HL 04-The Final Hour

by Andrew Klavan

  He was even more frightening by daylight. Big and ruthless with nothing but meanness in those baggy eyes.

  “All right,” he said in his guttural accent. “That’s enough.”

  I put my guard down. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was pretty sure I’d gotten out of a very bad situation there. If Orton had attacked again, he probably would’ve finished me off.

  Waylon turned to Orton. “Good job,” he said.

  Then he kicked me in the chest.

  It was a back kick, perfectly planted. It hit me right above the heart. I went flying backward and then dropped down to the ground, coughing.

  Waylon turned and stood over me. “You,” he said in his thick accent. “You need to fight like you mean it. You are not in the dojo at the mall now. If you lose here, you die. You need to fight to kill.”

  I started to get off the ground, but then . . .

  It was as if someone poured a giant glass of Liquid Night down over us. Darkness ran down on top of us and the training ground vanished . . .

  I was suddenly in a silent hallway. It was dark, very dark. Even before I fully understood where I was, I knew I was in terrible danger. If anyone found me here, I’d be killed on the spot.

  I pressed close to the wall. There was an opening up ahead. A doorway. I could make out the rectangle of moonlit night, lighter than the inner dark. I edged closer to the door. I peeked out.

  From here, I could see the buildings of the training compound, hulking barracks and watchtowers surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence and the deep black expanse of the forest beyond. The structures of the compound were sunk in the night shadows—with one exception. One building, just across the way, over by the fence, had a yellow light burning in its window. A jeep was parked outside.

  It all came back to me now. I’d been in bed in the barracks. The other trainees were in bunks all around me. I’d heard the jeep come into the compound. I’d heard voices calling to the guards to open the gates. Tires on dirt. The car engine coming to a stop. Then there had been low voices. Greetings and conversation.

  I had looked around me to make sure the other trainees were asleep. Then I had gotten quietly out of bed to see what was happening.

  That’s why I was out in the hall wearing only sweat-pants and a T-shirt. My feet were bare. I could feel the splintery wooden floorboards under them.

  Prince.

  That was the next thought that came back to me. It was Prince who had been in the jeep. I’d recognized his voice out in the night. That’s why I’d gotten up to take a look. That’s why I was risking this: getting caught, getting shot.

  Getting shot, I knew, was a serious possibility. Shifting my attention, I could see now that there was a guard in the watchtower to my left and another in the tower to my right. Both were holding high-powered rifles. There were two other guards standing together by the lighted building just across from me. I could hear these two guards speaking to each other in low murmurs. I had no way of knowing if there were other guards moving around in the compound’s shadows, but I guessed there probably were.

  Still, this was why I was here in the first place. This was what Waterman and his people had sent me to do. Get information. Find out what the Homelanders were up to. Get the word out. Stop them before the killing started.

  The guards outside the building finished their conversation. They moved away from each other and walked off in opposite directions to begin their patrols of the area. Each guard carried an AK strapped over his shoulder.

  The moment I saw them walk away from the building, I started moving.

  Crouching low, I took the last steps down the barracks hall to the doorway. I slipped outside, feeling the cool of the night surround me. The moon was just a sliver, but it hung above the far trees and angled in across the open space of the compound, giving it some light. In that light, I could see the watchtower guards in silhouette, see they were turned to face out of the compound, watching for intruders from the surrounding woods. The two other guards, the ones on the ground, continued moving away, one off to my left, the other to my right.

  I kept my head down and moved as quickly as I could across the open space. I took long, swift strides, careful my bare feet made no noise as they landed on the dirt. I headed for the lighted building.

  That crossing—from my barracks to the building opposite—I guess it took maybe five seconds all told, five terrible seconds when I was completely exposed. If one of the patrolling guards had heard me—if one of the watchtower guards had looked down and seen me— they’d have opened fire and shot me where I stood.

  Then—thankfully—I was there. Panting, I came up against the building. I pressed hard against the outer wall, trying to stay hidden in the shadows. The light within shone out through the window, falling on the dirt below, just inches from my feet. But the moon was still low enough to leave a line of darkness at the base of the building. I tried to stay inside that narrow line, out of sight.

  From where I was, I could hear the burr of voices inside. It sounded as if there were two or three people in there. I strained my ears, listening. It was no good. I couldn’t make out their words. I had to get closer.

  I took a breath. I took a glance over my shoulder. I could see one of the compound guards. He was still walking away, but he was getting close to the farthest buildings over by the barbed-wire fence, under the watchtower. I figured when he got there, he’d probably turn around and come back, heading straight toward me.

  I turned to look for the other guard. He was gone. I scanned the night desperately. No sign of him. Where was he? Had he gone inside? Was he moving around to surprise me? I just didn’t know—and there was no time to find out.

  Just then, I heard the murmur of voices inside the building rise in volume.

  “We don’t have any choice,” someone said forcefully. I recognized the voice. It was Prince. “We have to strike when we can, as we can.”

  I stopped searching for the second guard. Time was short and I had to find out what was going on inside that room. I sidled closer to the window, my bare feet edging into that yellow glow of lamplight that fell on the dirt from inside.

  I pressed hard to the wall and listened.

  A voice spoke. It was Waylon, but he was talking in a quick guttural language I couldn’t understand. Arabic, I guess. He spoke for several seconds.

  Then a new voice interrupted: “Speak English, will you? I can’t understand.”

  I almost gasped out loud. I recognized that voice too. It was Mr. Sherman, my history teacher. Even though I knew he was one of the Homelanders, I was shocked to find out he was here at the compound.

  Waylon spoke again, in English this time. “I’m telling you, it’s too soon. He just isn’t ready.”

  Prince responded. It was the same calm, intelligent voice I remembered from the weird mansion. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The simple fact is: We won’t get another chance like this. Yarrow is the key to President Spender’s new policy on terrorism. He’s the one who’s convinced the president to stand up to Congress and declare a real Homeland Security war against us. Killing him will throw their entire new security plan into disarray. After that, we’ll be able to operate with a much freer hand.”

  “I understand,” Waylon answered. I could hear him controlling his anger, afraid to challenge Prince. “But the risk is too great. Charlie West is the most valuable asset we’ve ever acquired . . .”

  At that, Mr. Sherman broke in, giving a short laugh. “There you go. I told you, Prince. I told you he was . . .”

  “Quiet,” said Prince curtly.

  That shut Sherman up. It was the only good thing Prince ever did. Made me wish I could have brought him to history class.

  “No one ever doubted West was a fighter,” Prince went on quietly. “It was his trustworthiness that was at issue. That is at issue still. Go on,” he finished—talking to Waylon, I guessed.

  And Waylon did go on. “I’m not a hundred percent sure yet that we can
trust West,” he said. I could imagine him staring pointedly at Sherman there. “But I am a hundred percent sure of this: The boy is a natural fighter. He’s fearless. And more than that, I have the sense you could put a hundred bullets in him and he would still get up, still try to bring you down. Assuming he can be trusted, that makes him one of our most important assets. It isn’t worth risking him on a mission that hasn’t been fully prepared.”

  There was a pause. Once again, I took a quick glance at the guard behind me. He had reached the end of the compound now. He had paused by the far buildings under the watchtower. He stood there, scanning the darkness. He would turn and start back my way any minute.

  I looked in the other direction. I still couldn’t find that second guard.

  “It’s prepared enough,” I heard Prince say then. “We knew this was a possibility. Both West and Orton have been taught about that area just in case this contingency arose. They both know the bridge well.”

  “As a training exercise. They don’t . . .”

  “And another thing: Once West pulls off the assassination, we’ll know we can trust him. Once he’s killed for us, he’s ours for good.”

  “But he isn’t fully—”

  “No.” Prince cut Waylon off with finality. “It doesn’t matter. They’re all expendable anyway. All of them. That’s why we use them first. Because it doesn’t matter if they die. If we use them properly, without fear, we can show our enemies that we can do anything, get in anywhere, hit them in any way we want while they can’t even begin to find our center. West will assassinate Yarrow, and if he’s killed, he’s killed. I appreciate your maternal concern for your trainees,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “But they’ll all die eventually, Waylon. That’s what they’re for.”

  Man! I thought. I guess this is why they call him Prince. He’s such a prince of a guy!

  Then Prince said: “In the end, their purpose is simply to prepare the way for the Great Death.”

  I heard a footstep behind me. I turned to see that the guard had started walking back across the compound, back my way. It would only be a few seconds before he would be close enough to see me pressed there against the wall, my figure outlined by the glow from the light inside.

  But I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t leave. The Great Death. I had to find out what it was. It didn’t sound good, that’s for sure.

  I pressed against the building again, listening.

  “West and Orton—they’re part of that plan, too, though,” Waylon answered. “That’s their ultimate purpose.”

  “Yes,” said Prince. “But even if we lose them, even if we lose all of them, even if I have to do it on my own, the Great Death will not be stopped. The basic elements are already in place. Come what may, it will ring in the devil’s New Year. I will make sure of it personally if I have to.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. The guard kept coming toward me.

  “What do you mean, everything is in place?” Sherman asked.

  “It will be.”

  “What about the C.O. device?”

  “It’s being acquired from the Russians. The arrangements are progressing.”

  “When? When will we have it?”

  “Soon.”

  “How much?”

  “Six canisters.”

  “Six . . .”

  “It’s more than enough. Six canisters can be carried by a single man. So nothing will stop it, even if it comes down to me alone.”

  I heard Waylon let out what must have been a curse in a foreign language.

  I wanted to hear more—needed to hear more. But I was out of time. I had to get back to my barracks. Even now, the guard might see me sprinting across the open space.

  I turned to move away from the building.

  But before I could, a hand grabbed me by the shoulder.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Infirmary

  I opened my eyes and it was all gone: the compound, the buildings, the guards, all of it. No, wait. There was still that hand. It was still gripping my shoulder.

  I turned my head, confused. Yes, there it was—that hand—powerful fingers digging painfully into my flesh.

  I lifted my eyes and found myself looking up into the sadistic face of Chuck Dunbar, the Yard King.

  “Wake up, garbage,” he snarled.

  Fear shot through my confusion, bringing me fully alert. Where was I? What was happening? I tried to think. I remembered . . .

  The cafeteria. Dinner. The swastika boys. Their plan to escape . . .

  I’d had another memory attack. I’d collapsed onto the floor in pain. That meant now I must be . . .

  I looked around. Yes, I was in the infirmary. It was a narrow cinder-block rectangle of a room, the walls painted hospital green. There was a row of narrow cots lined up against one wall. There was a prisoner in each of two of the other cots. The rest were empty. There was an observation window on the far wall at the end of the room. The window was empty too: There was no one in the observation booth. The other sick prisoners had purposely turned their heads so they weren’t looking at me.

  No one was looking at me. No one was watching. Which was exactly how Dunbar liked it.

  The Yard King stood over my bed, gripping me hard by the shoulder. He sneered down at me, his eyes bright with malice.

  “What do you want?” I asked. My voice was thick and muddy.

  With his free hand, Dunbar reached down and grabbed the front of my shirt. He yanked me up off the mattress. He stuck his face in close to mine. I could smell his dinner on his breath. Dinner and beer.

  “Why are you here?” he said in that raking-gravel voice of his. “Why are you in the infirmary?”

  “What do you mean? What . . . ?”

  He shook me hard. I stopped talking. “Have you got some kind of problem? Did you get hurt somewhere?”

  “No, I . . .”

  “I wouldn’t like to think you got hurt in my yard, West,” Dunbar rasped. “I wouldn’t like to think you were telling people you got hurt in my Outbuilding.”

  Now I understood. He was afraid I’d come here to talk, to inform on him, to tell someone how he’d roughed me up.

  “Get your hands off me,” I said, grabbing at his wrist.

  “Or you’ll do what?” asked Dunbar—but all the same, he threw me roughly back down onto the cot.

  I rubbed my hand over my face, trying to get my bearings, trying to defog my mind. My thoughts still seemed to be drifting in some weird netherworld between the present and the past.

  “Come on,” Dunbar said. “What did you tell them?”

  “Listen . . . ,” I began.

  He hit me in the side of the head with his open hand.

  “Don’t waste my time, West. Let’s go! What did you tell them?”

  I looked up at that nasty, knuckly face. I didn’t like getting hit. I didn’t like that he could just whack me like that and get away with it. He was a bully, that’s all. A bully who knew he had all the power as long as we were here, as long as we were stuck together in the hell of Abingdon.

  I couldn’t keep the scorn out of my voice. “I didn’t come here to turn you in, Dunbar.” Slowly, painfully, I sat up on the bed. “You don’t have to be such a coward . . .”

  That got to him. The truth always gets to guys like him. He grabbed me again, twisting the front of my shirt in his fingers as he hauled me to my feet, held me close to his angry eyes. “You listen to me, West. You open your mouth one time—one time—and so help me, they will find your broken body . . .”

  “I said, get off me!”

  I was too angry to stop myself. I knocked his hand away again. I staggered backward as he let me go.

  Dunbar looked surprised—surprised I dared to stand up to him, surprised that any prisoner would dare. But he smiled as I glared at him.

  “Careful, West,” he said, very softly, very dangerously.

  “Listen,” I told him. “The next time you have me in your lousy Outbuilding, with your gu
ards waiting out in the yard to help you so I can’t fight back—then you can beat on me all you want. But you lay your hand on me in here again and so help me, you’ll be in the infirmary with me.”

  The bully’s eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in rage. I was pretty sure no prisoner had ever talked to him like that before.

  “Oh, you’re gonna be sorry you mouthed off to me, garbage,” he said. “Remember I told you I’m gonna make teaching you a lesson my hobby?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, forget that. I’m gonna make it my profession. You think you have some kind of protection against me. You got no protection against me. When I decide to come for you, no one’ll see, no one’ll know, no one’ll say a word. You’ll just be gone.”

  With that, he grinned—and turned to walk away.

  I was glad to see him go. But before he reached the door, something happened.

  It was like another memory attack—that harsh, that sudden, that real—but it only lasted a single second. One flash. One memory. That moment, out in the darkness, out in the shadows of the Homelander compound as I listened to the voices inside the building. I remembered Prince’s voice . . .

  The Great Death!

  “Dunbar!” I called out. The word sprang from my mouth before I even had time to think about it.

  The Yard King stopped about two steps away from the infirmary door. Slowly, he turned back to face me.

  “You say something, garbage?”

  I was about to answer when there it was again. The flash of memory. The night. The compound. The voices inside. The images and words rushed in on me too quickly for me to understand them all. But one thought stood out from all the others like phrases written in fire in a paragraph of faded print.

  The Great Death will not be stopped . . . It will ring in the devil’s New Year.

  “I have to see the warden,” I said softly, more to myself than to Dunbar. “I have to talk to the warden right away, right now.”

  Dunbar narrowed his eyes. He pointed a finger at me. “Just how short a life are you looking to have, you dumb—”

  “No,” I said, “no, it’s not about you. It has nothing to do with you. Listen to me, Dunbar. Something terrible is going to happen.”