Applewood (Book 2): Fledge

by Myers, Brendan P.

  Dan turned to his nephew. Seeing the boy nod, he put a smile on his face and turned back to the driver.

  “We’d sure appreciate it. Had some car trouble a few miles back. Remembered passin’ through a small town not far from here and figured we might be able to find a garage or somethin’.”

  “Well hop on in, then!” the driver replied. “Town you’re talking ‘bout is called Mercy. Ain’t much there beyond a post office and a bar, but someone there might be able to get ya fixed up.” Sensing the man still hesitate, he added, “Don’t worry, son. I don’t bite!”

  Dan smiled with embarrassment. “It’s not that,” he said sheepishly. “It’s just . . . we’re a little gamey, is all. That all right?”

  The driver smiled. “We get a lot of that ‘round here. I’m sure I smelled worse. Climb on in! I sure could use the company.”

  Dan let out a sigh of relief. “Well then, don’t mind if we do, and we’re very much obliged.”

  He walked around the front of the vehicle, smiling to notice a steer horn ornament affixed to the hood. When he reached the passenger side, he motioned his nephew away from the backseat and gestured he should sit beside him up front. The boy’s eyebrows furrowed until he saw his uncle clumsily knock the rearview mirror askew while sliding into the front seat.

  “Sorry about that,” Dan said. “And again, we truly do appreciate it.”

  “Don’t mention it, friend,” the driver answered before peeling out. “Name’s Leroy. Fred Leroy. Nice to know ya.” He put out his hand and the two men shook.

  “Nice to meet you too, Fred. My name’s . . . Smith. John Smith. This here’s my nephew, Billy.”

  The driver leaned forward to take a closer look at his other passenger and frowned. “You look a little peaked, son. You all right boy?”

  His uncle answered for him. “Got out of the hospital recently, is all. Nothing serious. Just needs to put some weight back on.” He turned to his nephew and added, “But mostly, he just needs to eat more regular.” The driver chuckled.

  “Kids today. You can’t teach ‘em nothin’. Hell, I got two boys of my own, neither one of ‘em worth a damn. Love ‘em both to death, though. Wouldn’t trade ‘em for anything.” He went quiet a moment before asking, “So what happened to your vehicle?”

  Relieved to finally answer a question honestly, Dan replied, “Nothing too bad. Radiator hose went bust.”

  The driver thought a moment. “I tell you what,” he said. “I’m headed into Benson tomorrow mornin’. That’s the nearest big town that’ll have what you need, trust me on that. Now, when we get to Mercy, you stop by Maria’s Restaurant and tell her ol’ Fred sent ya. She keeps a coupla rooms up on the second floor available in a pinch for rent to weary travelers like yerselves. You boys go on ahead and spend the night there. I’ll pick you up around eleven or so tomorrow and we’ll get you all fixed up. How’s that sound?”

  A rush of emotion flooded through Dan at the simple kindness being extended.

  “No, I can’t let you do that. You’ve already been too kind. I hate to put you to so much—”

  “Now I don’t wanna hear another word about it,” the driver said. “You just meet me out in front of Maria’s around eleven and we’ll get y’all squared away.”

  With that crushing weight lifted, Dan squeezed his eyes shut a moment. When he opened them, he saw the driver again leaning forward to stare across at his other passenger. Dan tensed up before noticing the man had playful gleam in his eye.

  “Hey, boy! Lookah heah.” He waited for the boy to turn to him before going on. “I got my own hospital visit comin’ up soon. Wife says it’s high time I got my hohns removed. In fact, she insists upon it.”

  The car went silent. His accent was thick, so perhaps Dan had not heard him right. “Excuse me?” the boy asked.

  Dan cringed to hear him say it, not at all sure he wanted confirmation of what he thought the man had said.

  “My hohns, son! My hohns!”

  He made sure both pairs of eyes were upon him before removing his hat with a showman’s flourish. The boy took in his breath. His uncle’s eyes widened. He hadn’t heard wrong.

  There were two of them, one each about halfway between his eye sockets and the top of his balding head. The one on the left was stunted, only about an inch long. Yellowed and gnarled, it was the color of a coffee drinker’s teeth. But the one on the right was perfect, as perfect as a human horn could be, anyway. Bone white, it stuck out of his head about two inches before coming to a pointed end, reminding Dan of paintings he had seen somewhere of satyrs and wood nymphs or some such thing.

  The man cackled at their startled reaction before putting on his hat and turning back to the road. He had done this parlor trick a thousand times before, Dan knew. And he smiled to know for sure the man would miss doing it after they were gone.

  A minute later, lights appeared on the right side of the road. Fred brought the car to a squealing stop.

  “Well, here it is folks, what there is of it,” he said.

  Dan glanced out the window at the small town before turning toward the man. He looked him in the eye as he offered his hand and the two men shook. The gratitude in Dan’s voice was genuine.

  “We can’t thank you enough,” he said. “Really.”

  “My pleasure Mr. . . . Smith.” Fred squeezed more tightly after the last word and winked. “Now don’t you forget. Eleven tomorrow mornin’ right here.” Before the passenger door slammed shut, the driver bent down to shout at the boy. “You feel better son, you hear? And do as your uncle says!” He waved once more before peeling out, kicking up a cloud of dust as he went.

  The two watched the car until it was out of sight before turning to look at the small town. Taking up just one side of the road, from left to right there was a Laundromat, a post office, and a bar. Separate from those adjoining structures over on the far right was a two-story building that bore the sign “Maria’s Restaurant.” The man’s stomach growled just reading the word.

  “You need to eat,” the boy said.

  The man smiled. “I know, I know. Think I’ll start with a beer, though. That okay with you?”

  From inside the bar came the sounds of people laughing and glasses tinkling and the occasional thwack of a powerful pool shot. Pulse pounding Seger at his best was coming from the jukebox. Katmandu. The boy turned to his uncle and gave him his toothiest grin.

  Dan suppressed his natural instinct to shrink back, knowing the secret smile was meant only for him. Maybe it was just to reassure him that much of the boy he once knew still remained. And if he knew anything at all about the kid, it was that he would happily go anywhere Seger was playing loud. So, he returned the smile and cuffed the boy on the shoulder before grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. Bending him over, he gave him a noogie for old times sake as the two of them turned and began walking toward the bar.

  3

  The offices of Atlas Consulting occupied the third and highest floor of a nondescript office building in Chevy Chase, Maryland. Within its tastefully decorated lobby, a man in a dark suit sat in a high-backed leather chair waiting for his nine A.M. appointment. He had been summoned to corporate a few times in the past, but only on the most serious of business and never on such short notice.

  While waiting, the man admired the original artwork that hung along the walls, pastoral scenes of a homespun America that would have made Norman Rockwell blush, an America that never was. He was looking at a Fourth of July scene showing a boy in breeches bent over and about to set off fireworks amidst a well-dressed parade crowd when the receptionist approached.

  “Mr. Arthur will see you now.”

  The man grabbed his briefcase and followed the young woman through the only available door. The long hallway beyond was plushly carpeted, decorated on both sides with photographs of the men who had run the company throughout its long history. The oldest of these were stern-looking men wearing Civil War-era uniforms. The girl knocked once upon a door at the e
nd of the hall before opening it halfway and stepping aside to let the man pass.

  The office was just the way the man remembered it, brightly lit and smelling of mahogany and furniture polish and furtively smoked Lucky Strikes. The large desk that dominated the center of the room had once belonged to Rutherford B. Hayes, a gift to the company for services rendered. The visitor hoped to sit behind that desk himself one day. But it was a distant relative of the man who had succeeded Hayes who looked up unsmilingly from the desk and greeted his visitor.

  “John, please. Come in, come in.” The old man got up and walked around to shake the younger man’s hand. “Sorry for the short notice. Hope you had a nice trip. Please, sit down.”

  Ever spry, the eighty-year-old motioned his visitor to a small sitting area to the left, where a silver tea service gleamed on a glass coffee table next to a basket filled with pastries. Walking over to take his seat, the visitor noticed two new personally inscribed photographs hung just over their heads. The higher of the two was the new president. Only a few years younger than the man whose office this was, the president had fully recovered from his gunshot wound of a few months ago and resumed his normal duties. But both men in this office had voted for the other guy, whose portrait hung a few inches below and to the left of the president. As a former Director of the CIA, the new vice president was well acquainted with the valuable services their company rendered. The visitor set his briefcase on the floor beside him before taking his seat.

  “Coffee?” the old man asked. The young man nodded.

  As always, his host was impeccably dressed, his signature dark suit handmade and imported from England, as were his crisp white shirt and silk bow tie. But for the first time in the dozen or so years he had worked directly for the old man, something seemed amiss. His hair was a little out of place, tufted on both sides. There were lines on his face that were not present the last time the two had met. His hand shook as he poured the coffee. It shook again while handing his guest the delicate cup and saucer. The visitor smiled and thanked his host, but his senses heightened. This must be serious business indeed.

  The old man sipped his coffee before setting cup upon saucer and placing both upon the coffee table. Niceties completed, he leaned back in his chair, raised his eyes to the ceiling, and put his hands on top of his head.

  “Grantham,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

  The visitor raised his eyebrows before setting down his own coffee cup and reaching for his briefcase. The old man stopped him.

  “No, no. I’ve read the reports. I want you to tell me about it.”

  This was unusual indeed. The younger man had worked for the company for fifteen years and had never once talked about it, not even with the old man. It wasn’t something that was talked about. He wasn’t sure he even knew how to talk about it.

  Sensing his nervousness, the old man chuckled.

  “Come now, John. This office is the most secure area within fifty miles. Think what that encompasses . . . Langley . . . the Pentagon . . . the White House itself. We can talk freely here. Please. I need you to tell me about it.” Sensing the young man still hesitate, he leaned forward and clasped his hands together. Catching the younger man’s eye, his tone was deadly serious when he spoke again. “Now, damn it. Tell me about it.”

  Though unused to taking orders, the young man began to speak.

  “Well . . . as you know from the reports, Grantham is a small town located in central Massachusetts, in southwestern Worcester County. A Class B event was ongoing when it came to our attention. Subsequent interviews with local residents and survivors, as well as our own investigation, revealed it was centered upon a relatively small area. Before going in, we staged a train derailment just outside of town — chlorine gas, this time — allowing us to block access into town from both the Interstate as well as local highways. We then had a tanker truck collide with a hay baler just outside the event epicenter. Residents were informed the truck carried low-grade powdered uranium, nothing to be too concerned about. After evacuating nearby homes, we arranged temporary housing for evacuees in motels outside of town and proceeded with the intervention.”

  The young man waited a moment to assure himself this was the kind of thing the man wanted to hear before going on.

  “The intervention proceeded uneventfully. There was some local media interest, but that receded quickly. Before it did, a rumor took hold that it was actually cesium on the truck, which gained traction when nearby residents saw workers onsite wearing radiation suits. After that, generous cash settlements were accepted by all affected residents for the purchase of their homes and lost belongings, a fence was erected, the area sealed off, and a program of biannual testing of the groundwater funded.”

  The man paused another moment. He had thus far reported nothing that wasn’t available to the old man in the report he had filed. In fact, there was nothing at all unusual about the Grantham event. The whole thing had been done by the book. He was still puzzling over this strange interest in the case when the old man spoke again.

  “How long were you there?” he asked.

  “In force, seven days, house to house. Another thirty in garrison. We dispatched two hundred forty-seven all told before concluding the area was secure. We found the usual evidence of amateur intervention, and concluded that by the time we got there, the primary target had been dispatched.”

  The old man pondered that a moment. It wasn’t unusual to find someone had tried dealing with the situation before their arrival. Sadly, those sorts of amateur interventions always ended badly. Still, something didn’t add up.

  “So, what was left were merely stragglers?” he asked.

  Long experience had taught that when the primary target was eliminated — typically the source of the infestation — those that remained were easily dealt with.

  “We believe so. When we got there, they were acting in an uncoordinated manner, the typical roving behavior. Easily handled.”

  “What happened to the rest?” the old man asked. Two hundred and forty-seven, plus however many were eliminated prior to their arrival, hardly constituted a Class B event.

  The young man thought about his answer, knowing it was the sort of question that could make or break his career. Though it wasn’t unusual not to find them all, for some reason he felt defensive about this one and decided to be careful.

  “We never did find the nest, if that’s what you mean, though we monitored the area for weeks afterward, increasing the circumference as the days went by. There was some indication that at least one of them went north. The usual stuff: cattle mutilation in New Hampshire, a woman dead suspiciously in Vermont. Nothing since, however, and no signs of another infestation. We maintain close contact with our Canadian subsidiary and will continue to follow the trail. We are confident in the eventual outcome.”

  The old man waited for the rest. It had been in the report, so the young man knew there was no getting around it. There was also no denying it was the most unusual thing about the Grantham incident.

  “The more troubling thing is . . . it appears one of them was smuggled out of town by an overzealous relative. We are still investigating just how that was allowed to occur.”

  “Scott something-or-other, right?” the old man asked.

  Taken aback again at just how much interest in the details the old man was showing, the young man felt suddenly on very thin ice.

  “Yes. Scott Dugan was his name. His father was a bartender in a local bucket of blood and also one of the victims. The mother was already dead. But apparently, the kid had an uncle who disappeared around the same time. We have a nationwide all points out on him and are using every available tool to track him down. I’m confident both will be found, that is if they’re not dead already.”

  The old man looked at him a long time before saying, “Yes, yes. I’m sure you are.”

  The young man squirmed. The old man crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling for what seem
ed a long while before he spoke again.

  “I had a very interesting meeting yesterday with new DCI. Are you familiar with him at all?”

  The young man nodded. The new Director of Central Intelligence had been in the news a lot lately, in stories focusing mainly on his well-earned reputation for being a tough SOB. A founding member of the OSS — the precursor to what was now the CIA — he had won a Bronze Star during World War II. By virtue of his long clandestine experience, he knew where lots of bodies were buried, and in his case, that was both figurative and literal.

  Perhaps more importantly, he had been the successful campaign manager for the new president. In fact, the young man realized, the new DCI might just be the most powerful man on the planet, maybe even more powerful than the smiling old man whose picture now hung above them on the wall.

  It was apparent now what had caused the old man’s odd behavior. He tried to imagine the urbane gentleman seated across from him meeting with the man who told Mike Wallace to fuck off on national television. It could not have been a pleasant experience. He remembered then too that the new DCI had gone to Fordham, of all places, and felt even more sorry for the old man.

  “The DCI feels strongly . . . “ the old man continued, “that we have not been using every available tool in our arsenal against those who wish to do our nation harm.”

  The hair on the back of the young man’s neck began to tingle as the old man went on.

  “The DCI believes that even our organization with its long history has not done all it might to safeguard our nation against its enemies. He believes . . . strongly believes . . . that both our agency and those we hunt might be put to better use.”

  The young man opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, the old man gave him a look that would have wilted wallpaper. He waited for the young man’s mouth to fully close before going on.

  “Further, the DCI believes that a well trained and well-motivated subject would be a fine asset to our intelligence gathering and counter-intelligence initiatives. And he wants one. This one.”