All the blood had drained from Thompson’s face, making his beard look so dark it seemed black.
“The truth is, Sage—you said it yourself—if I can find that information, so can White.”
Thompson brought a hand up to his face; he was trembling, seemed about to weep. “Oh . . . oh Christ. . . .”
“I can have your family out of there within twelve hours and have them safely relocated. Eyes Only has a network White has never been able to penetrate—and never will.”
“You’re saying . . . ?”
“I can get your wife and children new identities, and you too . . . and eventually you’ll even be able to rejoin them.”
“But White—”
“A gun is only one way to stop White. A better way is through Eyes Only—and all you have to do is tell the truth . . . tell what you know about White.”
Tears had streaked down to glisten in his beard; there was something strangely beautiful about the effect of it, the teardrops catching the dim light of the lamp. “What do you want me to do?”
“To start with, get your stuff. We’re getting out of here right now.”
And five minutes later they were in Logan’s car; traffic had eased and he was able to speed toward Terminal City, unhindered.
As he drove, Logan phoned Asha. She picked up on the second ring.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“A-okay.”
“Good. I’ve got the other package.”
“Cooperative?”
“Very. Meet me. You know where.”
“Half an hour,” she said, and the line went dead.
Bobby parked the stolen car near the abandoned building that served as an entrance to the exit tunnel. Once inside, Original Cindy led him down the passage toward where it interesected with the main shaft. Blackness surrounded them, only the thin beam of Bobby’s pocket flash piercing the dark.
Cindy thought about running, but the transgenic still held the stun rod in his other hand and she didn’t trust her achy body and throbbing skull.
They reached the intersection—to their right lay Terminal City; to the left, Logan’s building. Automatically, she turned right.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
She turned back to face him. “Terminal City. Isn’t that where you wanna go, Bobby?”
He tossed the beam of the flashlight down the corridor to the left. “What’s up there?”
“How should I know?” she asked, her tone bitchy. “Do I look like a freakin’ tour guide? You wanna join your brothers and sisters, or what?”
On the ride over, Original Cindy had decided that the best course of action was to simply march this freak into Terminal City and let Max kick his sorry ass.
The bland face stared her down. “I think you’re lying to me. I think you know what’s down that direction. Do you think I’m stupid?”
She gave him the finger. “I think you should sit and spin.”
Bobby took a step closer to her and raised the stun rod. “Would you like to sit and spin on this?”
Though designed to stun, those rods could be lethal—she knew—if application was prolonged. And how long was too long, well, that was an issue she didn’t particularly want to research.
She smirked sourly. “Leads to a pad Logan’s got.”
The kid-on-Christmas-morning smile on Bobby’s otherwise blank face told Cindy that she had just revealed the piece of information that Bobby most wanted to learn. . . .
She had to get away from this sick fuck and warn Max, and tell her Logan might be in danger.
So she took the right turn and started running, fleeing into the blackness of the tunnel . . .
. . . making it only a few steps before the pain in her head distorted her balance, and she went down.
She was about to scream for Max when she saw a blue spark in her peripheral vision, and white hot shards of pain shot through her every fiber.
She couldn’t talk or move.
Original Cindy just lay there, shaking violently, an epileptic having a hell of a fit, the pain greater than any she’d felt in her whole life. She only hoped that she would die soon.
Eventually, gratefully, she passed out.
When she came to, Original Cindy found herself tied to a straight-back wooden chair in Logan’s apartment. Bobby had lashed her wrists and ankles to the chair and run a strip of duct tape over her mouth. She tried to scream, but all that came out was a muffled “Mmmmmm!”
He had placed her so she faced the door that opened to the staircase below. Turning her head as far as she could in either direction, she looked for Bobby but couldn’t see him. Either he was gone or he was directly behind her. She listened as closely as she could, but all she heard was the pounding of her own heart.
Trying to break free was useless.
Though she strained against her bonds, she made no progress. Finally giving up, she stared at the doorknob and waited. It didn’t take long before she saw the knob turning. She tried, but the tape over her mouth kept her from screaming for help.
Terrible elongated seconds passed before the door opened, and she was surprised to see the federal agent she’d seen at Jam Pony a few weeks ago. She hadn’t really caught his name—Gott-something?
Whoever he was, now he stood in the doorway, his hands behind his back, his mouth open in surprise as he saw her rocking from side to side in the chair. Over his shoulder she could just make out Logan’s freedom fighter friend, Asha.
They both came into the room, Asha with a pistol drawn and when she saw Original Cindy, the gun seemed to leap up in front of her face, both arms outstretched.
Then Bobby stepped forward from behind Asha. He’d blended into the wall and when Asha turned back to face Original Cindy, he made his move.
Sticking out her chin, gesturing with her eyes, Original Cindy tried to signal Asha that Bobby was behind her . . . but to no avail.
Cindy watched in horror as the stun rod touched Asha’s back. The gun leapt from her hand and she wilted to the floor in convulsions. The fed turned and tried to kick out at Bobby, but he succeeded only in providing the transgenic with an easier target. Hitting the agent’s leg with the stun rod, Bobby sent him writhing to the floor as well.
Bobby shut the door and dragged the wriggling figures off and out of sight.
And, minutes later, the door opened again.
Logan led the way inside this time, a bearded, wasted-looking man in a black suit trailing behind him. They both froze when they saw her . . .
. . . and again Bobby struck!
He touched the man in the black suit with the stun rod and he went down whimpering, doing the electric dance.
Logan dodged the first thrust of the stun rod and backed into the room, trying to put distance between himself and his attacker. Almost immediately, though, he started talking to Bobby in a cool, calm voice, and Original Cindy was reminded that one of her favorite things about Logan was his courage.
“Whoa—what’s the problem here?” Logan held his hands up, palms out in a stop gesture as he backed away.
“I have to remove you.”
“Remove me?”
Bobby moved closer but Logan kept backing away, keeping the distance about the same.
“I have to replace you.”
“Remove or replace me? . . . Who are you? What did I do to you?”
They wove around furniture in a slow, deadly cat-and-mouse game.
“I’m Bobby Kawasaki, Logan—you used to see me at Jam Pony . . . or maybe you didn’t notice me.”
“Can’t say I ever did. My bad.”
“The name they used to call me at Manticore was Kelpy.”
“You . . . you’re a transgenic?” Logan asked.
Seizing the doubt in the moment, Bobby lunged at him with the stun rod, just missing as Logan pitched to the right, the rod sparking angrily when it banged off a table.
“Bobby—I’m trying to help the transgenics . . .”
�
�You’re not helping me.”
“I’m not?”
“No! You stand between me and Max.”
Tipping over her chair, Original Cindy fought to get loose. She saw the look of confusion on Logan’s face.
“Between you . . . and Max?”
“I need your face!”
“My . . . ?”
Bobby lunged again, and this time Logan tripped on a rug and fell; but it still served the purpose, the stun rod missing him.
“Logan!” someone yelled.
On her side, on the floor, still bound to the chair, Original Cindy turned to see Joshua piling through the door, Alec and Sketchy right behind him. Hope swelled in her chest and she thought that maybe they might get through this all right, after all. . . .
Spinning, Bobby hurled the stun rod at them. Joshua went right, Alec left, and Sketchy stood stock-still as the rod handle hit him in the chest and dropped him to the floor in a quivering mass.
Whirling back, Alec picked up the stun rod and turned toward Bobby. Original Cindy looked back too and felt her newfound hope drain away. Before them stood Logan, and Bobby, who had a knife to Logan’s throat, Bobby partially crouched behind him, using the taller man as a shield.
“Move and he dies,” Bobby said, his voice raspy with emotion.
“All right,” Alec said. “Just stay calm.”
Bobby said, “Fuck calm—we’re leaving. Try to stop us, he dies.”
Motionless on the floor, Original Cindy watched as the transgenic pushed Logan slowly toward the door; something was strange, really weird—Bobby was changing, sort of morphing, but gradually, so subtle you almost didn’t notice. . . .
Bobby’s back was to her now, as he kept Logan between himself and the others. A trembling Sketchy was sitting up, hands to his chest where the rod had struck. Between the intertwined legs of Logan and Bobby, Original Cindy had the perfect vantage point to see that Sketchy was moving his camera up ever so slowly.
“Can’t we talk about this, Bobby?” Alec asked. “We should all be friends—you’re our brother. . . .”
His back to the door now, Bobby held Logan tighter, a tiny ribbon of red oozing out from where the point of the large knife touched his throat.
Original Cindy could see Bobby’s face clearly now, and to her astonishment, the guy she’d thought had Afro blood in him now looked whiter than Hitler, and his hair seemed sort of spiky and blond.
Shit, if he didn’t look something like Logan now!
Joshua had finally roused. “Kelpy—don’t do this! Max wouldn’t want you to—”
“Max will love me,” Bobby said, at the doorway now. “You’ll see.”
“Kelpy—” Joshua said, moving forward.
“Don’t follow me—I see one of you down in that tunnel, I slit Logan’s throat, then and there.”
Damn, Cindy thought. Once he’s outta here, who’s gonna save Logan?
A few minutes prior to the confrontation in Logan’s apartment, a small council of war was under way.
For what seemed like hours, Max and Mole had been going over contingencies that they hoped would turn their defensive position into an offensive one.
The idea was to turn the disadvantage of being surrounded into an advantage. Their strategy was strikingly simple in nature. When the Army piled through the gates and started going building to building, Max, Mole, and a few others would remain behind to distract them as the rest of the inhabitants took to the tunnels and sewers. As the Army and National Guard came in, they would go out, then come up behind the invaders. Once the tables were turned and it was the Army that was surrounded, maybe they could talk.
When they had gone over the plan for the umpteenth time, Max stretched and said, “All right, break time.”
Mole sat back and rolled his head on the column of his neck. “You know, this shit just might work,” he said.
She nodded. “Oughta give ’em a hell of goose, anyway. . . . Look, I’m supposed to go meet Logan—he should be back by now.”
“Cool,” Mole said, and blew a cigar smoke ring. “Young love inspires us all.”
“Bite me.”
“Have you had your shots?”
“I hang with Joshua, don’t I?”
They both laughed—and the levity was a good sign after all the doom and gloom of recent days.
“Go on,” Mole said. “We’ll hold down the fort.”
Then, as she started to walk out, he added, “And see if he got my damn cigars! He forgot last time.”
She grinned. “Will do.”
Despite Mole’s good humor, the atmosphere around the compound remained tense. Max hadn’t expected any less. They were all getting ready for combat now. Her desire to check on Logan—and his efforts to find Sage Thompson—made her want to run; but she forced herself to walk. Behind the broken windows and cracked doors, citizens of Terminal City were watching her.
If she looked cool, maybe they would stay cool, too.
When the National Guard had cut the power to Terminal City, they’d gotten this end of the tunnel too. Dix didn’t have it hooked into the grid yet, but it was on the to-do list. In the meantime, she didn’t care. Feline DNA made the lights optional anyway.
Max actually enjoyed the darkness—it felt peaceful to her. But the silence that usually accompanied the blanket of blackness was disturbed—somewhere from farther up the tunnel, she could hear something.
Voices?
Trotting ahead, staying silent, she heard Alec’s voice from Logan’s apartment. “Can’t we talk about this, Bobby?”
Then other voices, including Joshua’s; but she couldn’t make out the words.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. . . .
In seconds she was at the end of the tunnel and silently started up the stairs as she heard another voice.
“Don’t follow me. . . .”
This one too was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
“I see one of you down in that tunnel,” the voice was saying, “I slit Logan’s throat, then and there.”
At the top of the stairs, she saw someone who looked vaguely like Logan, with an arm around Logan’s chest and his other hand out of sight. Without seeing it, she knew the other hand held a knife to Logan’s throat.
She still had five steps between her and them.
Normally, taking a guy like this would be no biggie: he had his back to her and all his attention was focused on those in front of him. . . .
Four steps.
The fly in this ointment, though, was Logan. If, in tearing the attacker from him, she somehow accidentally touched Logan, even just brushed her flesh against his in the smallest way, the virus—which Manticore had infected her with, to make her touch deadly to Logan—would kick in, and instead of getting his throat cut, Logan would die at her own fingertips.
Three steps.
The timing had to be perfect, and nothing could go wrong.
Two steps.
One shot, that’s all she’d have. Her hand snaked toward the right elbow of the attacker. Just as she was about to grab him, a bright light—a flashbulb—went off in there.
The attacker yowled, and his right hand—the one with the knife—drew away from Logan’s neck as the attacker tried to turn away from the strobe. The action of turning had tipped the pair off balance—captor and hostage alike—and they teetered on the brink of tumbling down the stairs on top of Max.
In less than a second she visualized the whole thing: the three of them tumbling down the stairs, all tangled together, piling up at the bottom, her lying in the one place she longed to be more than any other—in Logan’s arms—Logan locked in her deadly embrace, any hope of a life together obliterated by a silly flash of light.
Then—just as Max clutched the attacker’s arm, his skin hot against hers—Alec launched himself at the pair and wrenched Logan from the grasp of the attacker. As Logan and Alec fell back into the apartment, she jerked the attacker’s knife arm . . .
. . . and the t
wo of them rolled ass-over-teakettle down the stairs into the black tunnel!
They were both on their feet instantly, he still holding the knife, she circling, looking for an opening. In the apartment, someone hit the switch and the lights in the tunnel came on. The attacker winced at the brightness and gave Max the moment she needed.
She kicked the blade from his grasp, then swiveled and in one fluid motion kicked again, hitting him in the stomach, sending him flying into the stairs, hitting hard.
Max moved in, ready for her opponent to respond; and she got her first good look at him. . . .
He looked almost exactly like Logan!
But an alarming change was in effect: the Logan look-alike was sweating profusely, red sores breaking out on his arms and on his face in a terrible sick blossoming, and he looked at her with shock and confusion in his blue eyes.
“Max,” he rasped, slumped against the stairs, a pitiful pile of hive-ridden flesh. “What’s happening to me?”
Her hand went to her mouth.
She knew she was witnessing the virus taking full-blown effect—whoever this would-be Logan was, he had taken on much more than just Logan Cale’s appearance.
Chapter Twelve
* * *
STREAMING FREEDOM VIDEO
LOGAN’S APARTMENT, 7:00 P.M.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 12, 2021
Soon everyone was standing around the table in Logan’s new quarters, the would-be killer splayed across the table like a ghastly meal. Original Cindy, Otto, and Asha—unbound now—were joined by a revived Thompson, Joshua, and Sketchy, who held an ice pack to his chest where the stun rod had bruised him.
“Fill the bathtub with cold water and ice,” Max said, directing the order to no one specifically.
It was Alec and Logan who took off to comply with her command.
“Who is he?” Otto Gottlieb asked.
On the table, shivering, flesh bursting with red sores, this was no longer a fearsome figure—eerily, the resemblance to Logan made this seem like a long-lost Cale brother, in the throes of infirmity.
Joshua said, “Kelpy is his name. He’s one of us.”
Alec emerged from the bathroom with a plastic bucket in hand, heading to the refrigerator.
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