Sunfail

by Steven Savile

  The other woman sighed. “Fine. I make a choice. Are you happy now?” She waved over one of the staff and ordered a hot tea, then glanced at Sophie. “What can I get you?”

  “Nothing else for me, thanks.” Sophie wasn’t comfortable with the whole old-friends routine. But a cup of steaming hot tea in her replacement’s face could prove decisive. “Actually, make mine a chai, thanks.”

  The waitress nodded and left them to it.

  “So, you’re here to kill me?” It came out a little more brazenly than she’d intended, but Sophie felt like laying down a gauntlet. She’d always had a problem with people telling her how something was going to happen. No respect for authority, as the old school reports used to say. She just felt the need to prove them wrong.

  Xbalanque simply nodded. “You’re not walking out of here, Sophie. It ends here. You know that. Don’t make it any more unpleasant than it needs to be. Death comes to us all. Today I’m better than you. Tomorrow it could be my turn. That’s just the circle of life.” She reached into her coat.

  Sophie tensed, expecting a gun, wondering when the damned waitress would return with her hot chai. But it wasn’t a gun; the woman pulled out a silver hip flask. It had The Hidden’s mark lightly embossed across it, just shallow enough that you might not notice the markings in dim light.

  “Think of it as kindness. I’m letting you decide how this ends.” She set the flask down on the table between them. “The flask represents a choice. You like choices, right? So, you can either take the easy way”—she tapped the flask—“or, to use a terrible cliché, the hard way.” Again she smiled, and it felt real.

  “Don’t tell me—you’d recommend the easy way?”

  “Oh, fuck no, I want you to go for it,” she grinned. “I want you to try to live, it’s so much more fun that way. There’s no enjoyment in it if you just sip from the poisoned chalice, now, is there?”

  The flask no doubt held vodka or whiskey, laced with a fast-acting, relatively painless poison. She’d used similar herself. It didn’t leave any clear trace evidence behind for the autopsy, its effects mirroring the natural causes of a violent heart attack.

  “Ah, the arrogance of youth. I remember that.”

  “You sound like an old woman.”

  “In this life, I am. You’ll come to understand that if you’re lucky. I’m surprised though, I expected them to want me to suffer for turning against them.” She was stalling for time, waiting for that damned chai to arrive.

  “Oh, they do want you to suffer,” Xbalanque answered sweetly. “Mr. Alom gave me explicit instructions to hurt you as much as possible before the end. I’m the one making you the offer. Call it a professional courtesy.”

  Sophie studied the flask carefully, then slowly reached out for it.

  “You know . . . I didn’t think you’d do it,” Xbalanque said, almost disappointed, as Sophie unscrewed the silver cap.

  She raised the flask to her lips as if to toast her companion and, when the other woman’s posture relaxed, drank deep but didn’t swallow. She spat the laced vodka into Xbalanque’s eyes.

  The woman was on her feet in a heartbeat. She shoved her chair back, its legs scraping loudly on the café’s tiled floor as she roared at Sophie. Her face contorted in pain and she tipped the table up, sending Sophie’s empty cup crashing to the floor. The bite of the poison had already turned the soft skin around her eyes an angry red as it burrowed into her system, absorbed by her skin. “You absolute fucking bitch!”

  Sophie didn’t waste time on words. She tried to push her way past the screaming woman, when a shadow crossed her path. Before she could react she felt a sharp stinging pain in the side of her neck.

  “Well that was an anticlimax,” the other woman said, the needle in her hand disappearing back into her coat pocket. Her eyes burned red as if she’d been crying. “You couldn’t just give up, could you? You had to go and make a mess. I don’t know if I even have the strength to clean it up. But who cares? People will remember our little dance, and I’m not even sure it matters if they recognize your face when they see it on the news later.” She touched her cheek. “I don’t even know if I’ll be around to take the shit for screwing up. So much for trying to be nice.”

  Sophie had cleaned up plenty of times, wiping down tables and chairs, any surfaces she’d come into contact with, to remove fingerprints and DNA traces that might have been left behind. Then there was the visual stuff, scrubbing the footage from the video cameras and disposing of the body, most likely playing the concerned friend, or just calling an ambulance to have the corpse collected and save all the heavy lifting.

  The only problem was Sophie didn’t want to go gently into that endless winter night.

  She had no intention of sticking to the script. She was dying anyway.

  They only amassed power by being hidden.

  She had a few seconds to bring them out into the light, and hope that her words would go viral.

  She grabbed her replacement by the scruff of the neck and yelled, “What have you done to me?” into her face. Every single conversation in the little café stopped. All heads turned.

  “That was a needle! You stabbed me with a fucking needle. What did you do? Poison me? Did you poison me?” She clutched at her neck again, making sure people saw exactly what she was doing. It was theater. Her skin felt sticky under her fingers. There was blood. Good. She deliberately smeared it to make the puncture wound more obvious. Everyone was staring at them.

  “Don’t be stupid, Soph, you’re imagining things,” the other woman said softly, both hands out and clearly empty now. “Come on, let’s get you out of here. I’m sorry, everyone, she’s off her meds. I’m really sorry.”

  “Funny woman. Do you want to explain how you just blew up the stock exchange?” Sophie demanded. “How about the sabotage of the Channel Tunnel, the Underground, the airports? Tell them, whoever you are, tell them why you came here to kill me. Let’s speak frankly, no more lies. Tell them about The Hidden. Tell them what’s happening. Confession is good for the soul, Xbalanque. We’re both going to meet our makers, let’s find absolution in the truth.”

  The assassin looked worried. Her face showed red vines in her cheeks, like an alcoholic.

  Sophie knew what it meant: the poison was working its way into her system too. Two for the price of one. Sophie grabbed the other woman’s wrist.

  People were paying attention. Even if they didn’t understand what it was they were hearing, they were going to remember it.

  “You’re delusional,” Xbalanque argued, but there was no conviction to it. She tried to break free of Sophie’s grasp, but Sophie wasn’t letting go.

  “We’ll see. We’re going nowhere. We’re going to stand here until we’re dead. Oh yes, I can see the red vines under your skin. That’s why I spat in your eyes, they’re not just gateways to the soul. Our deaths will convince everyone who’s telling the truth.” She turned to face the baristas behind the counter, the waitress steaming the chai she’d never drink. “They call themselves The Hidden, but really they’re just some very rich men and women who are frightened of you, and because they’re frightened of you they are trying to take control of everything that you could ever use to rise up against them.” She didn’t need to shout; the place was deathly quiet. Even the killer had settled down and was now just sitting there glaring at her. “That’s what they do. You’ve seen their marks painted on the walls, those hieroglyphs on the walls at Piccadilly and everywhere else, they’re secret symbols, but they’re not passing messages, they paid street artists to put down those markers, they mean this territory is theirs. They want it to feel like there are groups, gangs, rising up around you, that the streets aren’t safe, so you’ll turn to them to make you feel safe. But that’s a lie. It’s not about that. It’s everything they pretend it isn’t. It’s a Mayan ritual. They are invoking the old gods. Why do you think you’re without power?”

  She knew she sounded like a nutcase but there was so much sh
e wanted to say and she could feel her throat closing up, each word more difficult to utter than the last.

  “That’s how they operate.” She clutched at her temples. “You need to open your eyes and look around you! These people have been amassing power for years, taking it from you while you willingly hand it over. You might as well call them Pied Pipers . . . Just look at what they do. First through control of the media.”

  She needed to get this out, and hope that the security footage had sound. If it didn’t, then hope that someone walked out of there, told a friend what they’d just heard, who would tell a friend, who would tell a friend, so the truth would go viral.

  “They make sure you hear what they want you to hear, think what they want you to think. They own you body and soul, APR locked in without you even realizing. It’s all about money and power. Control. They’ve taken communication networks, satellites, and cell phone networks. They own the utilities you consume, they even own the fucking money in your pocket. That’s the magic here. Control those things, you control everything.”

  She was rambling, losing them. She needed to make them understand what was at stake but it was getting harder and harder to focus on the words and what she wanted to say. She needed to unmask them. Xbalanque stood stock still, gaping at her.

  “It’s not just tracking cell phones and knowing where everyone is. It’s not just about monitoring e-mails or buying habits or anything else . . . It’s about how if you can see the hidden symmetry, if you can piece different parts of the puzzle together, you can predict the future. If you can do that, even a few seconds ahead of anyone else, you can own the world. Think about it: a guy comes out of the doctor’s and makes a call to an oncologist’s office, but before the call’s even connected, and without access to his medical records, a system set up to match those two numbers will know he’s got cancer. But it goes beyond that. They know his insurance company and if it’s going to take a hit, they know his job, everything about him and his buying habits, his house and the amount left on his mortgage, and all they need to know to turn this guy’s life upside is the telephone number he called. They can sort the rest out, and they can work out how to profit from it.” She couldn’t tell if they were following her, if she was being clear with what she was saying now. “There are no secrets in the modern world. Knowledge. That’s how you control the people who stand in your way.” She was breathless, sweating. “But I’ve got news for you.” She looked toward the lens of the CCTV in the corner. “You can’t control everyone. It’s too much. No amount of Mayan rituals and mumbo jumbo will help you. There’s always one person who will say, Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me, and this time that’s me.” She looked away from the camera toward a mother wrestling with a newborn in a pink shawl, trying to settle the baby down. “That’s why they’ve killed me. Because I’ve stopped doing their dirty work. Because I’m standing up to them.” She peered at the diners, each and every one of them. “Look at me. Remember my face. Remember what I’m saying here.” And then she gazed back at Xbalanque. “And now they’ve lost you, so who else will do their dirty work? Who else will kill the people who stand between them and what they want?” She grinned at the other woman, and knew she looked insane.

  “There’s always someone else,” Xbalanque said. “We’re not indispensable.” She stepped in close, like a lover, seeming to embrace her. “Let’s talk about this outside, Sophie, people don’t need to hear us airing our dirty laundry.”

  But Sophie wasn’t going anywhere. She dug deep into the reserves of her rapidly dwindling strength and rammed her fist into the other woman’s stomach, doubling her up in pain. When her head came up another dozen red vines had cracked across the brittle skin. “You murdered me. That’s more than fucking laundry.”

  She landed another punch before one of the diners moved to intervene.

  Any sense of strategy or combat technique was gone. She didn’t have the time or strength, she just wanted to hurt this woman in as public and memorable a way as possible. There’d be no brushing her murder under the carpet. If she’d known even a single one of her old paymaster’s names she’d have been yelling them at the top of her lungs right now. All she could do was shout, “Remember these names: Alom, Ah Puch, Hunhau, Ixtab, Ah Uuc Ticab, Camazotz, Kinich Ahau, Kinich Kakmo! Remember them! These are the people running the world!” It wouldn’t help. No one would remember them, and even if they did, what had she given them? A list of dead gods and goddesses? She hadn’t said half of what she wanted to say, but it didn’t matter, they wouldn’t remember it. It all just sounded like the ravings of a lunatic.

  Any semblance of family squabble disappeared when Xbalanque pulled a knife. The move was too quick and she was too close for Sophie to deflect it in her weakened state.

  Sophie felt the blade enter her side, a searing sensation that shot deep into her belly. The assassin dragged the knife sideways, making damned sure it hurt as she pulled it back out as well, leaving a gaping wound across Sophie’s torso. The gash soaked her shirt and coat in blood as the life pumped out of her.

  Sophie gasped, gritting her teeth against the sheer agony of death and the flood of poison as she came undone. Her vision was dark around the edges. She tried to hold herself up, but fell forward on the table, toppling it with a crash, and onto the floor. She didn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel anything anymore, there was so much pain it had simply ceased to register.

  Xbalanque leaned down over her, the red vines like thick stubby fingers clawing at her face. “I wish you hadn’t made me do that.”

  “I didn’t make you do anything,” Sophie said. “You had a choice. You could have just stood here . . . and died . . . with me. Now they . . . know. Are you going . . . to kill . . . them . . . all?” She smiled, or tried to, but she was having trouble getting her mouth to work properly. She could taste the blood welling up in her throat. She was going to drown in it before she bled out.

  “Yes,” Xbalanque said. “Every fucking last one of them, and it’s your fault.” She spat blood with each word.

  “You won’t have time,” Sophie said, as darkness rushed in to envelope her. She felt warmth and a blessed numbness wash over her. She would be long dead before Jake picked up her message. She had done everything she could. Now it was up to him.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “JESUS SHIT!”

  Finn knew she should stay calm, try to reason with him, look for a way out, something, but with him standing right there, so close she could taste the peppermint on his breath, his cold eyes staring into hers, and the gun in his hand, panic was the only thing she could do.

  The sheer vehemence of her reaction startled him. He reeled back from her outburst as if he expected her to hit him.

  And, suddenly, she knew exactly what to do.

  “We’re gonna die in here! We’re gonna die! Help me! Help me! I don’t wanna die!” she wailed as loud as she could, banging her fists against his chest. “I don’t wanna die!” It wouldn’t win her any Oscars, but it did what it was meant to do. He grabbed her wrists to keep her from hitting him again, and backed away at the same time, keeping a good three feet of space between them.

  “Take it easy, lady,” he said, his tone completely different now. All traces of the gruff homeless guy were gone, as were those crazy staring killer eyes. “Let’s just calm down, okay? Nice and easy does it. No one’s going to kill you. It’s okay.” He looked like the very definition of Joe Average and talked to her the same way he’d talk to an anxious pet. She half-expected him to stroke her hair.

  “Calm down?” she screamed, pushing herself right up into his face. She was beginning to enjoy herself. “How can I calm down? Don’t you know what’s happening here? Don’t you get it? Don’t you understand? The storms, the dogs, the birds falling from the sky . . . All the lights are out! There’s no power anywhere in the city . . . in the world! Look out there, the streets are dark and cold, there are dogs and worse prowling around looking for food . . . Without the gener
ator, we’d be left in the dark. They won’t last forever. Then what? You know what it is? Do you? Do you? I’ll tell you what it is, it’s the end of the world!” And she let herself sag a bit as she started to sob.

  She was overselling the whole hysterical-woman act. It was far too cheesy to be believable. No one in their right mind was going to buy it. And yet, this guy totally did.

  He dropped her wrists like they were burning hot, and put a little more space between them, mumbling something under his breath. Then dipped his hand into a filthy pocket and offered her a handkerchief. A clean white linen one.

  For a second she didn’t know what she was supposed to do with it, then she took it from him and rubbed her nose and eyes and chin with it before blowing her snotty nose into it, leaving it sticky and gross. She tried offering it back to him, still crying, amazed that the tears were suddenly real. She’d tapped hidden reserves of thespian talent.

  “No, no, it’s fine. You hang on to it,” he said, still keeping a safe distance between them. The last thing he wanted to do was have her suddenly move in for a reassuring hug. It was almost enough to make her drop the act and burst out laughing; tough-guy killer passing himself off as a bum freaked out by a few crocodile tears.

  But she didn’t let on.

  Instead she slouched forward a little and then swayed to the side until she found herself leaning against the command center’s wall. She slowly slid down it until she was a crumpled heap at its base, just a few feet away from the door she really wanted to go through.