***
One of the church’s ubiquitous black SUVs takes him into downtown Salt Lake City. He gets a good look at the former Mormon temple with its Gothic towers that make it look much older than it really is. The driver informs him that the temple was the center of the city to the extent that all the road names are a measure of distance from it.
“When the outbreak hit, a lot of them Mormons huddled in the temple, like their boy Joe Smith could protect them. Idiots,” the driver says with a snort. It always amazes Hunter the way one religion will mock another, thinking their invisible deity is superior to the other invisible deity. “Took a few days to clean them all out. It was pretty intense, let me tell you.”
“You were there?”
“Oh, yeah. I was right on the front lines with a couple of pistols and a machete. Ran out of bullets pretty quick. By the time we cleared the entryway, my arms were pretty fucking sore from swinging that machete.”
Hunter notes the driver only has white crosses on his black uniform. “They didn’t make you one of the higher-ups?”
“Nah. I didn’t want none of that. I’m happy where I am now. Leave the big decisions for others, right?”
“Yeah.” Hunter can’t help asking, “Before the outbreak, did you used to be a cabbie?”
“What gave me away?”
“You’re a lot chattier than most guys.”
“Yeah, I drove a cab. In New York, no less. I got out at the right time. My wife had us move out to Phoenix for the dry air. Allergies and all that, you know? Two months later the shit hits the fan. It’s like divine providence or something.”
“What happened to your wife?”
“She died trying to get here. Then I had to kill her.” The driver shakes his head. “There were a few times I’d thought of doing it. You know, when we’d fight and stuff. Actually having to do it was not pretty. Messed me up in the head for a while, until the big guy found me.”
“God?”
“The reverend. They found me wandering around, took me into their camp. He told me about how God was punishing us, but how we could redeem ourselves by cleaning up this world. Purifying it, you know?” The driver looks over at Hunter. “I know you’re not really buying into it, not yet. When you get a chance to meet the reverend, it’ll change. What he says just makes so much sense that you’ll change your mind. You just wait. Hey, here we are.”
The driver gestures to a white stone building with a domed tower in the middle. It’s not as old as the temple, but it’s far from new too. There’s still a sign identifying it as the Grand America Hotel. “Wow. He said it was a lot better than that dump by the airport.”
“Yeah, no kidding, buddy. This place is the tops. At least for you new recruits. You stay in long enough, you can get yourself a house like me.”
“Where does the reverend live?”
“He’s in what used to be the governor’s house. Appropriate, right?”
“I’ll say.”
The SUV pulls up to the front doors of the hotel. There isn’t a doorman or valet to greet them, but there are a couple of soldiers with machine guns. Hunter’s stomach flutters, though his inner danger sense doesn’t warn him of any threats.
The driver escorts him into the building, where an officer with gold crosses is waiting to greet him. “You must be Mr. Malone. Major Friese said you were coming.”
“That’s right. You going to show me to a room?”
“Yes, of course.”
The driver claps Hunter on the back. “See you later, fella. Good luck with the baptism.”
“Thanks.”
The officer gestures for Hunter to follow him into an ornate lounge with couches and armchairs for sitting on. “You’re welcome to use the lounge whenever you want. Down the hall are the restrooms and our restaurant. They serve real food there, not what you’re probably accustomed to.”
Hunter nods; he can smell cinnamon and maple syrup from the hallway. It’s tempting to rush inside to fill his face, but he manages some restraint. “I’m not sure my stomach will know what to do with real food. I might throw up.”
“It is an adjustment, but everyone gets used to it.”
The officer ushers him to an elevator that’s still working. “What are you using for power?”
“A lot of our power comes from solar panels we managed to recover. The capacity isn’t as much as before the outbreak, so we ask you refrain from using the electricity after nine o’clock.”
“Seems like an early bedtime.”
“But candlelight is so much more romantic, don’t you think?” the officer says with a knowing grin. He punches the button for the fifth floor. The elevator starts up, slower than it probably used to, but it’s better than taking the stairs.
“I gotcha. I assume you have candles and matches there already?”
“Of course. Anything else you need, you only have to ask. The phone system inside the hotel works, so you can call the front desk for anything you might want.”
“You still have room service?”
“Yes. We also have a barber and masseuse on staff.”
Hunter runs a hand along the beard he hasn’t shaved since leaving Snowcap Mountain. “Subtle hint, huh?”
“We do like our recruits to look presentable. I’ll send up our tailor later to take your measurements for a uniform.”
“I’m glad you’re so confident that I’ll survive the baptism.”
“If you die then I’m sure we can give it to someone else later.”
The elevator nearly throws Hunter from his feet as it comes to a stop. He’s able to grab the interior railing in time to stay upright. The officer hardly seems to notice the bump. “Here we are.” He motions for Hunter to step out of the elevator and then takes the lead. “The computerized locks don’t work, so we had to go back to the old-fashioned ones. Try not to lose your key.”
The officer hands Hunter a plastic keychain with a single silver key on it. The key fits into the lock on room 518. Hunter twists the doorknob and then gasps. It’s not as big or as opulent as the Hilton in Albuquerque, but the lights in this room work, as does the air conditioning—or heater depending on the season.
There’s a DVD player hooked up to the TV. “There are no television channels broadcasting, but we have a wide variety of DVDs. Including adult titles. You need only call down to the front desk.”
“I think I’ll have to do that. Been a while since I saw a movie. You have Star Wars?”
“Those are our most-requested titles. At least of the non-adult ones.”
“If you don’t have it, maybe you could find me a copy of Top Gun.”
“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, set the climate controls to your liking and make yourself at home.”
“I definitely will.” Hunter runs his hand over his chin. “You think you can send that barber you got up here? I would like a shave.”
“Certainly.”
“You have hot water?”
“Yes, though it might be a little slow at times.”
“Awesome. Give me a few minutes then for the barber, will you?”
“Of course. And welcome to Utopia, Mr. Malone.”
***
It’s hard for Hunter to remember the last time he had a warm shower. Even at Snowcap Mountain the showers were lukewarm at best. The only way to get really warm water was to boil it in a pot over a fire, which made showers impossible.
For that reason, he can’t help taking a little longer than he used to in the room’s shower. Warm water at the turn of a knob is one of the little touches of civilization he has missed, along with actual food, air conditioning, and cable TV. The Internet hasn’t been as much of a loss to him as many other people, but as an Air Force pilot he hadn’t spent a lot of time texting and Tweeting.
The towels are softer and cleaner than anything he has used since the outbreak. He wraps the towel around his waist and then collapses onto one of the double beds with a sigh. He gives himself a few minutes
to relax before remembering that all this comfort was paid for with the blood of innocent people. He came here to do a job, not to have a spa weekend.
He has changed back into his clothes when there’s a knock on the door. As he hurries towards the door he allows himself a moment to hope it’ll be Casey, but of course not. It is a busty middle-aged woman with a lot of kinky chestnut hair. “You’re the barber?”
“Stylist. Name’s Sylvia. You Hunter?”
“Yes. So, um, you want to do this in the room?”
“Unless you want me to do it in the hallway.”
“Good point.” He ushers Sylvia into the room. She has a little black satchel with her that she empties onto the desk. Inside are the various combs, scissors, and razors a barber uses—everything except that jar of blue liquid to put the combs in. Once she has lined everything up to her satisfaction, she motions for him to sit in the office chair next to the desk. Hunter has to adjust the height a few inches to make it easier for her.
She drapes a plastic smock around his neck and then starts to comb the sandy hair that has gotten much too long in the last few months. “You’ve got nice hair for a man,” she says.
“Too bad I wear a helmet most of the time.”
“You were one of them wranglers, right?”
“Yes. Before that I was a pilot.”
She stops combing his hair to lean down and whisper, “I know why you’re here, Major Hawking.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was in Vancouver before everything went tits-up. I saw you a few times.”
“Oh, well, I didn’t know—”
“It’s all right. Look, they’ve got the place bugged, so be real careful what you say. Tonight, after dinner, go outside for a smoke break. Stand by the main entrance and I’ll meet you. I can fill you in on the rest then.”
“Sure.”
Sylvia straightens and then picks up her scissors. She starts to clip Hunter’s hair as if nothing happened. It seems every woman he meets around here knows who he is. He just hopes they haven’t told anyone else or his rescue plan might be over before it gets underway.
***
He’s a lot less relaxed after Sylvia’s visit. While it’s nice to have his hair trimmed enough to fit under a hat and his beard to be shaved off, he can’t sit comfortably knowing there are bugs listening in on him. Sylvia didn’t mention cameras, but do they have those too? Maybe that’s why they need to conserve power at night.
A bellboy shows up with a copy of Star Wars and Top Gun after Sylvia has gone. These movies were the cornerstone of Hunter’s growing up, not that he needed any encouragement to become a pilot. Even as a kid he knew how silly Top Gun was, especially the F-5s substituting as MiGs, but there weren’t many other modern movies about airplanes around.
Hunter lies on the comfortable bed, but he still can’t make himself relax. He tries to focus on the action on the screen, knowing this might be his last time seeing either movie for a long time, if not ever. He squirms more than usual when Goose is killed in an accident. When he first saw that, Hunter had pleaded with his father not to fly, worried Dad might have a similar accident. Dad promised not to fly, but Hunter knows that was an idle promise as flying was the only thing that could compete with family in Dad’s heart.
The end credits are coming up when there’s another knock on the door. This time he worries it might be a guard come to throw him in a zeeb cage, but it’s only an elderly Asian man with a measuring tape around his neck. The man doesn’t have any sign of an accent as he says, “You must be Mr. Malone. I’m here to measure you for a uniform.”
“Sure. Come in.”
There isn’t a stool for Hunter to stand on, so they have to make do by stacking the pillows from both beds on the floor. It’s not a huge boost, but the tailor doesn’t seem to mind as he begins to take his measurements. Hunter waits for this man to indicate he knows Hunter’s true identity, but he just keeps measuring. He doesn’t seem to even need to write anything down.
As the tailor measures around Hunter’s chest, he says, “Do you want a loose fit or a tight fit?”
Is this a code phrase of some kind? Hunter doubts it. He considers it a moment and then says, “Looser would be better, I think.”
“You’re a growing boy, eh?” The tailor chuckles to himself at this joke.
Hunter puts a hand to his stomach. “If they have real food I might put on a few pounds.”
“Yes, the food here is very good. Even the scraps are very tasty.”
“They give you the scraps?”
“It is fitting for the servants, no?”
Is this a test? Maybe the church sent this tailor to gauge his loyalty to the church. “I suppose even scraps are better than what us wranglers were eating.”
The tailor nods; Hunter hopes he has passed muster. It’s a few more minutes until the tailor has finished with his measuring tape. “I’ll have the uniform sent up before dinner.”
“That soon?”
“Yes. Major Friese gave me an estimate of your size. He has a very good eye. It should not take long for the alterations.”
“Great. Thanks.” Hunter pats his pockets, but he doesn’t have any money. “I’d like to give you a tip, but—”
“It’s not necessary to tip servants.” The tailor nods to him and then is gone. Hunter shakes his head and then decides to watch the movies again while he’s waiting.
***
The black uniform fits perfectly. It’s a bit loose as Hunter requested, but not loose to the point of being baggy. The uniform is the same as Major Friese and the others wear, except there are no crosses on it, which Hunter is sure is a sign that he’s not part of the church yet. He runs his hand along the fabric; it has been over two years since he wore a formal uniform.
The elevator creaks its way down to the ground floor. The desk officer is there to greet him. “Hello again, Mr. Malone. How has your stay been so far?”
“Excellent. Really excellent. Your tailor did some good work. The barber too.”
“Thank you, sir. We aim to please. This way to the restaurant. Major Friese is waiting for you.”
“He is?”
“Yes. This way,” the desk officer says more insistently. Hunter follows him down the hallway, to a spotless dining room that is packed with men in black uniforms. Major Friese is sitting at the head of a table with a bunch of other gold cross officers.
The major gets to his feet to shake Hunter’s hand. “Ah, Lieutenant Malone. The uniform looks good on you.”
“I hear you’re pretty good at guessing sizes.”
“A rare talent, I know. Have a seat, please. I hope you don’t mind that I already ordered for you.”
“No, of course not,” Hunter says. He takes the empty chair to Friese’s left. Before he can say anything, a willowy blond in a pink uniform sets a plate down in front of him. His mouth instantly waters at the sight of a steak that has to be three inches thick at least. He pokes it with his knife, blood and grease oozing from the steak. “Medium-rare. Just the way I like it.”
“A lucky guess,” Major Friese says.
“This is cow, right? Not horse or something…smaller?”
“Yes, it’s cow. We have pastures south of Provo with a herd of real Texas longhorns. The onions and potatoes were grown in our gardens as well. Nothing canned.”
“Amazing. My stomach won’t know what hit it.”
“What can I get you to drink, sir?” the waitress asks.
“Do you have beer? Cold beer?”
“Yes, sir.” She rattles off a list of pre-outbreak brands that prompts his mouth to water more than it already is.
“Just a Budweiser will be fine,” he says. He waits until the waitress has gone to ask, “Shouldn’t most of the beer have gone bad by now?”
“We’ve taken great care to preserve what we can find,” Major Friese says.
Hunter shakes his head. “No wonder you call it Utopia. Though maybe Paradise would be a better name because
I am in Heaven. No blasphemy intended.”
“No, of course not, Mr. Malone. We have done everything we can to make this place as inviting as possible, without succumbing to the decadence of the old world.”
“Yes, you really have. My driver earlier mentioned there’s a reverend in charge of all this. I was hoping I’d get a chance to meet him.”
“I’m afraid he doesn’t see new recruits. At least not until their baptism. In your case, that will be three days from now.”
“Three days? Guess I better not get too used to all this.”
“There’s no need to be worried. I’m sure a man like you will have no trouble with the baptism—so long as you’re not squeamish.”
‘“Squeamish?’ Hard to be squeamish after tangling with zeebs for over two years.”
“Then you shouldn’t have any difficulty.”
“Depends on who you picked out for me to fight. If it’s a giant bodybuilder I might be in trouble.”
The waitress sets a bottle of Budweiser down in front of him. Hunter takes a sip and then nods. “That really takes me back. I don’t suppose you guys ‘liberated’ this from St. Louis?”
“Not that far,” Major Friese says.
Hunter cuts off a chunk of the steak to pop it into his mouth. He chews it slowly, wanting to savor the taste of it. Like the movies, he might not get a chance to eat honest-to-God steak ever again. “You guys liberate any A-1 sauce?”
One of the other officers passes a bottle to him. Hunter slaps the bottom of the glass bottle to get some of the sauce to dribble onto his plate. He swirls another chunk of steak in the sauce before sticking it in his mouth. The slightly spicy, tangy flavor of the A-1 adds to the richness of the steak.
There isn’t a lot of conversation during dinner as he’s much too busy gulping down his food. He barely manages not to belch as he finishes his first beer. The waitress sets a second one down in front of him without needing to be asked. He doesn’t recognize the girl, but he wonders if she knows him too or if it’s just Sylvia.
He’s full by the time he eats the last spoonful of potatoes, but Major Friese insists he try a slice of homemade blueberry pie—with whipped cream. Hunter takes a bite and then lets out an orgasmic moan. “Now that is good. You got your own blueberry farm?”
Army of the Damned (Sky Ghost #1) Page 18