by Nick Cole
“Frank, don’t let go!” Ash shouted. A command. A soldier’s imperative declaration that he should hang on or face some sort of courts-martial. He could see Ritter below, climbing up the ladder as fast as the lanky kid could. He wanted to shout, “No!” To tell them all to get away. To protect them from his fall.
“Hang on, Frank! Ritter’s coming to get you!” yelled Dante above the dead chorus beyond the gate.
“Hang on... Frank!” bellowed Cory flatly. And there was something so plaintive and childlike and concerned in that wail that Frank almost started to cry. Ashamed of himself for failing them. Tired of holding on even when it didn’t matter anymore. Because it hadn’t mattered in a long time. Pretending no one needed him because they were all dead. Cory’s cry reminded him that someone, somewhere needs you. And if you let go, well then... that’s the end of the world. Even if you didn’t know it at the time.
Don’t let go, she’d said all those years ago.
Don’t.
And he didn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Steele called a halt before they hit the denser suburban areas. The Humvees parked along a high overpass and shut down. In the distance only the straggling dead could be seen, nonsensically wandering in no discernible pattern out across the vastness of desert and scrub.
“Conduct a weapons and ammunition count,” ordered Steele as Braddock approached him along the hot road.
No casualty count, wondered Braddock. The unit must be down to a quarter of its original strength by now. But he doesn’t need to know that, because he already knows. Or, he doesn’t care. Because it doesn’t matter to him if we survive.
Braddock gave the order and the mercenaries counted up the weapons and ammo they had left. It might have seemed like enough. To a civilian going out for a day of shooting, or even prepping for the end of the world, it was a lot. But it wasn’t enough for a war.
Not even a single day of it.
Especially when Steele’s drone recon put the zekes at twenty-three thousand. Massed right on the entrance to the toll road they’d need to use to reach Objective Iron Castle.
And what if they needed to take Iron Castle?
What if civilians had occupied it? Were holding it and needed to be dislodged?
Braddock gave Steele the weapons and ammo count.
Steele said nothing and continued to scan the horizon.
In the distance, lone fires burned, sending lazy anvils of smoke over distant dead cities that looked gray and lifeless on the horizon.
“What was all that about back there at the pass? Not the airstrikes... the woman. The trap,” asked Braddock. It was just the two of them, across the two-lane road and away from the other mercenaries busy cleaning weapons and eating packaged food. Drinking stale, chlorinated water and tightening gear. That it was about to go down was clear to everyone. Surviving what was about to happen... not so likely.
“That has nothing to do with our task. Stay on mission.”
Braddock hesitated, then forged ahead because it didn’t matter when you were surrounded. You needed to know because, maybe in the knowing was a way through. Maybe.
“It does matter, Steele. Because that was, frankly, weird. If there’s more of that to come, then we need to be ready for it.”
Ready for what exactly, wondered Braddock, even as he said it. He still had no idea what all that was. Only that more than half the unit had disappeared into the darkness of the hiding places they’d run into to avoid the airstrikes from the F-18s. Only, it had been some sort of trap waiting for them. Over half the unit was dead and they had no idea how.
Or who.
Without turning to face him, Steele spoke, and what he said was crazy. And stunning.
“The lines are breaking down and becoming entangled as the engine grinds to a halt. Weak points are opening doors between the strands. With those factors in place, this type of phenomena has a high probability occurrence of 43.7 percent.”
He turned to Braddock.
“I know you work for Department 19, Captain Braddock. I know you were sent on a mission to terminate me. You should understand... this is not possible.” He waited. Daring Braddock to disagree. Or draw.
Eaten by a grue.
“Are you aware of what your government calls the Football?”
And then things went from bad to worst case scenario.
Braddock, as all members of Delta were, was aware of the secure communications device known as the Football. From it, the President could launch every weapon in the nuclear arsenal. In moments.
“Currently, I have access to it,” continued Steele. “If I do not reach Objective Iron Castle, I will activate the launch codes and annihilate most of the world within this time stream. For you, and everyone, this world will cease to exist within two years given current data on the effects of fallout and nuclear winter. Massive wildfires. Starvation. No medical assistance. You, and your world, will die. There is more going on here than you can comprehend, Captain.”
Braddock said nothing. He felt his hand drifting toward the big Desert Eagle on his thigh. Or wanting to. The one with the massive fifty-caliber bullets that might put Steele down. Might.
“If I don’t make it to our objective, Captain Braddock... I will annihilate your world.” Pause. “Do you understand this?”
A long motionless moment passed as a hot breeze came up along the desert road and passed between them. It smelled like all the death in the world.
“Yeah,” answered Braddock, low and deadly. “Copy that.”
“As far what happened at the El Cajon Pass...” continued Steele. “Expect more phenomena to occur in the future.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Holiday had always thought of himself as slow and ponderous. A drunk. A drunken dancer. A drunken bull. But it had been weeks since he’d had a drink.
He flailed as he fell through the darkness, his stomach suddenly rising, adrenaline spiking like a surge of cold water rushing along hot narrow streets.
He flailed, hands reaching out, feet kicking... and found a ledge.
He hadn’t fallen more than ten feet. Above, he could see the light from the special effects of the game shining down through a perfect square where the trapdoor had been.
A second later, two metal plates swung upward with a low hydraulic whine, sealing the entrance to the pit Holiday had fallen into. Holiday hung from a ledge, suspended in a breathy darkness, his feet hanging down into nothingness.
He could hear his own labored breathing. His fingers ached. Everything was dark. He felt one wall of the pit against his chest and the other against his left shoulder. He swung his left foot and touched another side of the narrow pit.
He wedged his feet against the far side of the shaft and hoped the soles of his Docs would grip the galvanized metal sides and hold his weight. Then he turned around and wedged his back against the other side of the pit, his legs straight and splayed out in front of him.
For a few seconds he hung there, his abdominal muscles cramping, as he caught his breath in shallow gasps. He looked between his legs at the fall down the shaft. Far below, he could see a soft blue light, distant and tiny.
I can’t hold this forever. I’ll fall eventually.
Going up was not an option. He was convinced the trapdoor wouldn’t open. And even trying to crawl up from this ledge would cause him to fall.
“Down it is,” he whispered breathlessly. His voice seemed large and voluminous within the tight space. Pushing with all his might upward and back, he began to shuffle his feet and hands in small releases that sent him slowly down the sides of the pit. Soon he was hot with sweat and his eyes stung. His stomach muscles screamed and his hamstrings had gone almost completely numb. For a moment his butt almost seemed to get lower than his feet. He was falling! Counterintuitively, he pressed backward and pulled his knees up then
shot them down, forward and out once more to stop his sudden fall.
His palms were slick. He waited there, breath now heaving like a bellows that could never fully satisfy itself of air.
Calm down, he told himself. Calm down, or you’ll hyperventilate in here. Then you’ll pass out. Then you’ll fall.
He wiped his sweaty, cramped palms one at a time on his jeans. That’s probably what caused you to slip, he told himself. The sweat.
He continued inching downward for what seemed beyond the limit he’d imagined he could. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Forever.
He looked down once more.
The soft blue light still seemed to be far below.
His legs ached and began to burn. Then to tremble. It was getting harder and harder to control them, and it seemed as though they were either going to over-respond and he’d fall, or not move at all at any moment. And he’d fall.
Eventually, if I get close enough, thought Holiday, I’ll just drop.
Soon his legs were numb. Like two piece of frozen meat attached to his body. Distant and unreliable.
Now he was barely contracting each muscle in his body and just allowing himself to slide a little at a time. And the world was beginning to iris down to a small pinpoint of hazy, meaningless vision.
He felt a sudden cool breath of air on his neck.
Looking around, the first thing he noticed was the tiny laser just below his feet. It shot out across the shaft. Its thin beam was constant. Its thin bright sear almost distracted Holiday from the breath of cold air against his neck.
But then he remembered it and realized what it might be. He turtled around the side of the shaft until he was looking into a filmy grate covered by some kind of gauzy substance. An air filter for a duct, maybe.
Holiday slipped and his foot caressed the laser. He flung himself into a twist and grabbed for the duct, his hands punching through the gauze and finding a sharp, almost knife-like pain as he held on for dear life.
Below, as rivulets of sweat cascaded down his hot face, a gleaming guillotine lanced out and struck clean air just beneath his feet.
And repeated.
And repeated.
Again and again.
“Aw... c’mon...” whisper-grunted an incredulous Holiday as he pulled himself up into the narrow air duct, away from the scissoring guillotine his falling body would have been eviscerated by.
It was tight in the duct. All he could do was worm his way further into the narrow shaft. He knew that if he was claustrophobic, which he’d never really thought about before, he’d find out in the next few seconds. His arms were pinioned within the shaft.
He could no longer hear the clean, medical-instrument-like polished guillotine scissoring back and forth behind and below him in the shaft.
The laser, he thought. Breaking the laser’s beam must have activated the blade. What the hell kind of game is this? And... what is this place?
He lay there panting, his breath slowing in the cool blast of air coming from somewhere in the darkness ahead.
Chapter Thirty
“Don’t let go... Frank!” yelled Cory, again echoing Ash.
Frank could feel his tired fingers losing their purchase on the edges of the shipping container. He could feel a tremulous pounding resonating from the forest of fists beating at the other side of the container he was barely hanging onto, each strike somehow pushing things too far.
To some inevitable conclusion.
To some helpless fall.
In his mind Frank saw it all. Saw the container toppling and crushing the big kid with Ash who wouldn’t move fast enough to get away from it because she was trying to help Cory. Not that it would matter. In seconds, the swarming dead would be spilling into the perimeter and everything would be lost. Everything they’d built. Gone.
Cory. How would he survive?
“His name is Cory.” Ash had repeated that at Frank. He was important to her. Frank shuddered as he hung from the edge of the topmost container.
She’s not Marie. You know that.
He was slipping.
“Doesn’t matter,” he grunted, the sweat pouring into his eyes. He wasn’t going to make it this time.
The big kid is important to her. That’s enough for me, he told himself.
“Cory... get back!” Frank shouted, knowing he could only hold on for a few more seconds. The stadium full of dead people pounding vibrated through his aching fingers. One of his hands lost the edge of the container, his sweaty fingers slipping suddenly away.
“Cory!”
He’s important to Ash, he thought.
She’s not Marie. You know that. Right?
No. But wasn’t it nice to pretend for a little while?
***
That night, after...
... after Jordana.
... after the long hot afternoon and the sounds of the birds drifting in from the balcony beyond the filmy white curtains that guarded Frank and Jordana as they slept. Exhausted.
... after the people came out into the streets in the cool of the afternoon. Children playing ball. People talking. The smell of coffee and food. Distant music. Jordana in the kitchen cutting up salami and bread. They drank cold white wine and ate in bed. And made love again. And it was dark when they heard the cane tapping its way alongside the footsteps of the expensive loafers coming down the street below the window.
After...
In the shadowy blue darkness she’d murmured, “Andrea is coming.” As though that explained everything and so much more.
Frank dressed and she watched him. A few minutes later, he passed down the candlelit staircase and opened the front door.
Andrea greeted him. He was smoking a cigar.
“Now I will show you what is at stake, my son. Come, we will walk to the temple tonight. Together.” Frank stepped onto the narrow street and they began their walk up through the maze of alleys leading to the outer wall. It was further away, and with more turns and byzantine zigzags than Frank had initially thought possible. They left the livelier parts of the small, strange island town, climbing higher and higher up through silent twisting streets where lone candles burned behind small-paned glass windows set inside looming buildings.
At eight, hollow bells struck beyond the megalithic walls and Andrea stopped to consult a silver pocket watch. By the light of the cigar, Frank could see that the timepiece was engraved. And that it was old.
Satisfied with something not spoken, Andrea snapped the watch shut and dropped it back into his coat.
Nearing the gargantuan walls that seemed made of giant misshapen blocks, strange and out of place compared to the artistic brick and stucco of the Mediterranean architecture of the village, the smell of Andrea’s cigar was heavy and warm in the cool night. As though it contained some comforting spice in its curling smoke. But the man said nothing, only occasionally puffing it back to life as his silver cane laconically tapped out their progress through the near darkness.
Finally Andrea spoke. “She is my daughter. Jordana.”
Above the walls close at hand, hexagonal forms of ancient romance-era structures rose up in column and concrete, low rooftops and silvery domes all that was visible of these hidden edifices beyond the massive wall.
Frank waited.
“You are probably thinking... what kind of man makes a whore of his daughter?” Andrea approached the gateway leading beyond the walls. It was guarded by a polished brass-bound gate that belonged more in a medieval citadel than here, set in this strange wall. Lost somewhere in the Mediterranean.
He knocked on a small door next to the gate.
Three solid knocks.
Nothing.
“And a killer,” continued Andrea as though there had been no deep pause. “You are probably thinking those things about me, and her.”
Frank o
pened his mouth but Andrea raised a hand requesting silence.
A small window appeared in the tiny door as a piece of wood was slid out of place. Furtive dark eyes searched the street and landed on Andrea. By torch and cigar, Frank could see that the cherubic and beatific, always beaming smile of the Andrea he’d met that morning, was gone now. All was serious. And grave.
The old man nodded once.
The window in the door closed.
“You are probably thinking those things,” said Andrea as if to himself. “And I would understand if you were.”
The small door in the gate opened and Andrea ducked inside, Frank following him.
Beyond the thick, cyclopean walls, a wide concourse passed along a silent avenue of massive buildings and ornate towers from almost every period of European architecture.
Three men in monk’s robes waited on the steps of what looked to be an Athenian temple, watching their approach, each holding a lantern.
Andrea turned to face Frank. The tip of his cigar glowed briefly in the darkness. “After I show you what I must, you will only be able to leave the order once. One time. One free Get Out of Jail card, as they say in America. One chance to walk away with no repercussions. You can choose that option now, if you wish, before everything changes for you. Forever. Because there are no get out of jail free cards for what you know.” Then he nodded back toward the gate. The way they’d come. Jordana. “Before you become entangled. Si, my son?”
“No,” breathed Frank. Unsure why.
“You are sure then?” asked Andrea. “Because... what I’m about to show you is what makes men make whores of their daughters. And killers too.”
Frank said nothing. He only looked into the old man’s eyes, letting him know his choice was made. But Andrea continued on regardless. “So you should know that, my son. You should know that before you begin, because even though you might walk away someday...”