“More or less,” Cray says. “Nine degrees fifty-eight minutes north, eighty-five degrees east. Harbin said it’s the same place his father created The Virus.”
“That's not a lot to go on.”
“I agree,” Cray says.
Johnson sits mulling it over before he gets up and says, “You guys stay here; I need to send an encrypted message to Archer and Eckert. Let them know you’re okay, and clue them in on what you’ve told me.”
He stands and walks back to the cockpit.
From the corner of my eye, I see Cray watching me, expecting something, a reaction of some kind. But for the moment, I can't do anything, can't say anything.
Nine degrees fifty-eight minutes north, eighty-five degrees east.
My blood runs cold.
Several minutes pass. At length, Cray leans over and whispers, “Are you okay?”
I give a smile that I'm sure is unconvincing.
“I'm fine,” I lie.
I think he's about to press the issue, but one of the soldiers walks up and hands us a couple of sandwiches and some bottled drinks. I take advantage of the distraction, and we scarf the sandwiches down, neither of us pausing to say a word. It feels like I haven’t eaten in days, and I start feeling refreshed immediately. Cray looks the same, even though he winces a little every time he swallows.
I can see why he’s made such a name for himself among the Sweepers. He was amazing out there, so precise and expert. He even kept his composure pretty well when I revealed a little of what I can do. Mission first. Very professional. And he hid my secret from Johnson, for which I’m thankful.
He glances over, catches me staring, and looks back down at his food, his cheeks flushing. It's cute, and somehow endearing, but I can't focus on the reaction. My mind keeps returning to the coordinates Cray spouted. No doubt they mean nothing to anyone else on the plane, just a location. But for me, they evoke a swirling mixture of fear and excitement.
I try to imagine what Eckert's reaction will be when he hears them. I think there will be no small amount of shock, maybe dread. But truthfully, I don't know. He's told me so little about the place, I can only guess as to his feelings about whatever went on there.
As soon as we get back and I can get him alone, we're going to talk. And this time, I'm going to demand answers.
Several minutes pass, and Cray begins to doze beside me. I notice how tired I am as well, and my full stomach isn't helping. I close my eyes and lean my head against the window. Its smooth surface is cool through my hair, and I push away my swirling thoughts, forcing myself to relax. We'll have plenty of time to deal with that later, but for now, I need rest.
I’m almost asleep, in that pleasant place between waking and dreams, when the plane banks to the right. At first, I don’t think much of it. Just a simple course correction I assume, but we keep turning almost one hundred and eighty degrees. I open my eyes and look towards the front of the plane. I expect an explanation for the course change, but it doesn’t come, and several minutes pass.
One thing I’ve learned through my years of service as an agent is to trust my feelings, and right now I have a churning in the pit of my stomach. I have a foreboding sense that something’s not right. I glance at Cray. He's wide awake now, and sits there looking almost nonchalant, but there’s something about his posture, a little too alert. He senses it too, and we share a knowing look.
I’m about to head to the cockpit to figure out what’s going on when Johnson emerges and walks down the aisle of the airplane.
“I have good news,” he says in passing, an easy smile on his face, “but I need to clear something with my men first. I’ll be right back,” he says and continues down the aisle. In the back of the plane, he speaks quietly with one of the soldiers before coming back and taking the seat in front of me again.
Cray watches him with well-disguised wariness. “What’s up Johnson? Why the course change?”
Johnson smiles again, but there’s something off about his expression. Something a little unnatural about it.
“I contacted Archer and Eckert, and they want us to go to the coordinates immediately and find the cure,” he says. “Something of this magnitude can’t wait.”
That surprises me. “They want us to go now?” I say. “But Cray’s injured.” Not just that. I can't imagine Eckert will want me to go charging in there without him.
“I know, and I’m sorry, but Archer says he knows Cray’s strong and his injuries aren’t life-threatening. And this is something we need to get our hands on as soon as possible. I’ve got to go finish briefing the others. It’ll take us a couple of hours to get to the coordinates. You might want to try to get some rest in the meantime. Anything you need just let me know. I’ll be up front.”
He moves back to the front of the aircraft and takes a seat, pulling out a small laptop and conversing quietly with the other men sitting there. The roar of the engines keeps me from being able to make out the words. I turn and notice that Cray is staring at me with a serious expression on his face. He leans towards me, elbows on his knees, and smiles, making an almost imperceptible gesture with his hand to draw me closer. I lean forward.
“Just act as casual as possible,” he says, the smile still in place.
I run my hands through my hair and laugh as if he’s said something funny. Johnson’s chair is turned where he can see us. He looks up and studies us for a second before returning to his conversation.
“I don’t care what he says,” Cray continues. “Archer wouldn’t be that impulsive, and if my impression of Eckert is spot on, he wouldn’t either.”
“Eckert would never make such a stupid move,” I say. “He doesn't make rash, momentary decisions. He’s a planner. I know a cure is important, but neither of them would take needless chances with it.” And that's not the only reason he would show extreme caution in this situation.
Cray thinks for a few moments. “I don’t know what Johnson’s angle is, but I intend to find out. When the time comes, be ready to back me up, okay?” He leans back and pulls a small data pad out of the back pocket of the seat in front of him, engrossing himself in it.
I sit quietly staring out the window, watching the clouds float by underneath us, but I stay alert. I think of a thousand possible explanations for what’s going on, but don't get a settled feeling about any of them.
Chapter 18
We fly for a couple of hours before I see an island in the distance. The island. At first, it’s nothing more than a smear on the horizon, an indistinguishable cropping of green. As we draw nearer, it begins to take shape. Trees rise from the undulating landscape, the foliage thick and lush and beautiful. As we get closer, the plane angles in and begins circling the island in wide loops. I imagine the pilot is looking for a place to land.
As if on cue, we circle to the southern tip of the island where an air field cuts across the shore. Several small buildings and towers dot the beach, nothing impressive, but they all look to be in fair condition. The runway looks good as well. There’s no considerable deterioration. An enormous fence separates the airfield from the encroaching jungle. Lookout towers stand at regular intervals along the fence line, twenty or thirty feet in from the fence itself. I scowl. That seems bothersome.
I look over at Cray. He’s staring past me through my window, taking in the island. If he’s nervous, it doesn’t show. I on the other hand, feel jittery.
I notice movement out of the corner of my eye, and Johnson walks up to us, placing his meaty hands on the backs of the seats on either side of the aisle to steady himself. Cray looks at him calmly.
“This is it,” Johnson says. “This is where the coordinates lead.” He seems genuinely excited.
“What do you expect to find?” Cray says.
Johnson’s brows furrow. “What do you mean? The cure.”
“Right,” Cray says. “But, I mean, this all feels a bit abrupt to me. What if it’s dangerous?”
A touch of irritation creeps into Johnson’s expression. He w
orks to control it, but it’s there.
“It’s an island, Cray. Nothing we can’t handle. I understand your reservations, but this is important, and I sure could use your help once we land. Maybe that brilliant mind of yours can help us figure out where to look and what exactly we’re looking for.”
Across the aisle, Cray clears his throat and looks at Johnson with cold eyes. “No.”
Johnson’s smile falters a little before he regains his composure. “What do you mean no?”
“I’m not doing anything until I talk with Archer. Frankly, I’m surprised he would choose to rush into this and I’d really like to hear it from him myself.”
Johnson returns Cray’s stare icily, his smile completely gone now, and I can almost feel the friction between them. “I have seniority on this mission. Don’t you trust me?”
Cray doesn’t blink an eye. “I don’t recall anyone ever putting you in charge. And no, I don’t trust you. You should know that Jonathan Harbin told me more than what I’ve given you so far. You’re right about needing me to find that cure, but unless you let me clear it with Archer, I won’t cooperate, slick.”
Johnson’s face turns blood red and his eyes almost bulge out of their sockets, his hands clenching into fists. A little prickling sensation moves up my spine and I have a feeling things are about to get ugly.
“What’s it gonna be?” Cray says. “Are you going to play nice?”
I can tell Johnson is about to bust a gut from having been called out, but as quickly as that, his face turns calm, and in that moment, I see him for the dangerous man he is. He looks briefly towards the back of the plane, an innocuous enough movement, but moments later two armed soldiers are standing close behind us. Johnson smirks.
“I’ll tell you what, Vamp. I think you’re going to help me find that cure whether you like it or not.”
Cray sits, motionless. “And what makes you so sure of that?”
Johnson laughs coldly. “It’s a simple matter of leverage.” In a flash, Johnson raises his hand, now holding a gun, and fires a slug into my right thigh.
I’m unprepared and pain sears through my leg like a hot iron, my flesh ripping. I scream and double over, cradling the wound between my hands, hot blood streaming from the hole. Several seconds pass before I can regain my composure and shut off the pain.
Cray rises, shock and fury written across his features, but Johnson puts up a hand warning him away, his other hand still training the gun on me. “Not so fast, punk. The next one will be somewhere more vital. Just have a seat and we’ll continue our discussion.”
Cray sits again, his teeth gritted in rage, his eyes glaring like a caged animal.
The plane banks and heads over the northern shore, the trees spreading beneath us. The pilot is on approach for landing.
I have a fleeting, insane idea, and with no time to examine all of our options, I react.
Even as warm blood soaks through my pants, I spring with all the speed I can muster, my left hand snapping out and knocking away Johnson’s gun while my right fist catches him in the jaw. He’s unaware of my speed and strength and is caught off guard, his gaze still turned towards Cray. I feel the satisfying crunch of his jaw cracking under my blow, but I don’t have time to relish the feeling.
I’m already turning where Cray has taken my lead and the two guards that were behind him are busy having their butts handed to them. Johnson is screaming for the other soldiers as he pulls himself between two seats and out of the direct line of fire.
From the front of the plane, three more soldiers move in our direction, squeezing down the aisle, weapons drawn.
“Cray, take them,” I scream. He glides past me and executes a perfect front roll. When he comes up, he’s holding Johnson’s gun and puts a bullet in the first guard’s head. The two behind him jump behind seats like Johnson.
I charge into the rear storage compartment and rummage as fast as I can through the supplies. I find what I’m looking for, but my heart sinks. One parachute! Just one? What did these idiots plan to do if something happened and they were going down?
I wiggle into it as fast as possible and race back into the cabin, ducking behind a seat as a bullet smacks into the bulkhead behind me. Cray and the guards are at a standoff, both crouching behind seats like me. This had better work! I bite back my fear and charge across the aisle, kicking at the rear hatch as hard as I can. Even with my senses to the area shut down, the impact is so jarring that I feel a fresh wave of agony arc through my body from the bullet wound still bleeding profusely from my thigh. I can only pray I’m not losing blood too fast.
The kick lands perfectly and the door to the plane sheers off with a metallic screech. Air rushes through the opening as the cabin pressure changes. Cray turns at the commotion, and the guards take advantage of his distraction to fire off a few rounds. I fall forward back into the aisle as the bullets whizz past and reach for Cray’s shirt collar with my right hand, my left gripping the edge of the open hatch. I yank him hard towards me and use his momentum to keep us moving. I see the recognition in his eyes as he connects the dots, and he begins to scream just about the time we roll out into nothingness.
Chapter 19
The world spins and I struggle to steady us while not losing my grip on Cray. He understands in a heartbeat and begins working with me to correct our roll.
It takes several long seconds. Time is ticking. Time we don’t have!
The treetops race toward us like missiles. We have mere moments.
God help us! There's no time to try to secure him to myself. He arches towards me and tries to grab my free hand, but the movement pulls his shirt from my fingers and he starts to spin. We both know we’re out of time. I lunge for him, desperate to get a grip, a handhold, anywhere.
My fingers find purchase on his belt…the world is coming too fast…I wrap my fingers under the waistband of his pants…all I can think is that this is really going to hurt and I hope I can hang on…I pull the ripcord!
The chute snaps open above me. Just as I expected, the pain is extreme. I grip his trousers with all of my strength, but the sudden stop still nearly rips them from my fingers. It feels like my shoulder’s going to separate from my body, and I scream now from pain instead of fear. I don't have time to try to control it. Our descent is slowed just enough that we hit the tree tops at about thirty miles per hour.
I expect, hope, the chute will get caught up in the trees and slow us down, but today isn't our day. The branches lash at us like whips, and Cray is torn from my grip as we tumble through the limbs. They slow us just enough to keep our landing from being fatal, but we still hit the ground going way too fast and the impact jars my bones. I'm hurting all over, from my leg, my shoulder, and a dozen cuts and scrapes from the trees. With enough distraction, my ability to control pain wanes, and right now, my body is very angry with me. But we’re alive and out of immediate danger. I hope.
From a few feet away, Cray voices what I'm thinking. "Oww," he groans. "Remind me not to leave you in charge of tactical planning anymore."
I roll over and look above me to see the chute, a tangled mess of chords and material. It’s ripped and shredded and looks a lot like I feel. And it’s hanging from the lowest branch. Thanks for nothing!
I breathe in deeply, will the pain to fade from my awareness, and then struggle out of the twisted harness. I can still feel warm blood flowing down my leg and know I have to do something about that soon, but for now, I crawl over to Cray and examine him.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Oh, sure, I'm great. Better than ever,” he says through gritted teeth. He cradles his ribs with one arm, and his other hand grips his groin. “You’re completely nuts by the way. And just so you know, I may never be able to have kids now.”
I laugh, but only for a second.
“We have to move, Cray.”
“The airfield is miles away he says,” sitting up with a groan. “Johnson said he's a good tracker, but no matter how good he is,
it won't be easy finding us in this jungle.”
“That's not what I mean.” I reach down and rip the bullet hole in my pants wider.
“What are you doing?” Cray says.
“I have to get that bullet out.”
He starts to say something, but stops when I plunge my thumb and index finger into the wound. They're instantly covered with hot blood, slimy and slick. I dig, but don't feel the slug. I'm going to have to let the sensation return to the wound long enough to try to feel where the bullet is. I prepare myself and clench my teeth.
Closing my eyes, I allow the feeling to return. The agony sets in immediately, and though I try to hold it in, a whimper escapes me. But I can sense where the bullet is. Allowing the pain to again fade, I angle my fingers towards the area, relieved when my index finger touches the misshapen metal. I release a sigh, breathing steadily again now that the pain is gone, and give a final push to grip the bullet.
Cray is standing now, a look of confused terror on his face as I pull the bullet from my thigh and toss it to the side without a second look.
“You...you barely made a sound. Not even a grimace,” he stammers.
“I know,” I say. “I can turn off pain.”
I rip one of the sleeves from my shirt and make a tight tourniquet around my leg. The wound will begin to close soon enough.
“Of course you can control pain,” he says, incredulous. “Why not?”
“Look, I know I owe you a huge explanation, but we don't have time for that right now. We have to move, and not because of Johnson.”
“Then why?”
“Because if what I know about this place is true, we may have just jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.”
“What?!”
“Later. Let’s go.”
Chapter 20
We move through the dense jungle, our going arduous without tools to cut our way through the thick undergrowth. The heat and humidity are oppressive, and after a few minutes, we look like we've been dunked in a river. The jungle smells of mold and vegetation, and steam surrounds our feet as we trudge on, careful not to trip on roots and ferns.
The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1) Page 9