Carnival of Mayhem (Gray Spear Society)

by Siegel, Alex

  Aaron sighed. "What's the point of having cameras when they never take a decent picture?"

  "Not my department," Sal said. "Are we done, yet?"

  "No."

  They were sitting in the small, windowless security office of the Mooseland brewery. Gitelman had ordered the security guards to leave the room, so Sal was operating the video equipment, while Aaron and Marina looked over his shoulder.

  Sal pushed in a fresh tape and pressed "play." Aaron forced himself to focus on the indistinct image on the monitor.

  After a few minutes he said. "There! Stop!"

  Sal stopped the playback.

  "Those are the guys." Aaron used his finger to draw a circle around two men.

  "How do you know?" Sal asked.

  "They walk like soldiers. They're almost marching in formation. Do you know them?"

  "No, but I don't work that shift."

  Aaron leaned in for a closer look. The two men were young and lacked beer bellies, distinguishing them from the regular workers. They had very short hair. One man carried a large, black satchel. The other carried a tool box.

  "But we don't know who they are or how to find them," Marina said.

  "It's a start," Aaron said. "I'll ask... Sarah to come in here."

  He had almost slipped and used Ethel's real name. "Sarah" was Ethel's cover for today.

  He used his phone to call Ethel. A few minutes later she and Gitelman walked into the security office.

  "There." Aaron pointed at the video image.

  Ethel narrowed her eyes. "Hmm." She frowned. "Not much to work with."

  "How is your part going?"

  "We tracked down most of the contaminated beer," Gitelman said, "and it's being destroyed. There is only one truckload left that we can't locate. A hundred and fifty kegs. We tried to contact the driver but he isn't answering. He isn't following his delivery schedule, either. The entire truck has gone missing."

  "Not good."

  "It left from dock 51 at 5:45 AM. As long as we're here, we might as well look at the security video."

  Sal sorted through tapes until he found the right one. He skipped forward until they saw a truck being loaded at the right time and place. Two men were stacking kegs in the trailer.

  "The same guys," Aaron observed.

  After the men finished loading the truck, both climbed into the cab and drove off.

  "We have to find that truck," Ethel said, "quickly."

  Gitelman nodded. "We have the license plate number. We could call the police."

  "I don't want the local police involved. This is a federal operation. Besides, I'm sure the terrorists changed the license plate by now."

  "Sir," Sal said, "we could use the anti-theft locator system. All our trucks have it."

  "We already talked to dispatch," Gitelman said, "and that truck isn't sending any tracking data. The terrorists must've turned it off."

  "It can't be turned off without disabling the vehicle."

  Gitelman shrugged. "They did it, somehow."

  "Maybe they just cut off the GPS antenna. That would make the system blind."

  "But it would still send out a radio signal?" Aaron said. "Right?"

  "I suppose so." Sal nodded. "It works like a cell phone. Each unit even has a phone number."

  "Give me the number," Ethel demanded.

  "You can find a cell phone?"

  "If it's turned on, yes, absolutely. We use the towers for triangulation. I just need the number."

  "Hang on," Gitelman said.

  He called another office in the factory and wrote down a number for Ethel. Then, she made a call. Aaron assumed she was talking to Edward back at headquarters.

  "We have a location," Ethel said. "Thank you, gentlemen. The Office of Domestic Counterterrorism will take over from here. The people of the United States appreciate your cooperation and assistance."

  "You're leaving?" Gitelman said.

  "Yes, and we won't be back. As far as you're concerned, this matter is closed. Let's go!"

  Ethel walked out, followed closely by Aaron and Marina.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  "This poison is unbelievable," Smythe said. "It's impervious to acid and the standard enzymes. I don't know how we're supposed to analyze it."

  Ramirez shrugged. "We could try burning it."

  They were standing in the laboratory in headquarters. The debris from a dozen failed experiments covered the countertops. The sharp odors of solvents lingered despite a good ventilation system running at full blast.

  "All we would accomplish is making another mess. It would be useful to see how this stuff behaves in living tissue."

  "What did you have in mind, sir?" Ramirez said.

  "We could feed a large quantity to a test subject, and then dissect the subject to see where the poison went. That should be straightforward now that we know what to look for."

  "Interesting idea, but I think it might be hard to get volunteers for that experiment. What about an animal?

  "I suppose we could try a monkey." Smythe furrowed his brow. "It wouldn't tell us as much. Animal physiology is always a little different."

  "Or we could examine tissue samples from dead human victims," Ramirez said.

  "That might work just as well. The morgue in Saint Athanasius Hospital is well stocked with victims. Overstocked, actually. I could drive down there and get one."

  Ramirez raised his eyebrows. "I don't think they'll just give you a body."

  "I've been in that morgue at least twenty times. I practically lived in that hospital for weeks. I know the security very well. I'll work something out."

  "You're going by yourself?"

  "I'll take Nancy with me," Smythe said. "She seems reliable."

  "Don't get arrested, sir, especially if Nancy is with you. Ethel would become very annoyed."

  "Ah." Smythe grimaced. "I'll make sure that doesn't happen."

  * * *

  Aaron looked out the passenger window of the helicopter. Marina was at the controls, flying over the suburbs north of Chicago. Countless homes and small apartment buildings were packed together so tightly that they shared a wall in many cases. Trees grew wherever there was a patch of dirt big enough to plant one, but from this altitude they looked more like shrubs. Traffic oozed through the narrow streets like blood cells pushing through clogged arteries.

  Lake Michigan was a line of light blue on the left. The weather was too cold for sailing so the water was clear of boats.

  Aaron checked the GPS display in the helicopter. "We're at 41 degrees, 58 minutes north, and 87 degrees, 40 minutes west," he said into his phone.

  "Continue south-east for three kilometers," Edward replied from his computer workstation in headquarters. "You'll be right on top of it."

  Aaron looked at Ethel, who sat in the rear seat of the small helicopter. Her dark eyes stared back at him with an intimidating intensity. The end game was near. Everybody could feel it.

  "Just another couple of minutes," he said.

  All three of them had long, gray coats. Concealed underneath, they wore enough body armor, weapons, and pyrotechnics to make any soldier proud.

  Aaron looked out the window again and noticed traffic was getting even slower. He spotted the historic architecture of Wrigley Field directly ahead. He had a bad feeling.

  "Edward, is there a baseball game tonight?" he said into his phone.

  "Let me check," Edward said. "Yes, sir."

  "This late in October? It's too cold for baseball."

  "The final game of the National League Championship Series. It starts at five PM, three hours from now. Do you ever look at the sports page? The entire city is buzzing about it."

  "Shit!" Aaron said. "The whole neighborhood will be one giant party, and the Eternals are bringing a hundred and fifty kegs of poison."

  He updated Marina and Ethel on the situation. They responded with grim looks of determination.

  Marina flew the helicopter down until they were just a
few hundred feet over the rooftops. Aaron saw the pedestrian traffic flowing towards Wrigley Field. Parking was always a nightmare at Cubs games. He expected tonight it would be like a bad practical joke with some victims walking a full mile.

  Marina suddenly pointed towards the east. "We have company, and it isn't friendly."

  Aaron saw a black and white police helicopter approaching rapidly.

  "Are they talking to you?" he asked.

  She tapped her radio headset. "They want us to turn around and land at the Waukegan Regional Airport, immediately."

  "Get this thing on the ground," Ethel ordered.

  "Where?" Marina said.

  "Anywhere, and do it fast. We're too exposed in the air."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Marina turned hard and descended. Aaron admired how expertly she handled the helicopter. It was a skill she didn't practice often, but as usual, she made it look easy. She seemed to be naturally talented at everything. If she could just learn to control her temper, there would be no limit to what she could accomplish.

  She sped towards a parking lot. He didn't know how she would land because the lot was packed full of cars. She solved the problem by landing directly on top of the cars. The helicopter settled abruptly as the roofs of two cars collapsed under the weight.

  "Well done," Ethel said. "Move out."

  They climbed out and jumped to the pavement below.

  Aaron heard sirens coming from two directions at once. The police helicopter hovered overhead, and the wash from the rotors teased his hair. The noise was deafening. It was so close he could see the policemen inside looking back at him.

  Ethel sprinted away at high speed. Aaron and Marina followed at a more human pace. They climbed over a fence, ran through a back yard, and entered a narrow space between two apartment buildings. The alley was dark and cold.

  "Stop," Ethel said.

  They stopped. Aaron heard the helicopter circling the building like a hunter stalking prey.

  After a moment Ethel backtracked to where they had entered the alley. By now the helicopter was on the other side of the building. Aaron and Marina followed Ethel as she moved along the back wall. Whenever the helicopter moved, so did they, always keeping out of sight.

  The police sirens were getting close. This game of cat and mouse couldn't last much longer.

  As they came around the front of the building, Ethel pointed at a door. "Aaron, kick that open."

  Aaron performed a spinning back kick, striking the handle with the bottom of his foot. The door frame broke and the door flew open. He took a step inside.

  "Where are you going?" she asked.

  "In."

  "So you can get trapped? No! Get a car for us, quickly."

  He knew better than to question her orders. He spotted a green Chevy Impala parked on the street and ran over. Instead of breaking the window, which would make noise, he spat on the glass. Yellow foam bubbled up, and after a few seconds there was a nice, neat hole. He reached through and unlocked the car from the inside. He signaled Ethel and Marina.

  Flashing red and blue lights were approaching. The three of them barely had time to get inside the Chevy and duck down before a police car came around the corner.

  Aaron peeked out the window. The cops got out of their car and immediately drew their weapons. When they saw the broken door, they ran over to it. Now Aaron understood why Ethel had told him to kick it open.

  "Start the engine," she whispered.

  He shifted his body around to put his head under the steering column. All the bulky equipment that he was carrying under his coat made this task much harder. Finally, he was able to get a good look at the wiring. The Chevy had a modern ignition system that was difficult to hotwire, but he was an expert. He used a little saliva to melt away the plastic cover on the ignition switch. He took out a knife and carefully scraped insulation from the wires.

  "What are the cops doing, ma'am?" he murmured.

  "They went in the house," Ethel said.

  "What about the helicopter?"

  "Still hovering. Stay down."

  Aaron used his fingers to squeeze together the wires and close the circuit. The engine started beautifully.

  "Wait," she said. "Don't drive."

  He slid around and took another peek out the window. Two more police cars were parking. The newly arrived officers ran into the house immediately, leaving the street unguarded.

  "Now we can go," Ethel said.

  Aaron quietly drove away. He worried about the helicopter, but it was on the far side of the building and trees provided enough cover. He smoothly joined the flow of traffic, leaving the police behind.

  "Good work," she said. "Let's find the beer truck."

  * * *

  Smythe looked at Nancy, who was disguised as a grieving widow. She wore a black sweater over a dark gray shirt and pants. A black hat with lace fringe shaded her eyes.

  "You ready?" he asked her.

  She nodded and smiled. "This is exciting. I'm usually stuck in headquarters all the time."

  "Don't get too excited. You're supposed to be inconsolable with grief. Are you sure you can play your part?"

  "I'm a Spear, sir. I'll get it done."

  Smythe was dressed as a police officer, and the disguise included a real gun. The costume was a little tight around the waist, but there hadn't been time to find one that fit better.

  They were walking through the long corridors in the basement of Saint Athanasius Hospital. Aside from their footsteps echoing from white walls and a tiled floor, it was dead quiet.

  They went through a double door marked "MORGUE" and entered a small room with a desk. An orderly in blue scrubs sat behind the desk, reading a comic book. Two National Guard soldiers wearing full combat gear sat on a couch to his right. M-16 assault rifles were lying within easy reach.

  The orderly looked up. "Can I help you?"

  "We need to identify a body," Smythe said.

  Nancy sniffled and wiped her eyes. She was bent over as if too exhausted to stand straight.

  "Name of deceased?" the man said.

  Smythe glanced at the soldiers, who were watching with expressions of disinterest. He hadn't expected armed guards. They were a big problem.

  "Carl Robbins," Smythe said.

  The orderly flipped through a short stack of papers on his desk. "Sorry. We don't have a Carl Robbins."

  "He came in without a wallet, so you might have him listed under the wrong name. Male, age 32, brown hair."

  "We have a lot of bodies here. I'm sure some match that description."

  Smythe shrugged. "Then we'll have to find the right one. Good thing you're not too busy right now." He pointed at the comic book.

  The orderly quickly put it away. "Sign in. Write clearly." He pushed a clipboard across the desk.

  Smythe and Nancy signed fake names.

  "When we're inside," the orderly said, "don't touch anything. You don't know who died of what, and it could be contagious. Put these on." He gave surgical masks to them.

  One of the soldiers stood up and put on his own mask.

  The orderly pushed through an insulated steel door leading to the next room. Smythe and Nancy went in, followed by the soldier.

  When Smythe had worked as a doctor in this hospital, he had visited this morgue to collect samples, so the room was grimly familiar. The air was a chilly fifty degrees, and he shivered reflexively. A stainless steel examination table stood in the center of the room. Refrigerators covered the left and right walls, and each unit could hold nine bodies in sliding drawers. There were five units on each side for a total capacity of ninety. Most of the drawers had an orange biohazard symbol taped to the exterior. These held the victims of PRooFS. There was a sink on the back wall beside some supply cabinets.

  Smythe's original plan was to steal a body but now he was having doubts. There was too much security inside and outside the hospital. He couldn't carry off a whole body without getting caught.

  See
ing the examination table gave him a better idea. Walking out with a bag full of tissue samples was much easier, and the samples were all he really needed. He could collect them here. However, he would have to deal with the orderly and the soldiers first. It's time to earn my non-existent paycheck, he thought.

  Nancy began to sob loudly. "I don't think I can do this." Her entire body shook.

  The performance was a little more dramatic than Smythe wanted, but at least it was distracting. He patted her on the shoulder and murmured, "We'll be as quick as we can, Mrs. Robbins."

  "My poor Carl..." she cried.

  The orderly studied some papers in his hands. Then, he said, "I think we'll start with number 28."

  He pulled open one of the drawers, revealing a corpse. The feet and hands were pale blue, and a yellow sheet covered everything else. Nancy walked over to it.

  Smythe turned to the soldier. He had light brown skin and very curly, black hair. He seemed about twenty years old.

  "Nice weapon," Smythe said.

  The soldier glanced at his M-16. "Yeah."

  "Mind if I look at it? The department only lets us carry pistols. I want to know what a real man's gun feels like."

  The soldier handed over his rifle. Smythe quickly chambered a round and clicked off the safety.

  He pointed the rifle back at its owner. "Don't bother yelling. This room is insulated and nobody will hear you. Lay on your stomach with your hands behind your head and feet spread."

  The soldier hesitated.

  "If I shoot you," Smythe said loudly, "nobody will hear that, either. You!" He nodded to the orderly. "Lie right next to him."

  The soldier and the orderly followed his instructions. Smythe had only one set of handcuffs, and he used them on the soldier. Nancy found some rolls of medical tape in the supply cabinets. She bound the orderly's hands, and then she taped the ankles of both men.

  "That's good," Smythe said. "If you don't cause any trouble, we'll be out of here soon and nobody will get hurt. But if you get in my way—" He aimed the rifle at the soldier's head. "—bang, you're dead."

  Their eyes grew wide.

  Smythe searched the supply cabinets until he found a box of latex gloves, a permanent marker, a plastic garbage bag, and a tray of autopsy instruments. He put everything on the examination table.