The Longest Road (Book 3): The Other Side

by A. S. Thompson

  West acted as requested and tossed his rifle out of reach. Keeping his hands in the air, West said nothing as Trevor patted him down.

  “Turn around,” Trevor ordered, after finishing the front. He dragged his free hand around West’s waistband and stopped. “Thought you were so clever. Boss, I got a pistol here. Looks like he tried to conceal it.”

  “Conceal it?” West snorted. “Daytona, if you boy here couldn’t see the bulge through my shirt, I’d seriously consider replacing him.”

  "Hah! I just might. Trevor, get the gun and get your blind ass back here,” Daytona said, stepping closer. “Well, well, well. Long time, Gramps. I can see you’ve at least gained a sense of humor. What's it been? A year?"

  "More or less,” West replied, dropping his hands. “Brought a lot of friends with you, more than last time...what’s the matter? Too scared to do this by yourself?"

  "Scared? Hah! Hear that boys? This washed up Delta actually thinks I’m scared…”

  The seven Guardsmen chuckled, but kept their lasers and eyes sweeping for additional threats.

  “I miss our chats, Gramps. We should have met in a bar again. At least we'd have some drinks. Now that I think of it, hey Albert, I saw a Bud Light poster when we walked in. Remind me to stop by the bar and grab some bottles on our way out.”

  Albert neither looked up from his phone nor responded.

  “But speaking of friends, where might yours be?"

  West raised his chin. "It's just me."

  "Oh, okay, I'll just take your word for it then," Daytona replied sarcastically. “Seriously, where are they?"

  West went to repeat himself, but apparently Daytona wasn't finished.

  "Oh, that's right, I know! Fans in aisles 223 and 213, come on down and claim your prize," he said in an announcer-type voice.

  West's eyes darted to the upper level, exactly where Travis and Clint were positioned.

  "You can tell your friends to drop their guns. My snipers have had sights on them for the last five minutes...”

  Behind both Travis and Clint, two Guardsmen flipped on their tactical lights. Between the green lasers pointing at their chests and barrels nudging them from behind, the snipers had been discovered.

  "Or if you prefer..."

  Daytona's words trailed off hinting a second option: death.

  “Clint, Travis, drop ‘em."

  Slowly, the two snipers released their weapons and rose to their feet.

  “Did you really think I'd come in here that oblivious?" Daytona then put a hand to his face as though he was whispering a secret. “Between you and me, I was kinda hoping they would have resisted a little. No matter, my men have some games to play with them later."

  "Coming down now, boss," came a call from Daytona's radio. "Good. Jasper and Newhouse you can come down too.”

  Immediately after, the Guards positioned in the rafters packed up their gear and began the descent.

  "You still look confident, West,” Daytona noted with a tone of intrigue. “Would that be because this was all a smoke screen? Because you were going to try to electrocute us to death?"

  Daytona playfully kicked up the water around him like a child. Then he marched over to the side of the rink where the hockey players entered and lifted up the rubberized mat that was partially dragged into the rink. Underneath, was a thick cable, frayed at the end and dunked into the water.

  "Bring him in," Daytona continued, speaking into his microphone. "Your friend told us everything..."

  Through the main entrance, Jones was ushered into the rink. His face was bloodied as though he had been struck multiple times.

  "Lure us in and electrocute us all? Come on, Gramps. I am legitimately disappointed in you,” Daytona said, frowning and shaking his head. “Everything I know about you, all the stuff you've done...this is the best you could come up with? You lost your touch, old man."

  Albert looked up from his phone and smiled. "What a pleasant surprise. Look who the dogs dragged in. If it isn’t everyone's favorite racist billionaire, Harry Jones."

  "You two know each other?"

  “But of course, Sergeant Major,” Albert said, stepping aside as the billionaire was dragged into the rink. "I believe it was two years ago. We approached Mr. Jones about an investment opportunity. For someone who prides himself on his ability to pick the right investment, you really chose poorly. Could have been living in luxury right now, Harry."

  Jones was thrown down in front of West. He spat up the foul water and wiped the slime from his eyes.

  West helped him to his feet and asked, "What's he talking about?"

  "Their whore of a mother wanted me to be a part of their outbreak plan."

  "Watch your words," Daytona snapped, eyes piercing. He held the glare for as long as he could, but ultimately broke down and started laughing. "I’m kidding. We don't care what you call her. As a matter of fact, we agree with you. Isn't that right, brother?"

  "She is a whore."

  "You," West said, eyes trained on Albert. "You were from the meeting in New York. She's your mother, too?"

  "Very observant, Sergeant Major West. Yes, I was at the meeting, and regrettably, I admit she is my mother as well."

  West’s attention returned to Jones. His suspicions from back at Camp were gaining validity. Even from the comment made hours ago when he noticed Jones' anxiety when Liz Baron’s name was brought up in conversation. He stepped forward and pressed two fingers into the billionaire's chest.

  "You knew about this?"

  "Oh, this is good," Daytona said, enjoying the same-side fight.

  "More than knew about it I'd say,” added Albert to stoke the flames.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Sergeant Major West, you are a smart man. I'm sure you can put the pieces together. Projects like ours need funding. Certainly we get much from governments, but that only goes so far...paper trails."

  West did put the pieces together, but he wanted to hear Jones confirm it. “Jones?”

  "Fine! A year before the outbreak, that slicked-back-haired asshole and his cunt mother came to me and asked if I wanted to invest in something big. They said it was going to ‘change the world,’ but wouldn't give me details. Of course I was going to say yes. People don't say no to Liz Baron or the global friendly LIFE Corporation."

  "Are you telling me you helped finance this whole thing? You helped make the Trinity Virus?"

  "No, yes, I mean, not really...land acquisitions, off the books funding, that sort of stuff,” he said, squirming as West’s fingers pressed harder. “But when I figured out what was going on, I pulled out. I swear it! I may be a racist son of a bitch, but I'm no mass murderer! I told them no more and I got out!"

  "Keeping video and audio records of our conversations and financial records...that saved your life," Albert divulged. "We don't let people walk away. I would suggest asking a few of our benefactors and scientists who decided to becomeethical, but they are, well, dead.”

  “Except my white Irish ass.”

  “Irish? The way you handle your money, I would have pegged you for a Jew.”

  “We both know you wouldn’t be able to find the dirt I have on you if I died by ‘accident.’ It would be given to every major news organization across the world and your plan would be ruined,” Jones said brazenly.

  Albert yawned. “Potato, potato,” he said, changing inflections.

  “Even now, you should strongly consider what you’re going to do with me. I still have my recordings...i-it could still ruin you when the world gets back to normal.”

  “Wait a minute,” West said, spinning Jones by the shoulder. “That whole thing about your guy Roman...that was all a lie wasn’t it? You knew this outbreak was going to happen and you prepared for this, didn’t you?”

  “Roman was very real, but yes, my motivations for hiring him were based on insider secrets, not the cocktail story I told you. Hire a crazy old war kook and pay him hundreds of thousands of dollars to set up safe
houses across the US under the guise of disaster relief. It was easy, and well, minus those traitor security guards in Washington, everything was working out pretty well.”

  "I'll deal with you later," West said, disappointed and disgusted in Jones’ complete lack of character.

  "Let's get a look at our snipers," Daytona declared, motioning the captives into the rink. He shined a light on their faces, achieving a better view. "To be honest, I'm REALLY not very impressed with you, Gramps. Just two? The younger guy, sure, he might be alright, but what’s with the dinosaur?"

  "You!" came a shout from Clint, the dinosaur. His eyes were wide with hate and locked on to Daytona's.

  "I'm sorry, do we know each other?"

  "Agent Dennis Clint, United States Secret Service. I was at Blue Springs when you shot and killed President Tufase!”

  "Oh, thank you for specifying which President, otherwise I never would have known," Daytona replied sarcastically. “But since you brought it up, I am a bit curious. How long did it take the stuck pig to bleed out?”

  The Guardsmen who had been involved at Blue Springs chuckled with Daytona; some even guessed.

  “I’d say ten minutes.”

  “My money’s on less than five.”

  “What do you think, boss?”

  "I’m going with the over. Minimum bet’s a hundred, boys. Jasper, remember the bets and we’ll settle up later..."

  As Daytona turned back to face West though, Clint made an emotional, unplanned move. He shoved away from Trevor and rushed Daytona. Splashing through the ankle high water, Clint made it two steps before Daytona reacted.

  “Don’t shoot!” Daytona ordered, dodging the punch from Clint with ease. “Newhouse, take Shanna. I got this.”

  “Clint!” West petitioned, but the Secret Serviceman was blind and deaf from rage.

  Furious, Clint went in for a second attack. He had his right fist cocked back, ready to deliver a powerful haymaker. “Y-aaaaaah,” he grunted, directing his punch toward Daytona’s cheek.

  But it never made contact.

  As though gliding over the water, Daytona shuffled forward with such acceleration that it caught Clint by surprise. But instead of a fist, Daytona curled his hand into a claw, striking Clint's throat.

  “Galp!” Clint moaned, choking.

  Daytona did not retract the claw, rather, he continued to drive forward, squeezing.

  Clint backpedaled, desperately attempting to dislodge Daytona's anaconda-like grip.

  The crowd of spectators gasped in anticipation, wondering what would happen next.

  With a taunting smile that said, "Watch this,” Daytona looked at West, then back at Clint and ended the fight.

  In one motion, Daytona pushed forward then yanked back. The action caused Clint to fall backward, but not without leaving behind his throat in Daytona's hand.

  In the water, Dennis Clint gurgled and choked on his own blood before bleeding out dark lines next to the penalty box.

  Daytona wasn't the least bit winded. He even chuckled to himself as he looked at the bloody mess of bone and skin still squishing in his grip. "Would you like to try something too?” he asked Travis.

  The Second Lieutenant was too stunned to reply.

  "Trevor, toss him over there with the others. Double-time, come on, I’m getting bored," Daytona ordered. He dropped Clint's throat, and then wiped away the bloody grime on his cargo pants.

  "So I count four of you," Daytona continued, “But ya see, I know for a fact there are five...We have Captain America Craig West, the fair skinned spick, the throatless dinosaur, and this billionaire sissy. So tell me, West, where's the punk ass kid who torched my plane?"

  "He's been infected."

  "We tied him up back in the plane for our safety," added Travis.

  “Check it out if you don't believe us."

  "Funny you should say that, West, I already have men on it. I hope you're not lying to me or this chit chat gets bloodier, starting with her," Daytona said, sniffing Shanna's hair. "Hot damn, I'm gonna to miss oursessions."

  “Get away from me, you sick bastard!”

  Daytona clicked on his radio and said, “Simon, where are you?”

  ***

  Inside the cabin of Jones' decommissioned Gulfstream, Alex had a ceramic coffee cup tethered around his neck, and sipped on a cocktail through a long, plastic curly straw. In front of him, the movie “Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls” was playing.

  "I love this part! Kinda hot in these rhinos,” Alex said, talking to himself. He continued quoting the movie line for line.

  Suddenly, two men with guns surrounded him. "Don't move," the lead Guardsman ordered.

  "Ohhhh, hey guys, just in time," Alex said slurring his words. He didn't seem to care about the fourteen inch fully automatic rifles or the rough-looking men pointing them at his head.

  "Get your hands up," the other Guard ordered, though, through his nostrils he sniffed the ambient air. "Ah, shit, Si, what’s that smell?"

  "It's piss and puke. To be honest I kinda forgot about it ‘til now. Thanks for reminding me, dickhead. Oh snap, here it comes! Waaaaaaaaarm!” Alex quoted, watching Jim Carey remove his underwear from inside the mechanical rhinoceros. "You guys need to pull up a chair and watch this!"

  Simon stepped in between Alex and the forty-inch plasma screen. He pressed the short barrel rifle to Alex's head. "Hands up or a bullet. You have two-seconds."

  "Does this count?" Alex answered sarcastically. His hands rose upward, but his arms were tied down by duct tape. "Geeze, talk about buzzkill! And you’re making me miss the best part!" Alex groaned, eyes going back to the movie. “The mother rhino is giving birth!”

  Simon looked at the duct tape, then he noticed the bite mark on Alex’s wrist and blood stains on his shirt. Using the tip of his gun barrel, Simon pulled back Alex's collar and observed the second bite wound. “Brenton, call it in.”

  "Boss,” Brenton said into his radio. “We got the kid. He’s tied up and looks like he's been bitten, too. What do you want us to do?"

  "Watch him. Don't kill him, yet."

  “Copy that.”

  Alex had been reciting movie lines, but turned away when there was a lull in the comedy. "Hey, I know you guys are the bad guys,” he said, pausing to burp, “but you seem kinda cool. My name's Alex. I'd shake your hands but I kinda can't."

  The men chuckled at Alex's situation. "What are you doing here, kid?"

  "Long story short, I got bit. I'm too much of a pussy to kill myself," Alex said, beginning a story that was anything but short. "So my friends, well not really friends, assholes more like it, tied me up so I wouldn't change and bite them. Makes sense, but seriously all I wanted to do was get drunk before I died. Is that too much to ask? Well, I wanted an In-N-Out double-double but that was obviously out of the question. I wanted to take a shower too to get this shit off me, but Generation Douchebag told me I had to ask West and I was going to ask him, but I couldn't because your boss called and then they left and I forgot. At least they did turn on a movie and get me a drink so that’s cool. Which reminds me, can one of you fill me up? I would get it but I-"

  “Enough!” Simon declared. “Shut the fuck up, will ya?”

  "Damn, kid, you're annoying as fuck!”

  "If we get you a drink, will you stop talking?"

  Alex nodded like an anxious puppy. "Yup, I promise, zip the lips,” he said, moving his fingers. “I wanted to illustrate me zipping my lips, but I can’t reach- oh ya, shut up, right."

  "Brenton, get him a drink. Fill me up one while you're at it. Make it a double. We're celebrating."

  "Oh nice! What are we celebrating?"

  Simon chuckled. "How drunk are you, kid?"

  “Scale of one to ten? I’d say eleven? Maybe eleven point two?”

  "We’re celebrating cause all your friends are about to die. You too."

  "I know I'm gonna die, but why are they gonna die? What'd they do?"

  "You’re ridiculous, kid,�
� Brenton said, rummaging through a row of bottles. “West has been a major pain in the boss' ass, that's what. Ask Simon, he took a bullet cause of him, didn’t you, Si?"

  Simon finished searching the rest of the jet and held out his middle finger to Brenton. He chose a seat against a porthole window and instinctively grabbed the area where he had been shot.

  "I guess we aren't big on clarification," Alex said, accepting a glass of clear liquid. "But you did get me a drink, so I won't press.” He took a sip and nearly spit it out. “What is this, vodka?"

  “Yup, Grey Goose.”

  “What am I, a twenty year old girl? Fuck, this tastes horrible! Next time remind me to ask Frowny over there to get me a refill. At least he looks like a whiskey drinker.”

  Simon smiled. "Hey, what movies does this thing have?”

  "Remote’s over there," Alex said, nodding to the chair in front of him. "I gotta say, it was a dick move my friends pulled not leaving it next to me. I mean AV2 is a great movie, but I’d love some options, ya know?"

  Brenton chuckled as he bent over to pick up the thin control. "Damn kid, you're funny. I don't think I'm gonna enjoy killing you-"

  "Likewise," Alex said with no slur.

  Then came the violence.

  Alex popped up from his chair, easily ripping through his pre-torn bindings. He grabbed the gun that was hidden underneath his buttocks and fired a round into Brenton’s head.

  Remote in hand, the brown-haired Guardsman did not compute Alex's comment until his brain matter was sprayed over the plasma television.

  Simon spun around and dropped his glass. He fumbled for his rifle, but Alex didn't hesitate.

  The entire magazine was emptied into Simon's chest. The first seven rounds were stopped by the bullet resistant vest, but the other four snuck through the openings in the armpits and just above the sternum. Simon’s arms flailed wildly, then he dropped to the ground next to his companion.

  "Whoa,” Alex mumbled.

  The cloud of gunpowder had just begun to dissipate.

  "You saw that I was taped, but you didn't make sure that I was secured? Rookie movie, dickheads."