room so she couldn’t see who or what was beyond it. The only door she could see was locked from this side.

  Assuming it wasn’t bullet-proof, shooting out the glass was always an option. She didn’t want to attempt it unless it was absolutely necessary. She already had enough scars and bleeding out wasn’t a pleasant way to go.

  Donahue tried the intercom instead. If nothing else, she could let them know help was nearby. Maybe they could open the door from their end.

  “You, in there,” she said, “what’s going on? Can you open the door? I’m here to rescue you.”

  Three faint yet somehow familiar voices yelled something back, but it was impossible to understand them because of the repetitive thundering of the turrets.

  And there was something else behind the glass and scattered between bursts of rifle fire, something primal. Animal noises, but they were all kinds of otherworldly and off-key.

  Monsters, there were more monsters. Donahue had no choice now but to bust the glass and get inside. Machines were one thing, but she knew firsthand that the creatures could think.

  She took aim and fired, grateful that the bullet went through and the shards of glass didn’t slice her skin. If she entered the jackal’s den looking like a wounded pig she’d be served on a silver platter. The genetic freaks already had enough appetizers on their plate.

  Edging over the broken glass, Donahue walked through the desert, hoping to God she was prepared to take on multiple abominations, automated sentry guns, and the thankless task of escorting several unknowns out of this nightmare wonderland.

  *

  The turrets’ programming didn’t allow them to differentiate targets. Whether that was by design or an error, Michael thanked God that it worked. And, if that woman’s voice he’d heard was truthful, help was coming.

  For now, the turrets kept the monsters at bay. Although he thought they weren’t as scary as he imagined. Maybe he’d become numb to the experience, but what looked like a hairless, mauve gorilla and a pale, man-sized vulture were more laughable than frightening. Not that he was laughing; he was still shaking off the effects of being thrown into combat with the turrets.

  While not taking his eyes off any of the threats, Michael retreated to the dune with Evelyn. Zachary sidled along the wall and away from the monsters and the turrets. He couldn’t see their so-called rescuer yet, but he heard someone shoot through glass only a moment before.

  The big ape monster bellowed at him as if he was the one to blame for its unfortunate predicament and not the despicable people who had engineered it. It hurtled toward him, ignoring the bullet storm and the wails of its man-vulture partner.

  It didn’t drag its knuckles like Michael would’ve expected. Instead, it swung them like a harried pedestrian marching down the sidewalk. There was a feminine sway to its hips. It was altogether comical, horrid, and completely absurd.

  He fired again and again, backpedaling away from the stampeding beast. His feet sunk too far into the sand and he tumbled back, spraying bullets upward and sideways and endangering Evelyn.

  Michael scrambled to take his finger off the trigger. She tried to catch him but he was already falling, spiraling down the hilly dune. The rifle poked against his stomach. Sweat and sand smeared his face and went up his mouth and nostrils.

  By the time he reached the bottom he was gasping and wincing and feeling the sharp, recognizable pain of a broken rib. Evelyn screamed at him, asking if he was okay. He knew he had to get up, that the monster was coming, but his body refused to move.

  Long fingers curled around his wrist and pulled him to his feet. For a fraction of a second, Michael thought the vulture hybrid had overtaken his mammalian pal to scoop him up for a meal. But then a hand wiped the wet sand out of his eyes and he could see the blurry woman in front of him.

  “Sheriff Donahue?”

  If it weren’t for the heat, the sand, and the very real pain in his chest, he’d have thought he was dreaming. There she was, red-haired and triumphant, looking just as astonished to see him. The last time he’d seen her, Rhinehold’s infected puppets knocked her out.

  She was here, which raised questions, but he didn’t care if they were ever answered. Donahue was rescuing them a second time, and he wasn’t going to buck himself off the white stallion of fortune.

  “Michael, watch out!”

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw the rampaging ape monster, its lilac skin almost reflective against the off-white sheen of the artificial desert. Donahue ran in front of him and grabbed the rifle he’d dropped, taking aim at the beast’s soulless eyes.

  Another shape ran alongside the beast, closing ranks. But the vulture-man couldn’t be running; it was already dead, having been too brittle to withstand the onslaught of the turrets. Holes riddled the hollow wings of its pasty white corpse.

  Donahue shot at the ape freak. Michael, eyes watering, realized all too late that the other shape was Zachary. The man was trying to tackle the monster.

  The monster saw its new foe and thrust its great fist backward, colliding with Zachary’s chest. Michael watched the body crumple like a sack of potatoes as he heard the whoosh and thud of several bullets missing their target and connecting with the wall.

  *

  The sight of Michael and Evelyn brought on feelings of both regret and relief. They weren’t dead like she’d thought. But how had they escaped and why were they being used in this experiment? What did Wayland Zachary, the newspaper editor whose claim to fame was slandering her tenure as Lone Oak’s sheriff, have to do with any of it?

  And what the hell was he thinking attacking that behemoth? He should’ve known better than that. It was stupid and brave, but she’d missed her shot and he was probably dead. A punch from a hand that large would’ve at least cracked his ribs if not broken his spine.

  Donahue refocused on the monster, dropping the empty rifle and unloading with her pistol. Evelyn fired at it too, but she couldn’t get a clear shot because a
turret had turned its attention to her, lining up its green laser with her abdomen.

  “Go through the window,” she told the girl and her injured boyfriend. “Get as far away as you can. I’ll be right behind.”

  “What about Zachary?” Michael hissed, wobbling in pain.

  “Go,” she repeated. “Now.”

  They didn’t need to be told a third time. Evelyn hopped through the window and helped Michael over the broken glass. Donahue didn’t follow. She knew Michael was right. Dead or alive, she couldn’t leave Zachary behind.

  The monster wasn’t giving her much choice. Running now would only invite it to follow her to Michael and Evelyn. She wasn’t about to fail them again.

  At least Zachary’s stunt had put the monster squarely in the path of the turret laser sights. With their help, she might be able to take out one of its big swinging arms or cripple its legs. Sure, she’d have liked to have gotten off that headshot, but someone had screwed up that opportunity.

  She closed one eye and aimed at the beast’s elbow, aware that at any second, a turret might set its light on her. Donahue pushed down on the trigger, her grip slippery as her hands sweat. Whether she hit the monster this time or not, she had to be ready to juke her way out of a bad play.

  Her shots met their mark. She blasted away, ripping through discolored flesh and shattering the joint of the right arm.

  It kept coming, the genetic hybrid equivalent of a raging steroid fiend on bath salts. The effluent mess of its dangling arm kissed the sand as it strode toward her, soaking the grains with blood.

  Donahue took a few steps back, then several more when she saw the turret laser following her movement. The angle wasn’t any good now, but she could guide it toward the monster.

  “Come on, follow the leader,” she said, sidestepping so that the green line would penetrate the back of the monster’s head.

  A little further up and to the left and she was golden. The turret had the perfect shot. As long as she didn’t move toward the window, the monster would remain in its fire.

  The beast had eyes only for her. Donahue reloaded the Browning, knowing she had to slow the creature down and that this was her last clip. Oddly, the thought of facing death in this way thrilled her. When her ass was on the line and people were in trouble, the last thing she wanted to do was run.

  The sights aligned. She and the turret were of one mind. The monster pursued, still hauling its ragged limb through the sand.

  She fired. Its head exploded, but it wasn’t her weapon that did the trick. The turret wasn’t the culprit either; it had run out of ammo and clicked uselessly at its would-be victim.

  No, it wasn’t either of those things. Donahue blinked, not believing that what she was seeing emerge through the decimated face of the monster was a human fist.

  Zachary was awake. His eyes met hers and he smiled. His body showed no evidence he’d ever been slapped with a backhand the size of his head. Yanking his fist from the hole where the creature’s face used to be, he started toward her.

  Something about the way he looked made her spine tremble.

  END GAME

  Control was compromised. The Overlord wouldn’t have time to barricade the door again. The huntress chased after him, hot on his heels. He was too slow and missed his shot. He may as well have drunk a gallon of anti-freeze for all the good it had done him.

  What a wasteful and stupid decision. His error was apparent. Pride won out over his self-discipline and he was paying for it with every step he took.

  He thought he’d be able to take on the women himself, but when the blonde caught sight of him, he ran. The confidence, the strength he believed would reemerge at the sight of the enemy never arrived. Self-preservation overcame his senses. He was outmatched.

  He turned the next corner, dropping low. Maybe he could trip his pursuer, get the better of her. It was all he could do to regain the advantage.

  The Overlord hated what he’d become. He’d placed himself in this predicament, had let down the walls and invited in nothing but false whims.

  His grandfather was correct. He’d been blinded by a light that no longer seemed so bright. What good was it to bind oneself to transcendence if it took too long to manifest?

  The blonde bane of his existence sprinted around the edge of the wall. He extended his foot outward, but it wasn’t far enough. She leaped over the leg and swiveled to face him, gun at the ready.

  “Put your hands behind your head,” she said.

  What choice did he have? He couldn’t outrun her, couldn’t go back to Control and activate the destruct sequence. He was at her mercy.

  “Fine,” said the Overlord, “but don’t think you’ve won. Whoever you are, you won’t survive the night.”

  “Shut up and get on your knees,” snapped the woman.

  He obeyed. Although in his mind he was already running multiple escape scenarios, none of them seemed attainable at the present.

  “You think this ends with me, that you’re the hero who has unmasked the villain and we’re waiting on the police to take me away?”

  “Something like that,” she said, tying his wrists with flex cuffs.

  The Overlord shook his head. “Then you’re naïve. I am a part of a greater whole. There are always other catches. What if I told you that your own government is in cahoots with an organization responsible for atrocities much worse than my own?”

  She bound his legs for extra measure and then said, “I would tell you that although such people exist, you’re my target. You always have been.”

  His mark, the smile that would never disappear, grew painfully wide. “Narrow-minded. I guess I should have expected as much from a federal agent. Your type is always about the mission, never mind the bigger picture. Who do you work for? FBI? CIA? NSA?”

  “There is no acronym that you would recognize,” she said, rolling him over onto his back.

  He hissed as a different scar touched the cool surface of the tiled floor. How he wished it would split apart at that moment, and the black carapace of his savior would show itself and consume this new nemesis.

  Alas, he had only himself.

  “It doesn’t matter if I’ve heard of you or not,” he said. “I’ve worked with all of them. At every level of every branch, I know someone in a position of authority who will do worse to you than your handlers could ever do to me.”

  “Like what?” she asked, manhandling him by his collar and pulling him close. “The attempted murder of my partner? Disclosing classified information to other interested parties? You’re a pathetic weasel, not a man.”

  “I gave no such order. And I don’t know where you got the idea that I’ve been spreading government secrets.”

  “Liar,” she spat, pressing the muzzle of the Glock into his cheek. “But I wanted nothing less from the elusive Marcus Maverlies.”

  He grinned wider, baring his teeth. “If the best you’ve got on me is my real name, then you’re more ignorant than I thought.”

  If possible, her smile surpassed his. “I’ve learned enough about you over the past few weeks to lock your vermin ass away until the day you die. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. You leaked special intel to an undocumented source. So I’m collecting on a life owed. Yours.”

  The Overlord stiffened. “Lady, I get that you want me dead, but I’m not following you.”

  “Oh? I hadn’t realized that you were also short on intellect.”

  He’d heard every joke about his stature throughout the years. All the same, the words still stung.

  “I guess I’ll have to refresh your memory,” she continued, rummaging through her jacket and extracting a PDA.

  The woman powered it on and shoved the screen in front of his eyes. She slid her finger across it. Names scrolled upward like movie credits. He recognized a few. They were test subjects for the bio-weapons program and the Founder’s Formula trials.

  “Okay,” he said, “
it’s a list of the people we’ve captured. Your point?”

  She scrutinized him, searching beneath his scarred mask for signs of weakness. Restricted like this, he prayed she would find none.

  “How did this list come across the desk of Samuel Rossiter?”

  The Overlord frowned. Not that anyone could tell. He hadn’t heard the name in almost ten years. Rossiter, if he remembered correctly, was a former black ops type who specialized in eliminating occult activity on American soil.

  “I don’t know,” he said, feeling for once like he had never been in control of his actions. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Marcus,” she said, “you’ve been careless. Your operations have caused considerable collateral damage. They cannot go undisciplined.”

  “What do you mean?” he questioned, unable to free himself from the cuffs and escape. This conversation wasn’t going the way he expected.

  “I was told you were an excellent schemer,” said the woman, “a real player with a penchant for stacking the deck in your favor, but I think the company may have overestimated your ability.”

  “You’re with—”

  The Overlord heard the bullet dislodge from the gun, but he didn’t see it. Reality dispersed in the wake of his realization. He felt the impact as a burning hunk of brass pierced his throat. His body convulsed, blood pumping zealously from the opening in his neck.

  Kasey Alexander stepped over the quickening corpse and retrieved the sample from his jacket. She thought it was a funny sight. If only she had a camera.

  Even in death, Marcus Maverlies never lost his smile.

  *

  Michael and Evelyn debated whether he should climb the ladder in his condition. It descended deep into the empty pool and if he so much as slipped even halfway to the bottom he was splat-city. The two doors on either side of their level were electronically locked. Had the sheriff come through this way?

  How and why Donahue was here didn’t much bother him, absurd as the timing seemed. At least she was a friendly face who wasn’t infected. Well, he assumed she wasn’t. His less than fruitful track record the past few months spoiled what remained of his confidence and trust.