Exit Zero

by Neil A. Cohen

  “I don’t know, perhaps discussing if it’s too late to have children?”

  Dan moved Pat away from the truck to ensure they were out of all earshot. “Pat, we got a problem here. The sub only fits three, and that number ain’t negotiable. Three’s the limit.”

  “I don’t think Ivan and Marifi expect to come along,” Pat said.

  “Really? Then why do you suppose they’re here? Look, I ain’t the conspiracy type, but let’s do some figuring here. How do we know how the others in his friggen compound really died? Who’s to say he and that kung-fu wife of his didn’t realize that the sub is a better option than hiding underground like a bunch of gophers? Who’s to say that bunker, as he called it, was real at all? How do we know that it wasn’t some sort of prop, like a movie set built to con people into investing their money into his schemes? They think they’re buying their way out of judgment day, and he’s laughing all the way to bank.

  “What if when he figured out our plans for the sub, he sent us off on the rescue mission of the kid as a diversion? Then Ivan and his wife kill off the rest of the freaks in the bunker, and he makes it look like there was some sort of outbreak. ‘Cause maybe he knows that his compound is all smoke and mirrors and now that something bad is really going down, he had to bail, and he realizes our sub is his way out. Who’s to say he ain’t planning on doing it again, killing all of us, and he and that wife of his heading off in our sub into the sunset?”

  Pat contemplated that ridiculous scenario, but his legal training had taught him to analyze circumstances from all angles. At the current time and in the current circumstances, all possibilities had to be considered, and perhaps this could not be ruled out as implausible.

  “Well I don’t know if we’re all freaked out here, but I got another conspiracy theory for you in that same line of thinking,” Pat said. “Your brother James seems to be fitting in nice and comfortable in an executive role at PCRC. You guys have never been the suit and tie types, but it looks like he is taking to the civilian life pretty well. I have to be honest with you; Jim and I had a discussion the other day about how difficult it is for me to continue my public relationship with him due to you and Jerry. He wants to put the past in the past.”

  “Yeah, so, my brother Jim’s gone soft. Who needs him?” Dan said dismissively.

  “But does he need you, Dan? You and Jerry are the ties to his past, the anchors you could say are holding him back. How do we know he really wants all us out of here safe and sound? A lot of history is wiped clean with you and Jerry out of the picture. Where is Jerry anyway?”

  “Not quite sure. I know Jim said he had something he needed Jerry to do, but we don’t always share a lot of info with each other. Goes with the territory. Sometimes it’s best not to know.”

  “Okay, look,” Pat said in a now reassuring tone, “I think we’re both getting a little nuts here. Let’s assume everything is as it seems, and that there is no grand conspiracy, and let’s get down to Cape May.”

  “Alright,” Dan agreed, “but just in case, let’s keep an eye out for anyone looking to make a change to the plan.”

  They got back into the car to find Marifi sitting alone in the back. Eric finished filling the tank and hopped in.

  “Where the hell is Ivan, taking a piss break or something?” Dan asked with a hint of concern in his voice.

  “He is not coming,” Marifi responded. “We should go now.”

  “What do you mean he’s not coming?” Pat asked with concern. “Where is he?”

  “He has left already, I will meet him later,” answered Marifi. “Now let’s go.”

  “But Mr. Gold is the reason—” Eric began, but Marifi cut him off.

  “You should be going now!” Marifi pointed towards the road behind them.

  Skells were starting to emerge in the street, stumbling out of houses. Whatever this was, it was spreading fast and moving south. Pat and Dan exchanged concerned looks about Ivan’s sudden disappearance, but there was nothing they could do. They were not going to abandon the girl and the kid to the encroaching Skells. They drove onward towards their destination. Cape May, Exit 0 off of the Garden State Parkway.

  Chapter 32

  Neighborhood Watch

  George was power walking in his suburban neighborhood. At forty, he was trying to begin an exercise routine that was twenty years overdue. Two hundred dollars later he was decked out in jogging shoes, special shirt and shorts that were supposedly designed to absorb his sweat, a runner’s watch that he could not figure out how to set, and an arm strap to hold his new music player that was thinner than his business card. He was all set; this was to be the first step in a long journey to fitness via power walking.

  He’d been puffing down the road of his quiet neighborhood when he saw in the distance a sole person standing in the middle of the street.

  What is that idiot doing?

  It appeared to George that the man was on his way to work and suddenly realized he had forgotten something at home, then realized he had forgotten what he had forgotten, and now was standing there thoroughly confused. George passed the lost man, who raised his head to view George with an expressionless face.

  George turned back again and saw the individual was now walking in his direction, as were two others who looked too disheveled to be residents of his upscale neighborhood. Women here put on makeup and chose an outfit just to walk to the curb and get the mail. Up ahead he saw three more figures emerging from in or around homes and making their way towards the street.

  What the hell was this? Did he break some homeowner’s association policy of not jogging after 7am or something? Now the civilian patrol was going to bitch at him, the way they did when he put his garbage cans at the curb before sunset? He turned around and saw over a dozen figures now walking swiftly towards him.

  He picked up the pace, glancing back periodically, watching the advancing neighborhood patrol of weirdoes. He turned into his cul-de-sac and was running now, as fast as his weakening legs would take him. When he entered his house to inform his wife of the bizarre incident, she grabbed him and buried her teeth in his face.

  Chapter 33

  Chess Master

  Dan looked in the rear view mirror at Eric. This kid looked familiar, but why? It bothered him. The kid’s appearance reminded him of his last overseas project three years earlier. The job was nothing out of the ordinary. His brother Jim had sent him and Jerry to Pakistan in order to escort and protect a client, Samuel Pinskey, on his meetings with vendors in country. Pinskey was the CEO of some import/export company, but that didn’t mean shit to them.

  Their mission was simple: keep to the standard agenda, fly the customer into some Middle East shithole on the company plane, house him at the company owned green zone, escort him around the region for his meetings, keep him alive long enough for a quick stop over in Dubai for a night of Russian hookers, and then back to the States.

  Dan had taken two others along on this mission, Frank and Opie. Opie was not his real name, but his red hair and freckles made the moniker mandatory. He was an annoying asshole who would not shut the fuck up, but he was loyal and a good soldier. Well, he was a good soldier until repeated violations for smoking dope got him discharged and now he was working for PCRC. Frank, on the other, hand barely spoke, but was an accomplished MMA fighter as well as a warrior.

  The mission was going like clockwork, and they were making their way down a typical market street for a meeting at a coffee house. They often advised clients to meet there as it was in the open, and the owner actually washed the cups at least once a day. As they turned the corner, the street exploded with gunfire, which seemed directed at them. Before they could even draw their guns, Frank was dead from a headshot and the three remaining solders were dragging a panicked Pinskey through an alleyway while attempting to return fire.

  The shots seemed to be organized, pre-planned, and coming from everywhere. They kicked open a resident’s front door and made their way through the sto
ne house into a courtyard. They climbed over a four-foot stone wall and into another private yard and then into that house.

  Jerry shouted, “What the fuck was that?”

  Dan looked over at the occupants of the home who were huddled in the other room, about five of them, looking at the strangers who had forced their way in.

  Gasping for breath, Opie said, “That was not some fucking spontaneous shit. That was… I don’t know, that was…”

  Dan looked over again at the cowering residents, but they were gone, fled. “Move!” he shouted. “Move move move!”

  The three grabbed their client, who was still holding his laptop bag against his chest like he was cradling a child, and pushed through the front door. The house lit up and exploded from two RPGs which were fired down from the neighboring rooftops.

  Again, they were on the move with rapid gunfire all around. They had not made it fifteen yards when a pickup truck on the side of the road detonated, all but decapitating Opie, and silencing him forever. Dan and Jerry continued on, dragging the frightened, stumbling businessman, whose black suit was now gray with dust and who was gasping to catch his breath. They burst into what appeared to be a commercial building and ran up the dark stairway hoping to find higher ground and achieve some situational awareness. The gunfire followed, but still they did not see their attackers.

  Breathing heavily, they made it to the top floor of the five story building and entered a hallway. On the street they could hear a second explosion and yelling. They needed to figure out what was happening. Where were they, and from what direction was the attack coming?

  Dan grabbed the handle of the first door they approached and found it open. He pushed the door wide, and Jerry entered the room first. Dan pushed Pinskey into the room, following close behind, and then turned around to open fire on anyone who may have followed. Jerry took up a position behind the opened door, using his foot to slam the door closed.

  And then there was silence. Real silence. Deafening silence. Dan thought it must have been the explosions. The blast must have blown out his eardrums and he was temporarily deaf. But no, he could hear Pinskey’s gasps as he tried to catch his breath. It was the room. The room was soundproof. The silence reminded Dan of the chapel at Holy Friends where he had served a lifetime of silent detentions. This was that kind of silence.

  And the interior of the room did not fit. New, clean, empty of dirt, dust and rubble. They looked around in confusion. The room was empty except for a small table near the wall holding a fax machine and in the center of the room, a single desk and chair. Sitting at the desk was an older American man wearing tactical style pants and a red golf polo. He sat perfectly still and looked at them, fingers still on the laptop keyboard in front of him. He stared back at them with a look that expressed nothing more than annoyance that they didn’t knock.

  They stared back at him in silence. The situation was surreal in how out of context it was to the surrounding chaos. In the next room, they could faintly hear a phone ringing. The man calmly removed his left hand from the keyboard and started to open the desk drawer. Dan and Jerry sprang into action, raising their weapons towards him as the fax machine phone began ringing.

  They swung right when the phone rang again and then switched to the singing of the fax machine. They turned back towards the desk, the man had calmly yet quickly walked over to a side door to the right of the desk and closed it behind him. The fax’s singing stopped and the slow whir of paper making its way through the mechanism and dropping into the tray with its printed communication was the only sound in the silent room. They cautiously moved toward the door that the man had exited, but just as they reached it, they were rocked by a small explosion that blew the first door they had entered off of its hinges. The blast knocked the three of them to the ground.

  They rolled onto their backs and returned fire towards an unseen enemy they assumed would enter their room through the blown door. Yet no one attempted entry. They could hear the sound of a large engine out in the street, followed by shouting in Arabic. Jerry ran to the window and looked down at the street. Civilians were running away from the building while a large concrete truck was being rolled into position. The driver jumped out and ran down the street.

  “Truck bomb!” Jerry shouted.

  The three of them fled back into the hallway and down the stairwell, then ran out towards the rear courtyard away from the truck bomb. In the darkness and confusion, the Sullivan brothers realized they were alone. Pinskey was missing. They had never lost a client before and were not going to do so now. Jerry turned to run back into the building, but the truck detonated, sending the two of them into the air. The building crumbled into a pile of dust and stone, and as quickly as it began, the attack ended.

  Dan’s reminiscence was ended by Patrick loudly clearing his throat. Dan realized he had been staring into the rear view mirror at Eric the entire time. The others in the car had noticed as well, as did a very uncomfortable Eric…

  Dan spoke to the kid’s reflection in the mirror. “Hey, kid, what’s your name again?”

  “Eric Rocco.”

  Dan smirked. “You don’t look like the Rocco type,” he said to the pale, gangly teen.

  “I’m not. That’s my mom’s second husband’s name. My real name is Eric Pinskey.”

  Dan’s heart accelerated. His body got warm and he felt like he was going to puke. No fucking way this was happening. This couldn’t be a coincidence. This kid. He had to be Pinskey’s kid. But why? How? Could Ivan’s lunatic ranting have been true? And like a flash, the pieces started to fit.

  His brother James had gone to work for Ivan’s dad during high school, as had some of Jim’s classmates. It was Max that steered James into the Army and pulled strings to get him into Special Ops. In fact, Max had guided most of the kids into their career paths. Dan and his friends had looked up to those guys since they were seniors when Dan was a freshman. He remembered how his older brother’s friends were a wild bunch. The kind you loved to have at a party, just not your party. He never understood his older brother’s band of friends, as they were so different from each other, yet their bond was so tight, they had an “us against the world” attitude.

  He looked over at Pat, and thought about Woodrow, Virgil, Sean, and Ivan. They had really gelled as a group sophomore year after Ivan entered the school. Ivan arrived midway through sophomore year, having been expelled from some private boarding school. He had known these other guys his whole life; Pee Wee football, Catholic Youth Association outings, but never remembered having anything in common with them, barely spoke with them in fact. But somehow they came together that sophomore year and had been inseparable throughout school.

  From that point, the senior Mr. Gold had always been in their lives somehow. He stepped in as a father figure when their own fathers fell out of the picture. Funding them, employing them, advising and mentoring them. Fuck that! He was playing them like chess pieces! He needed politicians, scientists, soldiers, cops, and criminals that were loyal, and he cultivated what he needed in them. He had been doing this since his brother Jimmy was in school, maybe before. And now the Senior Gold was cultivating the next generation of pawns.

  This virus, whatever it was, it had come from PCRC Labs. Woodrow’s work. Something must have gone wrong, gotten out of control. And again, Dan had been dispatched like a loyal fucking dog to go fetch the stick and bring it back to the master. Christ, he was a fucking fool. Ivan had seen it. He’d predicted something like this was going to come, sooner or later, from his father’s work. So his father had cast him out, locked him away in the nuthouse. When he got out, he tried to warn everyone to prepare. He knew it could not be stopped. However, they saw him as crazy, using the internet and radio the same way a lunatic would walk around Times Square holding a sign saying The End Is Near.

  Dan’s mind raced. He realized that he himself was still blindly following the master plan. But he had a job to do. It did not matter though how they had come together; how the
y had become friends. They were his friends, and he was going to save who he could. He was going to get them out of New Jersey. Get them safe. Then he would figure out what to do next.

  Chapter 34

  The Collapse

  James Sullivan stood up from his seat on the private PCRC company jet and walked to the rear. He knocked on the cabin door, almost in a timid fashion, not befitting of a man of his size, demeanor, and pedigree.

  “Come!” was the response from the other side.

  James opened the door and saw Maxwell Gold sitting in an executive seat in his private cabin. He was well into his seventies and had taken a more casual attitude towards his dress, replacing his thousand dollar suits for slacks, loafers, and a faded red polo with the company logo on the left chest area. The company shirts were an idea a marketing girl had come up with. She was young, a new hire right out of college. She did not realize that the people who worked at PCRC were not the types to advertise their association with the firm. But she was cute and Max liked to see her walking around the office, so she stayed until he lost interest.

  “Have you heard from our Irish detective friend?” Max asked without looking up from his book.

  “No sir, not since yesterday,” James answered. “All comms have been down statewide since this morning, like it’s being jammed.”

  “I wanted to get some ground truth on what is happening down there,” the old man replied, still not making eye contact.

  “Sir, I wanted to ask you about exactly what is happening.”

  “So ask.”

  “Sir, what is happening down there? Is this our fault? What exactly is causing this?”

  Max closed the book, sighed, and looked over at James. “It is not our fault. It is my fault. I should have never allowed him to be released.”