Chase Baker & the Apocalypse Bomb (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 7)

by Benjamin Sobieck

  It turns out I’m only half right. Dave certainly does harness the energy of the rounds he fires from the gun, but there’s nothing supernatural about it. He aims at the policja as a trio of officers plows through the locked door and enters the bar.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Time seems to slow down to allow Dave plenty of opportunity to line up his shots. They all make contact with three heads. Down the officers go, barely getting a chance to notice what’s happened.

  He’s a terrific shot, I’ll give Dave that. But he also killed four people in the span of a few minutes with zero signs of remorse.

  “Here you go,” Dave says and hands the .45 back to me. He turns back to his drink, shooting Piotr a devilish grin.

  I’m a little shocked and confused.

  “Aren’t you worried I’m going to use this on you?” I say and holster the .45. Not that I’m complaining or anything, but it seems stupid. I talk louder than I should. The ringing in my ears from the gunfire makes my head feel like it’s stuffed with cotton.

  “I’m not worried at all,” Dave says and slurps his drink. “Should I be?”

  “You tell me. You’re the…,” I say, stopping myself from saying the word ultraterrestrial. I’m not sure what he wants to be called, although asshole comes to mind.

  “I’m the what?” Dave says.

  Piotr starts to say something, but he’s cut off. Literally. A random glass next to him shatters, sending a shard the size of a credit card into his neck. I can only assume Dave had something to do with it. Piotr stumbles into a back room, probably in search of a first aid kit.

  “Good. We’re alone now. We can talk like adults,” Dave says. “You know what I am, and I can guess why you’re here. You want to lug me off to some military base, where the people who hired you will pay you handsomely for your trouble. Is that it?”

  I think back to the stakes Biyu outlined. Bringing Dave back to her at Mt. Shasta in California is the only way to thaw the bank accounts needed to pay for Ava’s surgery.

  “We can call it even at that,” I say.

  “Who hired you, if you don’t mind me asking?” Dave says.

  “Actually, I do mind,” I say and get up from the stool. “You ready for another drink?”

  Dave nods, and I play bartender. We slam a couple vodka shots with piwo chasers before I fetch a fresh bottle of Żubrówka.

  “I appreciate the service, but I think you’re stalling. Now, who sent you?” Dave says after the next round of drinks.

  He’s getting frustrated. Just tell him. No bullshit, though. This guy has no issues with killing.

  “I was coerced by the Chinese government to bring you to a place called Mt. Shasta in the U.S. What the Chinese want with you, I don’t know,” I say, laying it all out there. “But I’ll tell you one thing for certain. I sure as hell don’t want to be here. The only reason China has me by the short hairs is because they froze my bank account, as well as all the assets of my ex-wife and her husband. That means we can’t pay for my daughter’s surgery.”

  Ava.

  Maybe it’s the booze, but my eyes sting and get watery. Actually, it is the booze. I can get wishy-washy when I drink, so I open my throat and let the burn tumble into my stomach. Playing on Dave’s sympathies might be the only way out of this.

  “You trying to play me with some sob story, is that it?” Dave says and snorts. “Wouldn’t be the first time one of you hired guns tried to sweet talk me into going with them. I’ll tell you what I told them. I don’t give a damn about your problems, even if they are true. I only care who you are so I know which mailbox to take a shit in while your family is away at the funeral.”

  Well, that escalated quickly.

  “To be honest, I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me to be,” I say and squeeze my fists to keep my fingers from grabbing the .45.

  “And to be honest, I don’t fuckin’ care,” Dave says. “You humans make such a big deal about your families, your spirituality, your ideas. And yet the only redeeming thing about your pissant species is your alcohol.”

  I struggle against my rising temper. Whatever Dave is, he’s nothing special. He’s just some jackass at a bar. Plenty of them on this planet.

  That doesn’t let me off the hook, though. I can’t walk out of here, but I get the feeling he’ll stick some glass in my neck if I stay. I can’t use force and I can’t play on his sympathies. Maybe I can drink him under the table?

  I pour us more Żubrówka, taking care to fill my glass with ice first, and slide a fresh round to Dave.

  “Relax,” I say. “You like booze? Then let’s drink.”

  Dave seems satisfied for a little bit, but his eyes never leave mine. He only cares that I’m around to pour drinks. Once the bottle runs out, my luck will probably disappear with it. I keep the drinks coming, but I don’t think I’ll be winning this contest. His evolutionary tract seems to have conquered alcohol eons ago, while I’m stuck in the Stone Age with a sour gut.

  “Hey, you want to see a magic trick?” Dave says finally.

  “What?” I say, barely able to make out the word. Dave’s image floats in a blur across my vision. I blink again and again while gripping the side of the bar.

  “Shoot me with the gun,” Dave says.

  I raise an eyebrow, or at least the part of my face I think is an eyebrow.

  “No, really, do it. It’s magic, I’ll show you,” Dave says.

  With pleasure.

  “Your funeral,” I say and pull the .45 from its shoulder holster. I’m in no condition to shoot, but who am I to deny such a thoroughly accomplished asshole?

  I’m not thinking about Biyu or my daughter when I pull the trigger four times, emptying the magazine. I’m thinking about how good it feels to pop that obnoxious fuck right in the face.

  Or not.

  It’s a whopping two feet between the end of the barrel and Dave’s head, but the bullets stop at inch number 11. They rest in suspended animation for a second before gently reversing course back into the barrel.

  My blood might be 40 percent alcohol by volume at this point, but I know I didn’t imagine that. I tip the barrel toward the top of the bar and give the .45 a shake. Each bullet, perfectly unscathed in their original conical shapes, tumbles out.

  “Ta da,” Dave says, sounding much more together than me. “Normally I’m a little more dramatic, but this time I needed the kinetic energy in the bullets to slow them down. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. There was just enough energy left over to stick them back in the barrel.”

  “How did you do that?” I say.

  “Magic, of course,” Dave says. He wants to sound academic, but it comes off as condescending. Maybe there isn’t a difference. “But as that science fiction bloke Arthur C. Clarke would say, any technology sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic. How I did that is why I look at you the same way you would a dog.”

  I suppose it’s also why Biyu and the other global powers want Dave so badly. Whatever tech he’s tapping into, it’s like nothing the world has seen before.

  But that presents an opportunity. If Dave is so powerful, maybe partnering with him makes more sense. Play the part of dog. Show him I can be of service to him in order to get my way in the end, like the wolves domesticated ages ago.

  “Listen, Dave, there’s no way I can convince you to help me. But maybe I can help you,” I say, trying my drunken best to sound coherent. “The people who sent me, who have me by the shorthairs, they must not be all that bright if they think someone like you can be reined in. So why don’t you and I take the fight to them? Let’s go to Mt. Shasta like it was planned all along and you smoke those bastards with whatever trick you just pulled. Then they can stop being a pain your ass and I can get on with my life.”

  I’m sure that didn’t come out the way it sounded in my head, but Dave seems to understand. He doesn’t look too enthusiastic.

  “Don’t you understand? This isn’t going to ever
stop. Your governments have been hunting my people down since our two species made contact. Today it’s China, tomorrow it’s the U.S. Next week it’s the Russians. It’s better I avoid it altogether,” Dave says. “Take the fight to them? I hope you’re fucking joking. You don’t know what would happen to me if they captured me. They’d torture me if I don’t do the things they say, which are usually worse than the torture itself. Every friend I ever had is dead because of you people. I’m the last free one of my kind. Better to drink than to think about what that means or to go out in a blaze of glory. That kind of passionate bullshit is why you’re such a doomed species.”

  Aside from Dave’s views on humanity, which I can’t help but at least partially agree with, the thought crossing my blurry mind is that he’s probably not as impenetrable as he appears. Humans apparently found a way to rein in the others in his species. That means there’s a weakness lurking beneath that iron persona.

  But what?

  Answering that question might hold the key to getting me out of this mess, but it will have to wait. There are more pressing concerns. We’re out of Żubrówka. Or, rather, Dave is out of Żubrówka. He gives me a look like I better figure out where Piotr keeps the reserve stock.

  I stumble into a backroom behind the bar, taking care not to slip in the blood on the floor dispensed by Piotr’s injured neck. I don’t find him among the wire shelving stuffed with cleaning supplies, kegs and stacks of liquor boxes. But I do find a whole case of Żubrówka.

  I’m about to head back when I hear a loud bang from the bar. At first I think it’s a shot from the .45, but a quick check of my bush jacket shows it’s still there. No, this is more like a door being kicked in.

  I peek around the corner of the backroom door. We’ve got company, and it doesn’t look good.

  I’d heard of the Men in Black before, mostly from the movies, and I figured the legends of their existence were just that. But sure as shit, standing over the bodies of the fallen policja, is a pair of what I’d describe as Men in Black.

  They’re far from the Hollywood versions, though. Their nearly translucent skin hangs from the bones of their hollow faces like soggy Buffalo wings. The signature black suits are present, but they look like they were tailored by a five year old. The entire bar takes on a dank hospital stench that wafts in from their direction. It’s like these guys were printed off at a factory and dropped into everyday life.

  For as goofy as these jokers look, Dave isn’t laughing. For the first time since we met, he’s seriously frightened. His stocky frame tenses up on the barstool.

  Mercenaries. They’re here for the same reason I am. They’re probably with the U.S., like Biyu warned me.

  They don’t spot me scoping them out, so I return to the backroom. Outside, I hear Dave say something like, “Not you guys again,” followed by a robotic, “Let’s go,” from one of the Men in Black.

  For as much as I’d like to see Dave’s cantankerous carcass whisked away, I need him with me. There’s too much on the line with Ava’s health.

  I’m too drunk to put up much of a fight with anyone, especially the mythical Men in Black, and I don’t trust myself (or Dave) to use the .45. My wits haven’t completely left me, though. I’ll need to act fast. Dave’s arguing is growing louder, and I bet things are going to pop any second now. Time to get creative.

  Eat your heart out, MacGyver.

  I grab an empty mop bucket and wheel it over to a rack of cleaning chemicals. In go bleach, ammonia cleaner and some other everyday ingredients not worth mentioning. Now all I need is copper to complete the cocktail.

  I draw my ESEE-5 knife from its shoulder sheath beneath my bush jacket and use it like a crowbar to rip an electrical outlet away from the wall. The wires are still hot, but I’m betting I can stomp at the outlet with the rubber under my boots until one breaks away. I set the ESEE-5 on a shelf and give it a go, stumbling at first but eventually dislodging what I need. I use the blade to strip away the plastic covering until I’m left with a good six-inch thread of copper wire.

  Don’t try this at home, kids. What we have here is a Chase Baker Cocktail, aka DIY poison gas. Chlorine gas, to be specific, or so I think. I’m no scientist. Either way, it’ll feel like my ESEE is stabbing you in the chest with every breath.

  I sheath the knife, then give the bucket a stir with a mop handle. I know the brew is ready when the noxious fumes ignite a speedy burn in my eyes and throat. There’s not much time left before I’m overcome.

  Will this be as effective on Dave as a regular human? Are the Men in Black even human to begin with? Guess I’m about to find out.

  Holding my breath, I point the bucket toward the bar and give it a kick. The loose caster wheels deliver it mere feet away from the Men in Black. They follow the bucket’s path back to the .45 in my hand. In my drunken state I forgot to insert a fresh magazine, but they don’t need to know that.

  “Who is you are?” the first Man in Black says. His robotic voice speaks clear English, but it’s tangled in a grammar snag. Seems fitting for these strange…I don’t even know what to call them. Humanoids?

  Whatever they are, they don’t get another sentence out. They peer into the bucket, and that’s when the fumes hit them. They start coughing and hacking, their loose skin and clothing shivering like snot on a winter’s day against their loose frames.

  I glance to Dave, still frozen in fear at the bar, and give him a nod. He snaps back to life and hobbles across to me. I motion with my hand over my mouth, letting him know not to breathe. Despite a couple coughs, he makes it past the heaving Men in Black without incident.

  Now to get the hell out of here.

  I look down at the trail of blood left from Piotr’s wound. He must’ve left the bar through a back exit, right? We follow the drips and splotches past the back room with the supplies, down a couple hallways and out a steel door into an alleyway. The rancid air wafting up from the sewer grate by our feet is nonetheless welcoming. I take a few deep breaths before turning to Dave.

  But Dave has other plans. He’s already halfway out the alleyway.

  “Hey,” I say and start toward him. “Where’re you going?”

  Dave stops in mid-waddle and cranks his neck over his shoulder. “Thanks for what you did back there, but I don’t spend any more time with your kind than I have to. Later.”

  Don’t let him get away.

  “I just saved your ass, and now you’re leaving?” I say and skirt my way around him to block his exit onto the street.

  “You humans and loyalty. What a waste of time,” Dave says and crosses his arms. He cranes his head to look beyond me. “Now where did I park?”

  “Listen, I can help you. Whatever those Men in Black have that can hurt you, it doesn’t seem to affect me,” I say, thinking back to how terrified Dave looked at the bar. The Men in Black must know Dave’s weakness. Why else wouldn’t he pull off that choking trick again? “If they show up again, I can handle them.”

  I pop a fresh mag into the .45 and rack the slide to chamber the first cartridge.

  This catches Dave’s interest, but only for a moment. He shoves the thought aside and says, “You ever think about what ants can do for you? Sure, they play a part in the ecosystem that supports your mealy carcass, but you don’t think twice about crushing one of their colonies under your boot, do you? You’re dead weight to me, nothing more.”

  I holster the .45 in its shoulder rig beneath my bush jacket. It’s feeling heavier with every second I wind up deeper in this mess. Part of me wants to book the next flight back home, go see Ava and forget this nonsense about frozen bank accounts. Money is money, right? There are ways to pay for Ava’s surgery other than playing Biyu’s games.

  But on the other hand, I am Chase Baker. Curses. Hidden history. Occult technology. Terrorists. Ancient artifacts. Why do I put up with any of this bullshit? Why not pack it up, put on a suit and get a respectable job with a nice 401k and a home in the ‘burbs?

  Because I’m t
oo curious for my own good. That’s why.

  Some people lose their sense of wonder after they grow up. I guess I never did. The world turns on people like me. They can’t help themselves any more than I can.

  For as small as technology has made the world, this is still a mysterious planet. And there’s always been something beckoning to me from that fog of the unknown, grabbing my hand and pulling me in.

  Sure, there could be mundane explanations for what I’ve witnessed so far. As Dave said, there’s little difference between advanced technology and the supernatural except perspective. Those creepy Men in Black, they could’ve been Interpol officers with bad complexions for all I know.

  But what if they’re not? What if humans actually live side by side with an offshoot of the homo genus that wound up achieving much more than pedestrian homo sapiens? What if the governments of the world knew this and tried to cover it up to preserve their own power? And what if the religions of the world were founded not by divine inspiration, but by encounters with beings like Dave?

  I explored some of this in my hunt for the Golden Condor, but the answers, as always, aren’t nearly as intoxicating as the questions themselves. I’m drunk on curiosity, and one of these days it’s doing to kill me. But until then, I’ve got a .45, a railroad track of a knife and a fistful of cash that says I can outrun death at least for tonight.

  So if Dave truly is an “ultraterrestrial,” I want to find out. No, I need to find out.

  I convince myself I’m still thinking of Ava when I say, “Wherever you’re going, take me with you.”

  “What?” Dave says, sounding surprised at my offer.

  “Forget that I’m supposed to deliver you to some Chinese government agents. I’ll watch your back, and all I ask in return is the chance to tag along,” I say. “You can drop me off anywhere in the world tomorrow or the next day or whenever. But I’m not going to rest until I can figure out what you are and how you pulled off the things you did back there.”