Eighteen seconds. Twelve.
He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that was overtaking him. This wire. No, this one.
Five seconds.
No more time to think. This wire. He cut it.
Two seconds.
One.
Zero.
Sand squeezed his eyes shut, saying the fastest prayer he knew.
Nothing.
Sands opened his eyes. The timer was blinking zero, but there was no explosion, not even a pop or a fizzle.
“Oops.”
The sweat rolling down Sands’ back turned to ice. He pivoted on his one working leg to find Einstein, his face bloodied, his teeth broken, leering back at him as he braced himself against the open portal to the escape pod. In his hand was the transmitter.
“Sorry, Sands, but I don’t believe in taking one for the team. This ship isn’t going down until I’m safely off it.”
Sands had lost his rifle, but he had another pistol on his hip. In an instant, he had it unholstered and aimed at Einstein’s belly.
“Careful now.” Einstein held the transmitter high. “One twitch of my thumb and we all go sky high.”
Sands quickly swiped the sweat out of his eyes. He needed two hands to hold the gun steady.
“I’m listening.”
“Good. You’re a clear thinker. You can thank my special blend of Process for that. Pure nutrition. No additives.”
Sands stared at him. Thoughts seemed to buzz in his head like bees.
“That’s right,” Einstein said. “Formulated just for you.”
Sands blinked his eyes hard—against the pain, against the weakness sweeping through his body, but especially against the buzzing in his head. He looked at this grotesque caricature of a man and he knew he was gazing into the eyes of his own personal tormentor.
“Why?”
“Because you’re a killer, Sands. The best military training can produce. I wanted you at your peak when you went up against my laboratory creations. You see, controlling the mind by numbing it is easy. But you can’t fight a war with the addicts on Limbo Deck.”
“So that’s what Inferno is all about. You’re building your own zombie army.”
“Not zombies. Controlled killers. These criminals owe a debt to society. This is my way of helping them pay it back.”
“Okay,” Sands said. “You’ve done the Bond villain bit. Now what?”
Einstein held his hands up in a surrendering pose, but with one thumb threatening the detonator button.
“Now you let me go. I get in the pod, I don’t blow up the ship, and we all live to fight another day.”
“Uh-huh. Once you’re in the pod, what’s to stop you reneging on the deal?”
Einstein shrugged. “That C-4 is going to make a big bang. Maybe by the time the pod is far enough away to be safe, I’ll be out of range…”
Sands wasn’t buying it.
“Or maybe,” Einstein sneered. “You just have no choice.”
Sands raised his gun higher, taking aim at Einstein’s Adam’s apple.
“Or maybe,” Sands said, “I put a bullet through your spinal cord, and your trigger hand’s dead before your brain even knows it.”
Einstein blanched and stared wordlessly into the black void of the gun barrel. But Sands’ strength was going fast, and his aim wavered.
Einstein smiled, showing red, jagged teeth.
“I don’t think so, Sands. You can’t make the shot. You can barely stand.”
Blood trickled into Sands’ eyes. He blinked it away, gritting his teeth as he strained to keep the bead of his pistol sight aligned with the finger’s breadth target at the back of Einstein’s neck. But the bead just kept vibrating, and the harder Sands strained the wilder it got.
He dropped the gun to the floor.
“A wise decision—”
And in one smooth motion, Sands swept his shotgun down from his shoulder holster and blasted Einstein’s upheld trigger hand into a red spray.
Einstein screamed, clutching his hand as he collapsed backward into the portal.
Sands exhaled from deep in his chest and leaned back against the stack of C-4. He watched the shuddering, yowling figure of Einstein with satisfaction, imaging the cheers of sixty thousand Inferno prisoners if they could see how their enemy was finally crushed.
But Einstein’s howls stopped. He shuddered again, but not with pain.
He was laughing.
Sands cringed from the sound. It was like nothing he had heard before, even from the Psychs in the Arena. Einstein was staring at the stump of his hand and laughing as if it was the funniest thing he had ever seen.
Rising up on his knees, Einstein lifted his stump. He held it defiantly before Sands’ eyes. All the fingers had been blown away except one. The middle one.
The buzzing in Sands’ head became a siren’s wail. He stared at the macabre sight of Einstein, grinning and laughing madly at his upraised stump. In a frozen moment, Sands was unable to move, even to squeeze the trigger again on his shotgun, and Einstein punched a button with his elbow. The portal slammed shut and the pod ejected, Einstein’s leering face receding to a point that seemed to linger like a fierce light on the retina of Sands’ eyes.
Sands heard a hatch bang open and boots scuff against the deck. Catfish was there, taking him by the shoulders and shouting his name. But Sands was as gone as Einstein, his consciousness a sinking pebble in the dark Arctic waters.
-22-
Yesterday is a cancelled check; tomorrow is a promissory note; today is the only cash you have—so spend it wisely.
—Kay Lyons
After four hours of waiting, Carrie was at last sitting on one of the mismatched chairs before the desk of the Justice International counsel she had seen just a week before. Emanuel was kneeling on the floor, hunched over a coloring book he had splayed out on the seat of the chair next to her. She had told him three times the floor was filthy and to sit in the chair properly and color in his lap, but she didn’t have the energy to make it stick. It seemed she hadn’t slept a minute since the bomb blast in Georgetown. Rick was at home, ill, and it worried her that he had not answered the phone in over an hour. She felt he should be in the hospital, but he wouldn’t hear of it. The last time she got through he was annoyed because she had interrupted his sleep—for the second time that morning—so she hoped he was just asleep again, maybe with his phone muted.
She was feeling annoyed herself—exasperated by the long wait, despite the fact she had called ahead to make her “appointment.” But there was no use complaining to people who took complaints for a living. Anyway, they would only point out it was her own doing. She had insisted on seeing the same counsel—Rappaport was the name on the card he had given her—despite the fact the secretary had told her she would be served faster if she took the first person available.
So now she was in Rappaport’s cluttered cubicle, and she had to sit and wait another five—going on ten—minutes while he searched and rummaged and pulled at his chin, shuffling files and poring over papers with no more than an occasional grunt by way of communication. Finally, he looked up from the file he had spread out over his desk.
“You were in here just a week ago.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, you were smart to ask for me, personally. I know they tell you to take first available counsel, but you don’t want to have to bring a new person up to speed every time you walk in. Where’s Major Guidry?”
Carrie swallowed before answering. “Ill.”
Rappaport read her expression and went a little gray. “Oh. I’m very sorry to hear that. He was…?”
“He was on the Key Bridge when the bomb hit. Just turning onto it, actually. He was trapped there for over an hour.”
“I understand people had to abandon their cars and escape on foot.”
She looked down at her hands. They were clenched, her knuckles white. “That’s right.”
“May I ask what his prognosis
is?”
She looked up quickly. “I’m surprised this place is open. So close to the blast site.”
Rappaport took the hint not to press the question. “We’re upwind. The fallout zone is just a mile east. But we’ve had the place swept three times. We’ll do it again every few days, just to be sure. We’re safe here.”
Emanuel, sensing the tension in his mother’s voice, put aside his coloring and lay his head in her lap. She brushed her fingers through his hair. It was the same ashy brown as Sands’.
“Well,” Rappaport said. “Did someone from our office contact you?”
“I came in on my own.”
“I see. But it’s only been a week—”
“You said that already.”
Rappaport smiled. “So I did. Sorry. I think I know why you’re here.”
“I have to know if Sands was on that ship.”
Rappaport cleared his throat. “That information hasn’t been made public.”
“But you have it. Don’t you?”
“Ms. Guidry, the information we handle is often very sensitive. We can’t—”
“If you know, you have to tell me. I’m not leaving until you do.”
Rappaport’s head bobbed once, halfway between a nod and a bow. “Excuse me.”
He smoothly negotiated the maze of boxes and files that filled his cubicle and exited behind her. Carrie turned to watch the top of his head bob above the partitions and round the corner to the cubicle of his neighbor. She heard hushed voices that seemed to talk over one another but abruptly stopped. He returned momentarily with a slip of paper in his hand and said, “I’ll make a call.”
He sat at his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a cheap phone that Carrie recognized from watching too many crime dramas as a “burner.” He placed a battery in the phone, powered it up, and dialed the number on the slip of paper. He dropped the slip into a shredder. In a moment, he said “Rappaport,” and then a phrase of nonsense that sounded like a code. “I need you to check a name on the Perdido manifest. That’s right. Last name Simon, first name Sands.” He glanced at Carrie. “No, you heard correctly. Last name Simon.”
The JI counsel took on that expression one does when put on hold. He tried to be casual as he flipped through the papers in Sands’ file, but it was obvious he felt Carrie’s eyes burning into him. When it appeared the other person had come back on the line, he turned in his chair so that she was left looking at his back.
“Yes?” His voice was quiet, like one who expects to deliver bad news. “That’s right. First name Sands.”
Carrie’s heart sank into her stomach. There was something final in the way he had repeated those words.
“You’re sure? Okay, thank you.”
He half-turned in his chair, still not facing her. He broke down the phone and returned it and the battery to his desk. Carrie watched him, wanting to scream at him to tell her what he had learned, but she felt she couldn’t breathe.
He put his elbows on the desktop, hands clasped before him, and made a poor attempt at a smile. “Ms. Guidry, I want you to understand one thing before I tell you this.”
“Oh, no—no, no—”
Rappaport held up his hands. “Please. It’s not what you think. Hear me out. We have a partial manifest of a ship called The Perdido. We believe The Perdido is the illegal prison ship that was sunk in the Sea of Japan. The manifest is two years old. We know—or at least we have very good reason to believe—that anyone named on that manifest was in fact on The Perdido as of two years ago. What we don’t know is who may have been on the ship prior to that and removed, or who may have been transported to the ship in the time since. We also do not know the names of any prisoners on any of the other five or six black rafts we believe are in existence.”
“Please,” Carrie groaned, in physical pain. “Can you just tell me?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be cruel, but don’t read more into this than there is. The name Sands Simon does not appear on that list.”
Carrie sobbed with relief and clasped Emanuel in a smothering embrace.
“As I say. It’s not necessarily good news, but it definitely isn’t bad news.”
-23-
“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things; Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax. Of cabbages and Kings—And why the sea is boiling hot—And whether pigs have wings.”
—Lewis Carroll
Sands awoke from what he thought was a nightmare—but no, there it was, right before his eyes on the video monitor that hung from the ceiling beyond the foot of his bed: Dr. Henry Brzinski, staring down at him from behind a desk in some nondescript, bunker-like redoubt, a bloody Bible at his elbow, the twin flags of the United States of America and the New Freedom Party behind him, one angled over each shoulder. His expression was grave, but from years of close observation of the Doctor’s moods Sands recognized the spark of fevered excitement in his eyes.
“My fellow Americans, my fellow citizens of the world. I come to you today with a heavy heart, but an unbowed spirit….”
Sands felt fuzzy-headed, disoriented—but as he took in his surroundings he realized he had seen this room before, sometime earlier in the morning, or perhaps the previous day. There had been a doctor and a nurse, and faces familiar and strange crowding around him. He thought he must be in some kind of infirmary, but where? Had The Inferno survived? Was he still aboard the ship? He tried to think, but Brzinski’s voice nagged for his attention.
“It is my sad duty to report that President William Stockdale is dead, gunned down by a North Korean agent who had infiltrated the innermost circles of the White House. The assassin, Secretary of State Ken Lum, is also dead. I take no joy in telling you that I have just taken the oath of office as President Stockdale’s successor.”
So it was a nightmare, but a real one. Sands realized that the monitor over his bed was not like the ones he was accustomed to on Inferno. It looked more like a regular TV set. And it had a bright red power button.
He grabbed a box of tissues from his bedside table. He hurled it at the power button bullseye, but it bounced away without effect.
“The chain reaction of nuclear strikes initiated by the terrorists Kim Jong-Seung and Radwan Karga have created great carnage—including devastation to our own precious capital—but I want to assure you that global nuclear war has been averted.”
Sands hurled a plastic cup, but it was even less effective than the box of tissues. He cursed under his breath as Brzinski droned on.
“Karga and Kim have been eliminated, their nuclear arsenals destroyed. Pyongyang and the whole of North Korea have been reduced to radioactive rubble, never to trouble the peace-loving peoples of the world again.”
Sands spotted two shoes at the side of his bed—perfect missiles. He rolled over as far as he could and retrieved them. Taking careful aim, he launched the first. It made a satisfying thwack! as it struck the monitor, but it only succeeded in making Brzinski go a little green.
“Hey!” Sands shouted. “Nurse! Somebody!”
He threw his other shoe. It hit Brzinski squarely in the nose, but he just nattered on.
“Total, unimaginable disaster has been averted, but the threat remains. That is why as of noon today, I have declared martial law...”
“Hey! Somebody turn this shit off!”
Sands sat up and tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed. They didn’t make it. It took several tries, with a lot of help from his arms, to get his feet on the floor. He felt a stabbing pain shoot up and down his entire left side, but if he had to crawl, Sands was determined to shut up Brzinski. Fortunately, Ahmer entered before he could topple himself completely out of bed.
“Sands! You’re awake!”
“Ahmer, will you please turned that damned thing off!”
“Of course! Yes!”
It was only then that Sands noticed that Ahmer was on crutches, one leg bandaged from ankle to crotch. He hobbled gamely over to the mon
itor and shut it off.
“Thanks.”
Ahmer hobbled over to Sands’ bedside and helped get his legs back up in a comfortable position.
“How long have I been out?”
“Five days.”
“Five days!”
“You were awake yesterday for while, but not very long. Bad infection. Sepsis from your wound. Dr. Abdallah says we almost lost you.”
“Who’s Dr. Abdallah?”
“Your friend. Rashid.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. I thought that doctor bit was just a line to get out of his cage.”
“Oh, no. Dr. Abdallah is very top physician.”
Ahmer pressed the comm button by Sands’ bed. “He’s awake.” To Sands he said, “The others will be glad to see you looking so well.”
“So I guess the ship didn’t blow up.”
“Indeed not.”
“Prop me up, will you?”
Ahmer found the bed control and raised Sands’ head until he was comfortable.
“Thanks.”
Catfish and Victoria appeared at the door.
“Hey,” Catfish called, “are you ready to get off your sorry ass and start kickin’ some!”
Sands put his hands behind his head and leaned back on his pillow.
“Not me. I’ve earned a vacation.”
Victoria approached his bed. He took her in like a cool drink.
“Hey, Sands.”
“Hey Victoria. Looks like we made it, huh?”
They squeezed hands.
“I wouldn’t get too comfortable,” Catfish interrupted. “You need to hear what’s going on.”
“We’re alive. What else matters?”
“We’re alive, but for how long?” Victoria said. “As soon as the Six Hundred figure out what happened they’ll come after us.”
Sands didn’t appreciate being slapped with such a big dose of reality so soon after being rousted from slumber. It was the military all over again. He looked at Catfish. “How much time you figure we got?”
Inferno 2033 Book Two: Perdition Page 15