It made sense, at least from the point of view of some faceless general who’d come up with the crackpot idea whilst sitting in an emergency national security meeting with a tableful of coffee and croissants. He wasn’t the one about to take a flame to some innocent body part just to make the whole thing look more plausible. There was a flaw, however.
“How the fuck are we meant to get near Weiner?” Jeff asked whilst keeping one eye on Durrant lingering in the opened door. Murdering the bastard was one thing. Getting away with it was another thing entirely. Maybe the Americans didn’t care about that second part.
Hester didn’t flinch. “You can bet that Weiner will want your stars rubbing off on him, especially at a time like this, when every bit of additional support is imperative. He will want to be seen with you. Photographed with you. Pinning medals to your chests. Embracing you. That, Mister Harper, Mister Drake, is when you murder the bastard.”
Jeff wasn’t sure he understood at all, in fact, it was worse than the meeting with Graft, except now he had the added inconvenience of a splitting headache to further impede his thinking. “That at least explains the Black Hawk that flew over.” Assuming there were, in fact, no SEALS right now rampaging about the place, then that had all been for show. Drake was being quiet, which was a concern. It was only because of him that Jeff was having anything at all to do with this shit. Had he known where it would lead, he might well have just stalked his wife again and be done with it.
But at least this way, Jeff would indeed get his vengeance. All it involved were a few extra steps and after that it would be easier to achieve with literally nothing standing in his path. Fuck, the US would assist! In a way it was strange. Now, whatever the outcome, he’d have that lawyer, the judge and his wife all tied to a basement pipe whilst he took his time deciding which toes to take first.
Hester took the silence as lukewarm acceptance, which it seemed to be, and the man checked his watch. “Let me remind you both, gentlemen, that the oaths you took upon enlistment never expire, but I would hear them again now.”
Drake sighed. Jeff wasn’t even sure he remembered the words. But they both recited them together, before no less than the man who was only one step removed from the President. “I, Jeff Harper, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”
“Good,” Hester nodded, “agents Durrant and Baker will appraise you further,” if that was truly even their names, “though remember, they’re dead, along with those two sacks of shit you’ve both had to endure. After tonight, you’ll not see them again, but don’t be fooled into believing we don’t have more like them, infesting every nook and cranny of every organization, institution and establishment in California.” He left his words there, sounding as threatening as intended and the message was clear, betray America and die. “When Weiner’s dead, we’ll keep our end of the bargain. Oh, and it was Lavrentiy Beria.”
Drake shrugged. “What?”
“Head of Stalin’s Secret Police, who said show me the man, and I’ll show you the crime.” He rubbed at his face and showed the first signs of sleepless nights, of the pressure he’d been under. Now, the relief he felt manifested in his voice. “Our ancestors once fought to keep this country together. I never thought I’d see the day when we were threatened with that again, only with something far worse than mere slavery. Gentlemen, with your help, I shall die without ever seeing it, as will my children.”
The screen went black and Baker pocketed the cell. The tension inside the van was thick and the two agents, or whoever the fuck they truly were, smiled with embarrassment.
Drake was first to break the silence. “You fucking happy now?”
Baker bowed his head in acquiescence. “Sorry we had to be deceptive, though you can be sure we were glad it was the other two we had to…” he left it there and jerked his nose toward Durrant, still lingering out of the way. Nobody asked how he’d done it, not that Jeff gave a shit about how they’d been killed or how much pain they’d suffered.
The flame ignited and Baker stepped aside for Durrant. “Don’t worry, we got the cold compresses and lotion on standby. You’re up, Drake.”
Drake squirmed against his seat and the cords behind his back squeaked. Little chance he was breaking those. “Whoa, hang on,” he panicked, “I’ve already taken a whack, ain’t that enough?”
Durrant hung back. “To the back of your head,” he said matter of fact. “It has to be visible. Convincing.” He glanced across at Jeff. “You see there? My boy Suds has already taken a boot to the face, lost a couple of teeth and sustained a broken nose, by the looks of things, so he’s good to go.” Actually, that was news to Jeff, but he’d run with it, for sure. Come to think of it, breathing was a fucking chore and his mouth was bloody and, ugh, yes, there was a lower central incisor not where it was supposed to be.
Drake let out a moan. “Fuck! But a fucking blowtorch? Come on, man? That’s way too much. We’re on the same fucking side now, remember.”
Durrant came closer, the roar of the blue flame was awful. “Look, don’t be such a fucking pussy. The amount of money you’re getting, just buy some plastic surgery and be done with it.”
Jeff kept quiet. He preferred the two of them when he thought they were both hardened communists. Oh, it was a shitty situation but Drake had always known he was getting involved with the big boys and the way Jeff saw it, it was either sustain a bit of singed flesh or be killed.
But Drake wasn’t about to miss one last effort at going an easier route. “Um, how about you just lay a couple o’ swift ones on me? Anywhere you like.”
“It’ll be easier if we just get on with it,” Baker interjected, the moon visible through the hole in his lobe.
“Right, now hold still.” The flame moved close.
Jeff turned away and felt his buttocks clenching of their own accord as the flame made a different pitched sound and Drake commenced screaming as his feet twisted against the floor, the stench of flesh cooking was unbearable. Drake fell silent as the flame was pulled away and then Jeff spent the next ten minutes swallowing back bile while Baker administered to the side of Drake’s face.
Drake roused and groaned. Didn’t say anything. Clenched his fists against the arms of the chair. Spat thick phlegm out through the opened hatch.
“Easy boys.” Durrant sounded solemn and began with a knife sawing at the bonds. Both men now had handguns tucked in their belts and Jeff had to squint in an effort to identify what they were. In the dark, he couldn’t be sure, but one candidate was the Sig Sauer P226, famously issued to Navy SEALS. Durrant glanced up at Drake as he worked over his ankle bonds. “You did good, man.”
Drake’s head lolled to the side. “Do I at least get to push the button?”
There was the sudden release of tension where Durrant finished sawing. “I think you deserve that honor. Come, let’s get this show on the road. Can you walk?”
Drake used his arms to heave himself up. He was unsteady and judging by the damp patch at his crotch, he’d pissed himself. Hardly a surprise. “I’m fine, I’ll join you out there in a second.”
Jeff stood and felt the crick in his neck. Baker had stomped him pretty fucking hard. “You alright there, Horseman?”
Drake was holding onto the front seat for support. He nodded. “Yup.”
Baker and Durrant were waiting at the front of the van, which hadn’t been moved whilst they’d been insentient. The lab was still standing, lights were on in the lobby as well as a couple more rooms. Cleaners, probably. The night was peaceful, which could mean anything.
Jeff slowly approached the two agents and they turned to watch him coming around the front, grasping the side mirror for support. He felt like
he’d been in a fight and lost. “So, we blow this place as per the original plan, you two are supposedly already dead, which means Drake and I take all the credit, right?” They nodded. “What do we tell Graft about the two of you? I suppose he’s been the fool all along, right?”
“We’ve been a long time undercover.” Baker nodded. “Of course, you tell him we were killed by the SEALS. Our bodies were inside. We’ll never be found.”
Jeff dared flick Baker’s mangled earlobe. “You’re pretty damned convincing. What are you, some reformed antifa retard?”
He shook his head. “For love of country.”
“Right, I remember that.” Jeff took a breath. “Wait, don’t we need Miles’ thumbprint to do this thing?”
Durrant delved into his pocket and produced a plump thumb with a chewed nail and sinews and gore sticking out the root.
“Right.” Jeff nodded and then there was the crack of fire extinguisher on skull and Baker dropped to reveal Drake standing in his place.
Durrant twisted around, hand moving quick for the gun, but Jeff tackled him to the ground. The gun came free but Drake was quick to step on his wrist. He crouched low to prise the gun out from his fingers. It was a Sig Sauer.
Durrant tried to struggle but Jeff had a strong forearm pressing down against his throat. “You swore oaths,” Durrant hissed. Indeed, by this point, Jeff was done trying to figure out whose side he was even on anymore.
Drake shrugged, the moon revealing the hideousness that was now his right cheek. “That was before you burned my fucking face off.” He nudged Jeff’s shoulder. “Sorry, Suds, there’s gonna be no explosion today or any other, but what we will get is an even bigger show.” He peered down upon Durrant who, by the looks of his appalled expression, could already tell where this was going. “A show starring our two friends here.” Drake raised the canister, allowing time for the prisoner to know what was coming. “Hey, we gotta make this thing look convincing, right?” He brought it down hard upon Durrant’s skull.
Because Mister Harper and Mister Drake had just captured two American saboteurs.
It was shaping up to be one of those days when every five minutes brought a fresh breaking story that alone, ordinarily would have topped the agenda for days, weeks. It was only lunchtime but already, so much geo-politicking had happened, both upfront and behind the scenes, that the dozens of reporters who’d quickly flown into Baxter were in a constant state of frenzy.
It began shortly after Graft had arrived on a helicopter, a little before daybreak. He’d brought with him a team of technicians, a man in a white coat and someone else who was moderately famous around San Francisco as an underground prizefighter who went by the name Drubber Hammond. The pugilist possessed the kind of face that came with the name and occupation, few teeth, a squashed nose and bloated, puffy eyes. Along with the scientist he’d flown over with, Drubber Hammond spent an hour in a small room with Durrant and Baker before finally strutting out rubbing his fists, that themselves resembled Roman battering rams. Finally, the two saboteurs, terrorists, monsters were ready to be paraded before the international press.
Jeff watched from a screen in the lab whilst all around him the returning scientists were complaining to any journalist who’d listen about how the terrorists had attempted to murder every single employee in the building, people whose only aim was to find a cure for cancer. The evidence was all over the place and there was hours of security camera footage, selectively edited by the technicians, that revealed the two distinctive men lugging around cans of explosive, tinkering with wires, and even one particularly sickening piece of film where they appeared to be sharing a joke, laughing about the death they were on the verge of wreaking and slapping each other on the back.
The two beasts were broadcasted live from within a small conference room on the upper floor, still donning their subterfuge. Jeff turned up the volume.
“Who sent you?” Asked the voice, probably Graft, from behind the camera.
Baker was struggling to keep his eyes open, though despite the drubbing they’d only just received, there was remarkably little visible damage. Makeup was a miraculous thing, though doubtless their ribs had been smashed to pieces, indeed, every breath was causing them to grasp themselves in agony.
“CIA,” Durrant whimpered.
“Why did they send you?”
“They sent us … to murder as many Californians as possible,” he groaned with one arm held across his chest, “men, women, children, starting with the best minds, scientists, destabilize, cause discontent. The hope was that the people would come back to America, would look to us in the ensuing instability.”
“To be clear, the United States sent you to murder their own people?”
They nodded.
“Please state.”
“That’s correct, we’ve been planning this atrocity the last few months.”
“And you’ve received assistance from the CIA?”
“That’s correct.”
Of course, that it was all bullshit mattered not in the slightest, there was not a war in the history of mankind that had not started with at least some degree of intrigue, false flagging or outright lies, most often a combination of all three; the Gulf of Tonkin incident, Iraqi weapons of mass destruction, the princes in the tower. What did matter was that the people believed, which they nearly always did, and the confessions given by the two demons were beyond shocking.
The pictures went on to reveal all the effort they’d been to, the explosives masked as cans of paint, paperwork proving the establishment of a bogus painting and decorating company over a year before, and finally the dead bodies of a janitor and security guard who’d evidently interrupted their wicked deeds, and paid for it with their lives.
That had been Drake’s idea, and he and Jeff had found the bodies still lying surrounded by shit torpedos in the room with the cages, their throats cut. To avoid questions, they’d had to clean the foul shit away, and did so by cutting off their suspenders and winching them into one of the tanks whilst the chained and submerged super-soldier within had his way with the corpses, several times going at them like an adolescent let loose in an all-female college dorm. By the time the buck was finally done with them, both Archie and Miles were spotless, and he even helped to heave the bodies back out over the top. Then, it was only a matter of maneuvering them into the uniforms. That hadn’t been easy or pleasant. The two dead men had struggled to dress themselves but try doing it for them when they're lying flat and their cold, defiled blubber is spreading out across the ground. Finally, with their throats on full display, Archie and Miles were dumped in two separate rooms ready for the news crews.
Jeff and Drake had decided to say as little as possible to them, at least not until Graft and his big brain had agreed upon their supposed role in events and the narrative that was to be taken, as well as so many other things. It had been a rapid about-turn of carefully thought through plans and the old man had been roused with a four in the morning phone call advising that he’d better make it to Baxter quick. Despite this, he’d been alert and decisive, and whilst in transit had spent almost an hour on the phone with Drake, who himself was proving adept at intrigue, even whilst he struggled to stuff a leg that resembled a full ham inside a pair of janitors overalls.
Finally, Graft found a moment to take them aside. “It just goes to show you can never know for sure.” He rubbed at his eyes and appeared visibly saddened. “The levels the CIA will go to infiltrate us, those two have been training our paramilitary for well over a year.” From the moment Graft had arrived, he’d been unable to look at the two men he’d trusted and admitted into his inner circle. Despite all that, however, his overall demeanor was one of cautious euphoria, because now shit was about to happen.
Jeff peered down at the old Marxist. “How’s it going down on the front line?”
“Our newly arrived comrades are lining the length of every road leading into the state.” There had been hobos in Baxter, Jeff recalled, en
ough to cause an approaching army a problem if they stood flush in the road. They’d be even more concentrated closer to the border and to block every road leading into the state must require thousands of people with nothing to lose willing to sacrifice the last thing they had, their lives. “Our people are about to hit the cities.” By that, Graft meant that antifa were planning to dress as flag waving American patriots from when they’d open fire, with guns they weren’t even supposed to have, on innocent women and children protesting for peace. There would be several such atrocities this day, proving there were few places Graft’s side wasn’t willing to stoop. “The Chinese, Canada, UK, Germany, they’re all calling for restraint, for the devils to step back from the brink. We expect more to follow. This is good news for us.”
Drake touched the hideous mess that was now the right side of his face. “They promised me a billion dollars. I could sure do with some of that right about now.” The flame had come perilously close to his eyeball and the Horseman had spent the last few hours complaining of light flashes in his vision, as well as the sheer fucking agony of having had his flesh melted.
Graft nodded. “The two of you will be rewarded beyond your wildest imaginations, you’ll be heroes, so don’t worry about that or anything else. And I’m sure we have the expertise to fix your looks.”
A day of rapid breaking stories, even as they were speaking, the governor of Washington State appeared on screen and declared that they disavowed the recent barbarous actions of the federal government and that unless DC pulled back their troops, they would have no alternative but to throw the weight of their full support behind California, and they would bring Massachusetts, Connecticut and possibly even New York State with them.
The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller Page 20