by Justin Bell
There had been no shortage of victims, though as the hours progressed he’d found fewer and fewer people still living. These three soldiers had helped satisfy an urge; they had greatly helped, and he was feeling particularly pain free.
Not just pain free, but pain resistant. Pain proof.
As the hours went on and those same hours became days, the memory of the airplane remained fresh in his mind. Plummeting downward upon its descent, the screaming streaks of Logan Airport rushing up to greet them as passengers all around him howled and cried and prayed. There’d been the shattering slam, the rending tear of metal, the flying bodies, and all of that pure, hot, cleansing flame.
Yet there he stood. Among the corpses. Among the torn and shredded fuselage, within the all-consuming hunger of the angry fire he stood alive, sucking in the noxious fumes and feeding off them. The crash hadn’t killed him. The fire hadn’t killed him. Whatever this strange sickness was hadn’t killed him.
Vasily was honestly beginning to wonder if anything could.
As these thoughts ran through his head, he walked toward Bronson Smith’s lifeless body on the opposite side of the firetruck. It took him no time at all to reach it and unclasp the Improved Outer Tactical Vest, remarkably similar to what he’d used on several field operations for Spetsnaz. The vest was lined with Small Arm Protected Insert ceramic plates in various places throughout the body. The vest was heavy as Vasily worked to remove it, but he thought he might find it useful in the future.
It hadn’t helped the soldier when he snapped his brain stem, but Vasily liked to think he wouldn’t run into too many other men like him in his journeys. He thought the tactical vest would offer just the kind of protection he’d need. Dragging the vest behind him, he looked over toward the other two fallen soldiers and grinned a crooked grin. Look at this. He’d have three of them.
For several minutes, he carefully stripped each soldier of their uniform, supplies, vests, and ammunition, carefully sorting and organizing all of the gear he’d thought he’d need. Opening the slanted rear hatch of the Humvee, he started lining the equipment up on the metal surface there, carefully stacking and sorting each item, organizing them by size, shape, and purpose. He worked with focus and diligence, full attention paid to the work he was doing.
Smiling, he reached up and pulled down the back hatch, slamming it metal on metal, the sound echoing in the stale, smoky, silent air of the city.
He listened to the fading return of the sound, the faint cascade of metal crashing noises growing lower and lower.
Another sound replaced it. Another sound which was moving in the opposite direction, getting louder and louder, as if coming closer. A sound coming from the same direction as the fading metal slam.
From above.
Scarface cast his narrow eyes upwards, toward the thickened smoke of the Boston skies and just through the narrowing cloud he saw them. Two of them. Helicopters, a small leading a large, cruising low along the west edge of downtown. He sneered up at them, recognizing them as military aircraft almost immediately, noticing their slow speed through the pale air. Wasting no time he surged forward, throwing himself into the driver’s seat of the military Humvee. It took him only moments to get acclimated and he bent low, looking in the rearview mirror, seeing the two distinctive shapes starting to grow smaller in the distance, and he fired up the vehicle, the diesel engine roaring to life. As with most typical military vehicles, the Humvee did not take a key and it was simple for Vasily, who had vast experience with many military vehicles anyway, to gun the engine and send the large vehicle hurtling forward. Braking hard, he swung the Humvee into a tight left-hand turn, skidding sideways along the paved surface of the road. Out of the windshield, he could see the faint shapes of the helicopters and he punched the accelerator, sending his vehicle charging southbound down the two-lane street, hoping that motor traffic would be as sparse as foot traffic had been.
He suddenly had an irresistible urge to see where these helicopters were going and how he could use them to his advantage.
***
It all still felt very unreal. Lisa sat on the floor of the Aldrich Town Hall, a tool kit spread out before her, screwdrivers, pliers, and wrenches organized by size, style, and use. She’d gathered some typical office tools as well - like scissors and pens - any kind of device or instrument she could think of that would help in accomplishing Mayor Harris’s impossible task. He’d chosen her because she’d worked with a local technology service provider to rewire the core network in the wiring closet downstairs, but he was asking her to set up a town-wide local area network, implementing unique protocols and connectivity between homes and businesses within Aldrich so they could communicate inside of the town while remaining at least somewhat segregated from the outside world. Protected.
Isolated was more like it. In her limited dealings with Mayor Harris, mostly part of the wiring project, he’d come across as somewhat of a control freak, and when so many things were spiraling outside of his (or anyone’s) control, it was apparently pushing him more than a little over the edge.
He’d practically dragged her from her house, torn her from her family and dropped her here, in downtown Aldrich, ordering her to help him. It was for the greater good he told her, but Lisa suspected it was more about him displaying his dominance and control in wake of the entire nation falling apart around him. She had the bare minimum of tools, but what the mayor was requesting required far more than she could handle on her own, and even now, two days later, she was struggling to uncover some workarounds that might even come close to accomplishing his twisted end vision.
“You Lisa?” a voice asked and she looked up. A man was entering the lobby area of City Hall, a skinny man with more than a week’s growth of uneven facial hair. He looked as if he hadn’t taken a shower in two weeks, something that could hardly be blamed on recent chaos, and his clothes hadn’t been washed in nearly a month. Even from fifteen feet away, she could smell the permeating stink of old alcohol, a pungent stab of rancid liquor. She didn’t even want to think about what he’d smell like up close.
“Yes, I’m Lisa,” she replied. “Can I help you?”
“That’s what I’m here for,” he replied, his voice little more than a murmur, as if it took all of his effort not to slur his words. “I was sent to help you.”
Lisa shook her head and looked back down at her tools.
“You, too, huh?” a second voice came, and she looked back up, this time into the pale, blue eyes of a second man, a tall and broad-shouldered giant, standing at least a full head taller than his scrawnier partner. He wore dark colored coveralls, thick-soled boots and a blue baseball cap slathered in various different paint colors.
“And you are?” Lisa asked.
“Lance. Lance Grimley. You know… I think we went to high school together.” He narrowed his eyes at her and Lisa pasted a smile on her face, nodding, trying desperately to not make it appear as if her insides were squirming like live snakes. She did remember Lance Grimley. The boy’d had quite the reputation.
“So what exactly are you both doing here? Who sent you?”
“I did,” said Mayor Harris, sliding in the door, right on Lance’s heels. “I figure this job isn’t something you can do yourself, right? We’re…a little strapped on resources, but these two gentlemen volunteered to help out.”
“Either of you guys have IT experience?” Lisa asked.
The two men glanced at each other, then Lance looked back, shrugging. “I mean, I set up my mom’s wireless network for her. That count?”
Lisa drew in a deep breath and settled back in her deep kneel, returning her gaze to the tools on the floor in front of her.
“I was in construction, Lisa,” Lance said. “I’m good with tools. So don’t give me that holier than thou crap, okay? Just because I ain’t computer savvy.”
Lisa looked up and saw an unexpectedly hostile look cross Lance’s face.
“No judgments,” she said quickly. “Just a lo
t of work to do.”
“Whatever,” Lance said. “You and your family living out on that big farm. We can’t all go away to fancy college and everything, okay? No need to look down on us.”
“I’m not looking down on you,” Lisa said.
“Of course she’s not,” the mayor said, coming up on Lance’s right. “But there is a lot of work to do here. A lot of complicated work, so I trust the two of you can pitch in?”
“As long as it gets me out of the clink, I’m on board,” the skinny guy replied and Lisa chewed her lip.
“Can’t be that hard,” Lance said.
“Very good,” the mayor replied. “Why don’t you two head down to the basement, Lisa will be down in just a moment.”
The scrawny man slipped away quickly and Lance plodded after him, glancing back at her through the corner of his eye. The look he gave her sent a long, sharp chill racing up her spine.
“Please, be patient with them,” Mayor Harris said, his voice a low whisper. “I insist.”
“Mayor Harris, what you’re asking me to do—”
“I’m not asking you to do anything,” Harris hissed in reply. “I’m telling you, do you understand. This isn’t a request. This isn’t an opportunity. Don’t for one second think you are doing me a favor.” He knelt in a low crouch, his narrow eyes burning into hers, lips twisted into a snarl. “You will take the help I offer you and you will like it, do you understand me? Or I’ll dump you in a ditch and find someone else who will.”
Lisa’s eyes widened as he pushed himself up into a standing position, glaring down at her menacingly. His sneer shifted into a crazed sideways smile, and he removed his hands from his hips, clapping them together.
“Very good,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll get started right away.” The mayor turned and left the room, Lisa watching him leave and wondering just what else could possibly go wrong today.
Chapter 4
The beat up old truck had turned off and disappeared several minutes previously, leaving the group wandering down what passed for Main Street of this tiny town, walking in a loose cluster along the right shoulder. They were still in the residential area, houses cropping up one by one as they walked by, each one dark and ominously quiet, like stoic faces watching their progress with impassive judgment.
Jackson found himself glancing toward each one as they passed, narrowing his eyes to see if he could peer into windows without being too obvious, but in most cases he couldn’t. Once they passed a tall, white three-story home that actually appeared to have lights on upstairs, barely visible in the daytime light. However, no shadows moved by the windows and there was no other sign of life in that house or in the surrounding buildings. Besides the moving figures in the shadows as they came upon Main Street, the entire main drag appeared to be a literal ghost town.
“A whole lot of nothing going on here,” whispered Javier.
“I kind of dig it,” replied Jackson. “Reminds me of home.”
“This reminds you of home?” Javier asked. “I thought you lived in Boston.”
“Only the last six months or so.”
“Man, I lived in Boston my whole life. I don’t know anything different.” Javier looked around.
“Now you do,” replied Clark with a wry smile.
Their feet scuffed along the rough pavement of the road as they walked, houses slowly giving way to other buildings. On their left a wide brick structure came into view, a sign out front announcing it as the town library. No cars were in the parking lot or on the street, and as they passed by this vacant building a gas station emerged across the street. Fuel pumps stood empty, though there were two vehicles in parking spots set behind the small, square building. Beyond the gas station and the two cars, someone roamed a back street running parallel to the main street the group was walking on, a strange, aimless shamble, legs moving, carrying the person along toward no particular place.
“Let’s keep moving,” Jackson said. “There’s gotta be somewhere else.”
“Yeah. Over there,” Broderick said, pointing toward another structure, this time on the right side of the road. A small, oval sign perched on a sign post, looking over the street, announcing the name of a motor oil company. The building in its shadow was small and rust-colored, an old, shabby, metal sign hand-painted and worn dangled from the wall by two screws, sitting cock-eyed on the side.
They drew nearer and saw the beaten carcasses of a handful of vehicles clogged in a section of pavement to the right of the building, a corrugated metal garage door pulled tightly shut, the structure dark.
As a group, they shifted right, moving toward the sidewalk that grew out of the flat pavement, signaling a shift from residential to commercial. Broderick slowed his pace a little until he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Javier.
“You got a minute?” he asked in a quiet voice. Javier glanced at him. Broderick’s face was a carved stone, his eyes focused, his mouth pulled to a narrow line.
“Mel, can you go up with Jack and Clark for a minute?” Javier asked.
Melinda looked up toward Broderick, worry in her face, but nodded softly and picked up the pace, moving toward the two men leading the pack.
“What’s up?” Javier asked.
“Sorry, I know she’s attached to you, but I’m struggling here. And I have been for two days.”
“Struggling how?”
“I know I saved your life. I know I stopped Davis from putting a bullet in you, and I’m happy I did that. I don’t regret it.”
Javier’s brow furrowed, showing a lack of comfort with the way this conversation was proceeding.
“I need to know,” Broderick continued. “I need to know why.”
“Why?” Javier asked.
“Why your friend killed Major Chaboth. What made him do it?”
Javier lowered his gaze as they walked, the world around them drifting into blank blurs of colors and patterns.
“You were there with him. You had a weapon. Obviously at some point in your mind you thought maybe he was doing the right thing.”
Javier shook his head. “I don’t think I ever thought that.”
“Then why?”
“I don’t know, honestly,” Javier replied. “I mean, I’ve never really been a guy with friends. Most of the time, that’s okay, I kind of like living life on my own. But other times…”
“Who did you spend time with?”
“Mostly my parents, I guess. Though my sister had a little girl who was pretty attached to me. Reminds me a lot of Mel.”
They walked in silence for a few moments, the garage coming into clearer focus ahead of them.
“So he was your friend? The guy that killed the major?”
“I thought he was. He said he was. We played cards sometimes. Talked about the Patriots. Red Sox. How crappy our jobs were. I thought we were friends.”
“What was his name?”
Javier looked off into the trees on the opposite side of the road. “Gray. I think his full name was Grayson or something, but everyone called him Gray.”
“Ohh, baby,” Clark said from up ahead. “They got a Ford Bronco up in here. Music to my eyes!”
“That makes no sense at all,” Jackson replied.
“Oh, be quiet, Crossfit.”
“It was the helicopter,” Javier whispered as they continued along the sidewalk.
“What?” Broderick asked, turning toward him.
“The helicopter,” he said again, shrugging slightly. “He never trusted the government to begin with, but take what was going on in Boston and combine it with mysterious black helicopters flying around… it was the perfect recipe. He was convinced you guys were coming from FEMA to lead us into some sort of death camp or something.”
Broderick didn’t reply.
“I’m sorry, man,” Javier said, not sure of what else to say. “Really. I never thought anything would happen.”
Broderick nodded. “I get it,” he said. “I’m not blaming you.”
“I blame myself,” Javier said. “I should have said something. Should have stopped it. I knew something was wrong. So did Maria. She didn’t even want to come along, begged me to come with her.”
“She the one who died?”
Javier nodded. “Yeah. She’s the one your sergeant gunned down. She never would have hurt a fly. Never would have been there if not for me.”
“With everything going on, she’d likely be dead now anyway,” Broderick said, an odd way of reassuring him.
Javier shrugged and the two men followed the rest of the group, walking a straight line toward the small garage.
***
Everything was so familiar, yet completely foreign, all at the same time. This was Javitz’s neighborhood, right around the corner from the factory where he worked forty-eight hours a week for twelve years. Mandatory overtime for every one of those weeks of every one of those years. One of the concessions his Steelworkers Union had made to get a bump in wages and improved short term disability.
Javitz had never had to take advantage of the short-term disability, but there he was, working forty-eight hours a week just the same, putting in the extra time so Sanchez down in the basement could get an extra month off because he was stupid enough to get too close to the rolling mill.
As he guided his motorcycle around the corner of the tall, brick building that used to be his place of employment, shadows drew tall and thick, covering the narrow alley between buildings in varying shades of gray. Up ahead, he could barely make out the familiar sign, two blocks farther east, closer toward Logan Airport. Many a Friday night and Saturday afternoon, he’d walked these back alleys toward Gino’s, a local bar that was the popular stopping place for the late shift at the steel mill. They’d all grown to know and love Lou Ginoppoli, the affable old Italian who had failed three times in the restaurant business, finally giving it up to just serve alcohol.