The Snow Swept Trilogy
Page 47
Chapter Six
Dr. Whaler climbed to his feet, rubbing the place on his shoulder where he'd been struck by the table and chair. Pain shot through his arm and chest, mixing with the feelings of fear and panic that had risen in him like bile, reminding him of the disaster in Florida and the girl's utter destruction of his lab and the entire building that had housed it.
It had been Harrison's idea to plant the seed into the subject's mind that her reality was a fiction. The idea was to confuse her mind to the point where she would be unable to control the entanglement on her own, thus placing control of her immense power back into Dr. Whaler's—and by extension, Il Contionum's—hands. They had learned in the years of experiments on the subject that the entanglement, and subsequent piquing, could be triggered with a specific song, Nocturne No. 6, by John Field. Through the years, they'd tested a number of songs in all genres, even various arrangements of Nocturne No. 6, but none had triggered the girl's ability. If the song had not been included on a playlist created by the subject's parents when she was a child, her ability may have never been discovered. The song was an essential ingredient that awakened her mind to the immense power at her fingertips. That is, until the disaster in Miami. That was the first time she'd been able to use her power without Nocturne No. 6 as a stimulus, and it had resulted in her escape. Dr. Whaler had no idea how much her power, or her control over that power, had grown and evolved. He had spent his years planning for the moment when they would recover the subject, to harness her power once more and control her ability.
But, as he stared at the pieces of wood and metal strewn about the room, he was afraid that once again, he'd lost control of the situation.
That was impossible. He watched the nurse pull the syringe from the subject's neck, a droplet of blood following the needle and remaining on the tiny hole like dew on a summer morning. His panic and fear subsided as he watched the subject's eyes droop, then close completely. Her body fell limp a second later, and he knew the anesthetic had taken full effect in her body.
"Sir?" The nurse turned her attention to him, taking his arm. "Are you all right, sir?"
"I'm fine," he grumbled and shook his arm free of her grasp.
"The entanglement should have been inhibited by the earlier dosage. I'm not sure how this was possible." The nurse spoke so quickly, her words were hard to understand.
"Under extreme duress, she's able to force the entanglement," Dr. Whaler said. "Start the IVs and get her into the stasis tank as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir."
The door opened behind him and several soldiers entered. Dr. Whaler pushed past them, and into the first room of the mobile lab which had been built into the semi trailer, the observation and examination room. The stasis tank was closest to the forward end of the trailer to allow for ideal weight distribution—a specifically to transport the girl while minimizing the possibility of entanglement and avoiding another disaster. The trailer was retrofitted with stabilizing hydraulics that would counter-balance the movement of the trailer over the roads, making the interior of the mobile lab feel almost stationary.
Dr. Whaler removed a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his lab coat and mopped the sweat from his forehead. Despite the fact that the girl was currently unconscious and he had complete control of the situation, his heart thudded in his chest and his hands trembled.
"Status?" he asked the soldiers.
"We've cleared the target zone, emergency personnel are on site and clean-up has commenced," the soldier said. The target zone had a radius of 25 miles from the recovery location and represented the area with the highest risk of exposure. They had, of course, contacts within the local law enforcement, and even if they were exposed, they could handle the situation. But all it would take was one gung-ho police officer insisting on an inspection of the trailer, and it would open a whole new can of worms.
"Any witnesses?" Dr. Whaler asked.
"Several, sir," the soldier said, "but the cover story of a home invasion and arson attack is holding. Local media has picked up on the story and is on site.”
"Civilian casualties?"
"No final count yet," the soldier responded. "We will keep you informed."
"Location?"
"Heading two-zero-tango, due west. We should arrive at the Summit in just under 46 hours."
"Stay on course."
"Yes, sir," the soldiers said in unison, returning to the operation center of the trailer where they would monitor communications and orders from the command center. When the door closed, Dr. Whaler was alone in the observation room. He turned and looked through the one-way glass into the other room. Inside, two nurses were preparing the subject for entrance into the stasis tank. Already, the girl was naked but for a thin piece of gauze that covered her breasts and pelvic region. Clear tubes and liquid resistant wires ran along the girl's arms and torso, held in place with thin strips of micro-gauze. The nurses moved the subject's arms and legs easily, and Dr. Whaler sighed with relief that the girl was still unconscious.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Harrison's secure line. Although Harrison would be monitoring their location from his own computer in Colorado, Dr. Whaler knew he liked the verbal updates. He paced the small room, nervously wiping at his forehead until his call was answered.
"Dr. Whaler," Harrison said.
"She's grown more powerful," he replied.
Harrison listened.
Chapter Seven
It all happened so fast. Heather, otherwise known as ANONX^17, had been talking to the Duke via video chat when the flash-bang grenade had gone off behind him, the explosion rocking his apartment and distorting the sound and video feeds. At first, Heather didn't know what she was seeing, just a burst of light and lines of static that washed out the screen for a split second. Then she saw the Duke sitting stunned in his chair, his eyes wide. He shook his head as if to clear the ringing sound that was probably lingering in his ears.
Heather opened her mouth to ask what had happened, but then she saw the gunman enter the frame behind the Duke. It was a soldier in black fatigues with a short-barreled rifle and a black mask pulled over his head and face. Wide-lensed goggles covered the top of his face, making him look like a monster created out of machine parts seen in old science fiction movies.
She screamed, biting her knuckles as she watched the soldier step up behind the Duke, who did not seem to know there was anyone else in the room with him. She watched the muscles in the soldier's arm tighten as he fired the gun at point blank range. He shot the Duke first in the back of the head, and Heather watched in abject horror as her new friend pitched forward and out of his chair. The gunman pointed his rifle at the ground where the Duke lay, out of Heather’s view, and fired three more shots into his body.
When the soldier stopped firing his weapon, he took a deep breath and then looked directly at the web camera. Heather sat in her chair, too shocked to move, and they stayed like that for several seconds. The soldier cocked his head to the side and took a step closer. He removed his goggles and face mask, revealing an older man with black hair and dull green eyes. Several day’s worth of stubble covered his chin and cheeks, and his lips were dry and cracked. He smiled at Heather and his eyes danced with insanity. The soldier lifted his finger to his lips as if to shush her.
He took a step back, pointed his rifle directly at the web camera and fired. Heather jumped and the screen went black.
For several seconds, the only sound in her apartment was her pounding heartbeat. She inhaled shakily and tried to clear her mind. It was quiet in her apartment, and with the Duke's camera feed gone, she felt very alone.
And then she'd heard the faint sound of someone trying the door to her apartment. The door was down the hall, next to her kitchen. It opened up into a long hallway, apartment doors lining each side, with hers at one end, and the door leading to the trash chute on the other. The deadbolt was latched—she knew it was because she always latched it when she came.
It wasn't her fault, of course not, but she'd taken it upon herself to try and save the guy, and she was stricken with guilt when they'd finally caught him. That was only yesterday. It seemed like a million years had passed since then, and she'd spent hours trying to locate the reporter or find any trace that he was still alive.
That he was dead, she didn't doubt any longer, and she was sure that his body would never be found. The Duke was dead, and now someone was trying to get into her apartment. They were here to kill her.
How could she have been so stupid?
Heather pushed through the haze of confused thoughts and pulled herself closer to her computer. She unplugged the backup hard drive and two memory sticks that contained the programs she'd written to more easily infiltrate protected networks and firewalls. She put the drives in her backpack, then opened a program that was marked with a black skull and cross bones icon.
Even as she and the Duke had been tracking others, they were being tracked. They were stupid not to think of that.
But we did think of that! Her mind screamed. They each had a hundred programs that would alert them to anyone lurking on their systems, or following their digital tracks. She had sweepers and crawlers and firewalls, all set up to protect her from anyone looking. But they had gotten through, and they'd tracked her ISP through hundreds of foreign routers to her home. Heather heard a metallic rattle in her lock and knew that whoever was on the other side of the door was trying to stealthily pick her lock.
The skull and cross bones icon expanded to a window. She was in deep web territory now, accessing a program that would install on her computer in seconds. The program was the equivalent of a digital nuclear bomb that would completely wipe out any trace of her in any network, anywhere. Any residual data would be gobbled up and destroyed. Her entire existence in the digital space would be obliterated. The only thing left of her digital life would be stored on her hard drives in her bag.
She typed a command and the software transferred to her computer, opening a simple black box in the center of the screen with a transparent skull and cross bones watermarked in the background. She hesitated, listening again for the sounds of the soldiers, but knew she couldn't wait long.
Heather entered her password and pressed "Enter."
Her computer went black as the instantaneous digital shock wave exploded outward over the networks. Heather felt a tinge of nostalgia. So much work, lost in a single keystroke.
But she had to leave, and to leave now. Any attack on the Duke had to be orchestrated with an attack on her. She would know, and whoever was tracking them would have known that she'd know he'd been hit. She slammed her laptop closed and shoved it into the backpack with the hard drives. She didn't have time for clothes or anything else.
Heather zipped up her bag, pulled a hoodie over head and crossed towards the front door of her apartment. She saw the knob jiggle stealthily.
She hadn't heard the click of the dead bolt, so she was reasonably certain that they hadn't yet picked the lock. She racked her brain, thinking of how should could escape from the apartment. At first she thought about hiding, hoping that they wouldn't be able to crack the lock.
Heather crossed to the front door on her toes, being careful not to make a noise. She stepped up to the peephole and peered into the hallway and froze. Two soldiers in black fatigues stood directly in front of the door, and a third was on his knees, his rifle pointed down the hallway as he covered the other two. They were dressed the same way as the soldiers who'd killed the Duke. Black fatigues, masks pulled up and over their faces, and night vision goggles over their eyes.
Heather saw that one of the soldiers was sliding some tools into a tiny pocket on his vest, and she guessed that it was the lock pick set. She smiled in spite of the fear. Apparently the deadbolt was too much for them. She wondered if they would be gutsy enough to shoot through the door, waking the neighbors and drawing attention from the local police. She held her breath, hoping that they would simply give up and leave.
One of the soldiers opened a canvas duffle bag at their feet and removed a thick cylinder of metal, three and half feet long. The man hefted it by one of two rectangular metal handles, and she could tell that it was heavy.
What is that? she wondered, and then the other soldier grabbed the other handle, so they were holding the metal cylinder between them. One of the soldiers lifted three fingers on his free hand and slowly counted down. She watched their bodies tense as they swung the heavy piece of metal in unison, gaining momentum.
She froze, suddenly realizing what they were holding.
The force of impact on the door shuddered through the apartment and cracked the heavy wooden door. The sound was like an explosion in her tiny apartment, and she bit her bottom lip to keep from screaming.
BOOM! The battering ram sounded again, and she could hear the door wanting to give way. One or two more hits and they would be inside.
Heather turned away from the front door, running for the fire escape in the back room, hoping that they hadn't anticipated her running. She got to the fire escape and pushed up on the window, but the window wouldn't budge. She examined the edges and saw that windowsill had been painted shut. Heather swore as she turned away from the window, not knowing where she could go.
BOOM! The sound of the wood breaking was unmistakable.
Where to go where to go where to go? Her mind screamed with panic even as she tried to think calmly, to push the feelings of fear away.
She had to escape. To get out of the apartment.
But there was no time.
Chapter Eight
The soldier who'd spotted something in the bushes raised his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and began walking slowly to where Adam lay hidden in the branches and snow.
"What'd you see?" the other asked.
"The snow's been disturbed near the base of those bushes," he whispered, and then flipped a switch on his rifle. A red laser sight pierced the night and Adam held his breath.
How could he have been so stupid? He should have run and kept running until there was no chance that they'd find him.
But Mae
Behind the two soldiers slowly advancing toward him, he saw the stretcher being taken from the house, rolled down the icy sidewalk to the rear of the semi-truck. Two soldiers climbed into the trailer, then grabbed the gurney and hoisted it inside.
They were taking her, Adam realized. But where?
"Come out now, kid." the soldier said, but didn't wait for a response before squeezing off two shots into the bushes. Adam felt the first bullet whiz just above his ankles, but the second missed him with room to spare. He didn't think he'd be that lucky again. He held his breath, his eyes closed, and tried to escape the moment in his head, but the yellow terror held him in place. Instead, he waited for the killing shot.
They were only a few feet from the bushes when the house exploded in a ball of fire and shrapnel. The concussion of sound, pressure and heat knocked the two soldiers to the ground and swept over Adam with such intensity that he couldn't breathe. Flames leapt toward the stars, and great tendrils of smoke shot skyward.
Half of the McMansion was gone, and only splinters of charred wood, bits of brick and wrecked furniture remained.
The soldiers who'd been knocked to the ground were getting to their feet, their radios squawking. They took off running, no longer thinking about Adam or the disturbed snow under the bushes. Adam watched them jump inside a SWAT van that was already moving.
A firetruck came into sight, followed by several police cruisers, their red and blue lights flashing. Officers jumped from their cars and waved for the neighbors to get inside their houses. They began setting up barriers along the street, pulling one aside when an ambulance arrived, its siren blaring.
Firemen unfurled their hoses and began spraying powerful streams of water onto the burning house, shouting to one another. A group of six firemen, completely covered with soot-stained protective gear, oxygen tanks strapped to their backs, darted into what remained of the massive home.
Despite the heat blasting from the burning house, Adam began to shake and quiver with shock. Slowly he pushed himself out from under the bush. When free of the ice and branches, he stood up and wobbled, almost blacking out. His shirt was soaked with blood that had poured from the wound in his shoulder, and he was suddenly very cold.
"Help me," Adam whispered, his voice hoarse. He staggered toward the rescue workers, holding out his uninjured arm to catch their attention.
A police officer saw him first, but the look in his eyes was not what Adam had expected. Immediately, the cop unclipped his gun, resting his hand on the grip and taking a step toward him. He whispered something into his radio and nodded when he heard the response.