Kate nodded. “I hope so. It didn’t appear the building collapsed. Agent Hallow said something about him creating the storm—”
The sound of a series of bolts unlocking came from outside, and the handle turned. Stella took a few steps back as a tall man with gray hair stepped in the room, wearing a heavily decorated military uniform.
“Now, who the hell are you?” Roxy asked.
“This is Mark Wolve,” Kate said, crossing her arms. “Apparently, he’s a general. You look a bit different out of your black suit.”
“Unfortunately, deception is sometimes necessary to serve our country,” he said. “I am told none of you were injured leaving the building? The underground tunnel leading to our parking garage was intended to provide security, but I’m thankful it was there. Otherwise, none of you could have escaped—”
“Not all of us did,” Lynn said sharply, sliding the flash drives into her pocket while standing. “My grandson. Is he alive?”
The general exhaled. “The area where he was being protected is now underwater.”
Roxy gasped, but the man held up a finger. “But a plane rented by Quincy Martin is now airborne. Security footage from the private airstrips at Dulles International show five people entering a hangar. Your grandson was easily identifiable.”
“Well,” Roxy said, quickly composing herself. “Looks like stashing innocent people in government cells underground doesn’t always work, now does it.”
“Innocent?” The general raised an eyebrow. “Who do you think brought that storm? Who do you think is bringing widespread disease and murders? And raging wildfires? That little protest you staged to sneak him out has now unleashed the most dangerous people in the United States.”
He looked over to Kate. “Perhaps it’s sinking in now. Why the military had to infiltrate the SSA. This is way beyond people disappearing. What’s happening now all over the world is a full-scale war on the people of this planet. And William Chance was our only chance of stopping it. And now you’ve set him loose.”
“Strange,” Kate said, taking a step towards him. “Agent Hallow let it slip that the military had even greater designs for him and the others. Are you worried because you think he’s dangerous, or because you’ve just lost your most powerful potential weapon against your enemies?”
“Agent Hallow spoke out of turn and is now relieved of his duties.”
“Small loss there,” Roxy muttered.
“It frankly astounds me,” Lynn began, “with everything that is happening, all over the world now, that the focus of our military is to use my grandson and the others in a war on other countries. Can you truly be that blind to what’s happening?”
“I’m not spending a lot of time on this, given that should your grandson trigger you, ma’am, then God knows what could happen to anyone near you. I can see by your expression that you understand. The world’s militaries have joined the small pockets of SSA agents in scrambling to find the individuals causing these disasters. What do you think power-hungry governments will do with that? Take North Korea—besieged by hurricanes. If they find the person causing them, what would they do with that kind of weapon?”
“My God,” Lynn’s hand rose before her. “This isn’t an attack on just one country. This is a global crisis—”
“And the United States will not fall. We had a real chance of stopping this until you undermined every effort to protect this nation. Four of them were gathered. We had a chance of determining what it is inside you that’s making this happen, maybe even remove it—”
“You can’t,” Lynn said, biting her lip.
The general stopped. “Whatever you know, Mrs. Roseworth, you’re going to tell us. Including the location of Don Rush and his sister Barbara. I think you understand why it’s vital we find him as well. You’re all going to tell us everything you know. Every one of you will do exactly as I direct from now on.”
“You don’t know us well. None of us takes orders from men very well,” Roxy said.
“We’re tracking that flight carrying your nephew. We have suspicions as to where they’re going. And it’s where you’re going to go to convince your grandson to turn himself in. That storm is just a taste of what he can do with those people. He has to be stopped. Don’t you see: He’s gathering them, just like we think they want him to do. He is not who you think he is at all.”
NINETEEN
The devil was coming.
Juan Rodriguez knew it, judging by the intensity of the smoke smudging the skies, smearing the sun. He watched it from the flatbed of the Ford, repeatedly jarred by the perilous terrain of the dirt roads woven among the orchards. The others attempted to continue sleeping, their mouths covered in cheap surgical masks, but not him. He’d actually slept last night, given it was his turn for the single bed. He’d collapsed into it and didn’t stir until the sound of the truck arriving.
And the truck always came, even as the valley burned.
“We just can’t let it all die,” Patrick said a few days ago, clapping him on the back.
Juan looked from the skies through the sliding window of the truck to see the back of Patrick’s thick neck. Even in a loose-fit unbuttoned shirt, a fat roll still extended just above his collar and beneath his short-cropped gray hair. The fat always spilled over when Patrick strained his neck to wave to his wife, honking the horn while driving by their sprawling ranch home. That was before he sent her and their daughters away when the flames appeared on the horizon.
Patrick had not, however, demanded his workers flee as well. At least not all of them, including those housed in his rental property, nestled deep in citrus trees. He even allowed them to turn on the single window air-conditioning unit at night. But when his truck arrived at dawn, that unit had better be turned off.
To the inhabitants of his rental, he offered triple the pay if they stayed. “Stupid to tell everyone to leave.” Patrick had spit out his chew when he’d extended the deal. “You can’t force a man off his land. This is my land! Government can’t take it. That’s what they want to do, you know. I’ve got a twelve-gauge waiting for them if they step one foot on it.”
Juan and the others had just stared at him, doing the calculations in their minds. Mama could get that hip surgery. Maybe even get Tommy across the border, if the price hasn’t gone up.
“Damn fires probably won’t even make it here! Where do they think they’re going to get their damn orange juice if we cut and run? Screw them and their blockade. You can keep people from coming in, but my ass if they’re going to force us out.”
So of course Juan had stayed, even when the video on their grainy television showed weary firefighters battling what the graphic on the bottom of the screen repeatedly labeled “FIRE CRISIS.” At the beginning, all the reporters talked about was finding the ignition source for the fire that was cutting a swath through the fertile farmland, burning tens of thousands of acres. But now, all anyone focused on was how even with the military’s assistance, the fire kept raging, even springing up in areas not even close to other flames.
It was no wonder Juan dreamed of fire.
And he could feel the devil coming to watch it all burn.
Juan said a prayer to Mother Mary to keep away Diablo. The devil wouldn’t rise from hell with horns and red skin; he would look like every other entitled white man. He would have red hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. He would be handsome and tall. Juan feared he’d see him every time he closed his eyes to sleep.
Juan knew the devil was responsible for the night he didn’t remember, and for turning his dislike for Patrick into hatred.
It had been a year now since Juan had woken with Patrick kicking him. Tasting dirt in his mouth, Juan felt the kick to his hip. He had rolled over to another kick, Patrick’s fat face leaning over him, blocking out the sun. “I don’t pay you get to get drunk and disappear!”
“No comprende.…”
“Listen,” Patrick had waved his fat finger in Juan’s face, “If you ever, I mean
ever, pull a bender like that again and not show up for work for an entire day, I’ll ship your ass back to Tijuana and give you to the border patrol myself. Understand that?”
Juan had scrambled to get on the truck, apologizing profusely.
The others had later explained as they’d stripped the clementines. Juan had gone out for a smoke before bed two nights ago and never returned. Patrick had rolled up this morning to find him lying outside on the ground.
“Tequila!” Mateo had joked.
Juan did like his Jose Cuervo, but only touched it on Saturday night when there was no possibility of work the next day (Patrick kept a Bible in the bed of his truck and thumped it often when talking about the merits of a hard day’s work). Juan had disappeared on a Tuesday night.
Later came the dreams of fire, and the white man watching him. Juan knew the dreams were a warning from his Heavenly Father that the devil was near, and that he needed to protect his soul and himself.
So when Mateo had privately shown him the Smith & Wesson 629 he’d purchased from the alley behind the 7-Eleven, Juan had asked how he could get one as well. Mateo had made it happen, and Juan kept it with him at all times, contained in the side pocket of his cargo pants. The devil could come anytime, and Juan would be ready. And if Patrick decided to kick him ever again …
When he had such thoughts, he’d pray to Mother Mary for forgiveness and quickly pat the weapon.
Juan slid forward when the truck suddenly veered off the road and came to a rough stop beneath the citrus trees. He and the others knew what to do. They scrambled to lie down, throwing the filthy blankets Patrick kept in the bed of the truck over themselves. Even under the heavy blankets, they could hear the whirl of the military helicopter pass over and then fade away. When the sound was gone, the truck lurched forward.
It happened at least once a day. When they were picking in the orchards, all they had to do was make sure they remained deep in the foliage. Patrick always kept the truck parked beneath the leaves so it couldn’t be seen. At night, Patrick would choose one of them to go with him as he used one of the few back roads not blocked off by the military to make the delivery.
“Trust me on this,” Patrick always repeated. “These oranges are like solid gold. Stupid celebrities in LA will pay twelve times over for the last of the true fruit from the valley, just for the bragging rights. Got to keep the money flowing until these fires die down. Government can’t take everything from us.”
The truck turned into the grove and pivoted underneath the widest of canopies. Juan and the others slid out, their muscles already stiff from the jarring ride. One by one, they grabbed the ladders and set off for the trees.
Thankfully, Juan’s ladder opened easily underneath a particularly thick patch of mandarins. It didn’t always happen, for the ladders were constantly used and moved. As he climbed to the top, grasping the first fruit, he heard the commotion beneath.
Mateo was shaking his own ladder, angrily trying to pry it open. Don’t, Juan wanted to cry out. Treat it gentle–
With a loud crash, the ladder fell to the ground in two succinct parts, the worn-out hinges spilling out in the grass, nuts and bolts forever lost. Mateo stood above it, astonished.
Patrick moved like a bull from where he leaned on the truck. “Damn fool!” he charged. “Son of a bitch! You’re gonna climb that tree like a fucking monkey! No place for me to buy a new ladder at this point. You know how much money you cost me, monkey? That’s all you all are, a bunch of monkeys.”
When Patrick shoved Mateo, Juan reached down to his pocket. The gun felt heavy resting against his thigh.
Patrick reached up and pulled down an orange, shoving it in Mateo’s face. “You’re worth less than this. You know that? What it’s going to cost me to smuggle in a new ladder is coming out of your wages. You comprende?”
Patrick began to peel the mandarin with his hands. Each peel he removed, he then whipped at Mateo. “Just consider each one of these peels a dollar not in your pocket. One, two, three. Get up that damn tree! Climb it boy!”
With a swift move of his leg, he kicked Mateo towards the tree, chomping into the orange.
Juan had seen Patrick do it before. It horrified him each time Patrick swallowed the mini fruits whole. The farmer was clearly proud of his ability to do so. Juan imagined the fruit slipping past Patrick’s tongue, causing him to choke. He thought about it having a bitter taste, perhaps because of a white mold on the inside. Or better yet, a black widow spider had chosen that particular fruit and was at this moment about to strike the inside of the farmer’s cheek.
Juan pictured the mandarin as a tiny sun, fiery to the touch.
Patrick clutched his throat and gasped. First it was just his left hand, but then his right flew up as well. Juan saw a bit of Patrick’s tongue emerge. Was it scorched black?
Juan dropped the orange in his own hand when the smoke began to leak from Patrick’s mouth. When the black mark began to show between his sausage fingers on his even fatter throat, Juan began to rapidly climb down. By the time he’d reached the ground, Patrick was already lying in the grass, rolling around like a pig in the dirt.
Juan and the others rushed over, horrified at the smell of singeing flesh. Patrick’s neck was opening up, burning from the inside out.
“Help me,” he gasped, unable to stop the widening hole. They saw a flash of the trachea, and for a moment, a bit of flame from inside his throat. His eyes bulging, Patrick thrashed to his side, and then stopped moving.
They all scooted back as a small, completely burnt orange rolled from the gaping hole in the dead man’s throat.
For several moments, they stood in silent astonishment. Then Mateo was moving, yelling for the others to help move Patrick’s body into the back of the truck. “We dump him,” Mateo ordered. “Close to where the fires are burning! No one will ever know!”
Juan could only watch them carry the body, his hand struggling to make the sign of the cross. His heart was heavier than the untouched pistol in his pocket.
* * *
The cable networks were clearly struggling to keep up. CNN, FOX, MSNBC, their beleaguered anchors repeatedly trying to stay on top of each unfolding disaster.
Quincy repeatedly flipped between the channels on the large-screen television mounted in the front of the plane.
FOX branded their coverage “Crisis on the Coasts.” Their blond anchorwoman stood in front of a wall of monitors, each highlighting a different disaster. “The Pope is calling for worldwide prayer in the wake of what you’re seeing here—”
Flip.
“Our Mumbai bureau is reporting the president of India is calling for a mass evacuation of the southern tip of the nation in the wake of the wildfires there,” read a CNN anchor. “I’m sorry folks, I know it seems like we’re moving minute by minute to new developments, but that’s how quickly this is unfolding. We have to go now LIVE to Rome where the Pope is prepared to speak to the masses flooding the Vatican—”
Flip.
The MSNBC anchor team sat in front of a panel of gathered journalists. “Kimberly, we’re hearing from the White House the same message, aren’t we? The president is urging calm, repeating what he’s said often in the last twenty-four hours, that the hurricanes have stopped—”
“Except for that freak storm just outside Washington,” the reporter said. “He also points out the violence that has sprung up in other countries has been largely avoided here in the last few weeks here. But he can’t say the same for the wildfires out west or—”
Flip.
“Quincy, can you at least mute it for a minute?” William said, standing up from where the two sat.
“Good idea. I don’t know much more I can watch.”
“I can’t stop thinking about Steven. And my Aunt Kate. Did they make it out of that warehouse before the storm tore it apart? And my grandmother, my aunt Stella, and Roxy … did they get away safely in time from that protest?”
“I wish I had the answers, Wil
l. I can only imagine once that storm was spotted, that building cleared fast. Your aunt is an important person, and Steven is valuable to the SSA, they’ll want to keep them alive. I know the plan was for your grandmother and the rest to bust out once they lit the fire of that protest. They knew they had to get away to avoid being captured again. I know you want to reach out to her to know for sure.”
“I do. But … I have to talk to Jane first.”
“OK. I better make sure there’s going to be a place for us to even land in all that smoke.”
While Quincy went to talk to the pilot, William turned to slowly walk down the aisle.
He could feel Jane’s simmering anger as he approached. She sat in the back, in between Lily and Ryan, her hands moving protectively to land on both their knees.
“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” William said.
“You’ll understand I’m having a hard time believing that, knowing at any moment you can just choose to activate us. Even without telling us.”
“I swear to you, back there in the warehouse is the only time I’ve ever purposely triggered you. All the other times … in those dreams … I wasn’t in control.”
“I believed you. I really did, William. But for all that talk in the hospital about stopping the storms, you brought it. You used me to do it. I’m already completely torn up about all the deaths I’ve caused in New Orleans—”
“That wasn’t your fault, Jane—”
“But you knowingly just did it back there. How many other people died?”
William shook his head. “I had to get us out. I have to show them.”
“Show them what? All you’ve done is demonstrate you can use us to cause complete destruction. What do you think this looks like now? We’re on our way to California. I know it. It’s where the wildfires are burning—”
“I have to show them that I can stop it,” William said. “I’m sorry, Jane. I really am, making you bring that storm. I put my own family in danger. They were nearby after that protest, even if Quincy said the plan was for my grandmother to drive far away. But don’t you get it? If I can find the man causing the fires, find a way to touch him and stop him, then we’ll all be together. And we can show them that I can stop it all. At least in the US. Then, if there’s a way, I’ll go all over the world to stop the others.”
The Dark Above Page 30