Those were the kinds of questions she wanted to ask Ethan. Maybe that would give her a hint of where these people had come from and where they may have taken Nikki. She laid the damp cloth across Dale’s forehead and went to Lou and Ethan.
“How is he?” she asked.
Lou didn’t look up at her. “I think he’ll make it. I just ain’t comfortable with the fact that he keeps passing out.”
Now that she got a better look, Carole could see a knot on the side of Ethan’s head where a blunt object had struck him. Ethan watched her from where he lay.
“I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am we weren’t here to help them, Lou.”
Lou shook his head. “You lost both your kids, and I still have my son. Can’t imagine what you’re feeling right about now.”
“Just be glad you can’t see what’s inside my head,” she replied. “I can’t help feeling this is somehow all my fault.”
Lou glanced up, and their eyes met. He’d been crying earlier, she could see that now. “You carry too much on those shoulders of yours. Far more than you need to. Ain’t healthy, and none of it will help get you back to your kids.”
She nodded. He was right. The guilt was making her spin wheels, which would only bring her to a place of even greater grief. “There is something I wanted to ask Ethan.”
Lou shifted. “I’m not sure this is the best time ... ”
“He was the one with Nikki when she was taken. He may be the only one.”
“I feel your pain, Carole, but he’s barely ... ”
Ethan put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “It’s fine, Dad. What did you wanna know?”
“The men who took Nikki,” she asked, “what were they wearing?”
The boy’s eyes seemed to stare off into space as he tried to remember. “Their clothes were black ... ”
“Leather?”
“Could be.”
“Was that all? Were any other patterns you can remember in the way they were dressed?”
Ethan brought his hand to his head, and Lou stepped in immediately.
“That’s enough, Carole.”
She wanted nothing more than to find a clue which might hint to where the captives had been taken.
“OK, Lou,” she said, wondering what she should do next.
She turned to leave when someone lying on a blanket on the ground touched her ankle. A red-haired teenager, no older than 17, with a face full of freckles and a bloody bandage wrapped around his abdomen, waved her down to where he lay.
“Did you see something?”
“Christopher,” he said holding out his hand. Carole shook it. “Yes. The two who attacked me were wearing bellhop suits like you see at fancy hotels where they carry your bags up to your room and you have to tip them and everything. The one who stabbed me in the belly with a kitchen knife was wearing a name tag. Jimmy Carter, like the president. I remember ‘cause I was thinking at the time ‘I just got stabbed by a former president.’”
Carole smiled. “Could you see what hotel they worked at?”
“‘Course. Once I see something I don’t ever forget it. They were from the Grand America Hotel.”
Alvarez
Grand America Hotel, Salt Lake City, UT
School’s in for summer, Alvarez thought wryly as he toured the hotel. At his side was Jeffereys, struggling along on a pair of crutches, leading him past groups of brutes seated before terrified captives. The prisoners were attempting to educate his men. A young girl, whose drab clothing gave her away as a member of that wretched cult, did her best to teach men dressed in rags how to say hello. She waved her hand back and forth in a wide arc, palm out, tears streaming down her soft cheeks.
“Hello,” she said, through a pair of quivering lips.
A thick chain around her foot was fastened to the wall to prevent her escape.
The men circled around her looked on blankly. They, too, were bound to chairs that had been removed from the ballroom.
All this progress was like music to Alvarez’ ears. Binding men and “employees” to chairs was an unfortunate necessity. One driven home after a middle-aged captive was torn to shreds by the savages he was trying to educate. It was the fear they sensed. Alvarez didn’t have a shred of doubt that was it. But blood and guts aside, folks with memories of the old ways were a valuable commodity now and weren’t to be wasted.
In the absence of order created by the fall, the brutes had developed something of a pecking order all their own, and it went something like this: The strong killed the weak. The weak died in the thousands and the millions. It meant the numbers under Alvarez’ direct control were always fluctuating, but there would be more. When one calculated the sheer numbers who must have survived the initial earthquake and the carnage that followed The Shift – even if a small percentage of them lasted through the coming months – it still represented millions of potential soldiers. Whipping them into anything resembling a viable fighting force would take time, but Alvarez was confident Jeffereys would oversee the process quite nicely.
The sound of Harry’s voice had faded over these last few days. Though Harry’s face was still there. The old man’s white hair and those sparkling eyes, it was all so hard to forget. Unlike the pain of losing his family. Lately, he had even forgotten what his son looked like. How strange, after they’d been dead such a short time.
But inside, Alvarez knew the man he used to be was long gone, swallowed whole in some great void. He felt like a schizophrenic with thousands of different personalities jostling just beneath the surface, and in a way he couldn’t quite explain, each one of them was him. This was how crazy people must feel, except Alvarez knew he wasn’t crazy. He had a job to do. The most important job in the world and somehow, on some deep, dark level, a job he knew he’d waited thousands of years to complete.
Padding along beside Alvarez was his entourage, including his concubine, Anita, who he’d named in memory of his late wife. The now-grimy blouse and skirt she wore made it clear she’d been some sort of office worker, but after The Shift, Anita’s complete memory wipe had melted away all of her inhibitions. Alvarez had worried the first night he took her into his master suite – certainly not on the top floor, since the power to run the elevators still eluded them – that his touch might turn her to ash, but it hadn't done more than make her flesh bloom with red flowers. Apparently, what he had done to at least a half dozen brutes who’d made the fatal error of displeasing him was a power he wielded at his discretion. For dark-haired and luscious Anita, however, the slight sting of Alvarez’ touch had only turned her on even more and during one particular night of animalistic pleasure, her nails had scratched his back raw.
Standing just behind Anita were the two men who had cleared the tables from the ball room on that first day. He’d named them Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dee. Not that they knew their names or what a name was, for that matter. The reason was simple enough. They were the only ones who understood the rather crude sign language Alvarez had developed to communicate orders.
A finger pointing to the ground meant “Come here.” Pointing to an individual and then to the space before Alvarez meant “Bring them before me.” And drawing a thin line with the nail of his thumb across his neck ... Well, that one they’d learned almost immediately.
“How soon can they be ready?” Alvarez asked, not bothering to hide his impatience.
Almost on cue, one of the brutes snatched the pistol from the captive’s hand and began to study it, turning it over in his hands until he was staring straight into the barrel. His thumb fumbled over the trigger and squeezed, producing an audible click. If the gun had been loaded, the savage’s brains would have painted the wall behind him.
Jeffereys leaned on one of his crutches and ran a free hand through his greasy hair. “Hard to say,” he replied, chewing on his lip, looking worried. “The first group we attempted to train with firearms went nuts and shot the instructor. After that, we stopped giving them loaded guns.”
&nbs
p; “They may act like ignorant children,” Alvarez said, “but make no mistake, Mr. Jeffereys, they aren’t stupid. Once they catch on, their progress will be exponential.” Alvarez turned to Anita, who was grinning. “Isn’t that right, Darling?”
She didn’t respond, because she’d forgotten how to speak English, but her devilish grin was more than enough for Alvarez.
Alvarez reached over and cupped Anita’s face and as he did so, small circular welts began to form on her skin around the pads of his fingers.
Jeffereys cleared his throat.
Retracting his hand, Alvarez turned. “Is there anything else you’d like to show me?” he asked.
“There isn’t.” Jeffereys said.
The slaver’s agitation was making Alvarez unhappy.
“Well, maybe one thing,” Jeffereys added. “That young girl we brought in ... what was her name again?”
“Nikki?”
“Yeah, Nikki.” Jeffereys’ thin lips were fighting not to betray his true feelings. “She’s got amnesia, not as bad as most of the cavemen around here, but she has it nonetheless.”
“And your point is?” The impatience in Alvarez’ voice was coming through loud and clear.
“Well, she can’t teach anyone anything,” Jeffereys said. “So she’s pretty useless. I was wondering if you’d considered my request to keep her.”
“Ahh, I see. You’ve taken a shine to the girl. You’re right about one thing, she isn’t like the others. She has a gift. I saw it the minute you brought her before me, a gift you probably wouldn’t understand or believe.”
“You saying she’s psychic?”
Alvarez laughed. “No, I’m not talking about parlor tricks. She sees memories, lost memories.”
Jeffereys still had a rather puzzled look on his narrow little face when the pickup truck sped up to the Grand America Hotel’s roundabout. Two of Jeffereys’ men exited the vehicle. With them was a new prisoner. A man wearing a blood-stained lab coat and a pair of jeans. It looked as though Jeffereys’ men had beaten him, and it was only when he drew nearer that Alvarez recognized the man.
“We found him on Interstate 80, driving into Salt Lake City. He had this on him.” One of the men tossed Jeffereys a Winchester shotgun, which he caught with some difficulty.
Blood dripped from a cut above the prisoner’s eye.
“Bring him to me,” Alvarez ordered. The two men did as they were told. Alvarez studied the man up and down. “I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Hud.”
The man’s good eye lit up.
“Oh, that’s right, you forgot your name, didn’t you, Benjamin? But you’ve made another name for yourself since then.”
The man nodded.
“So what would you like us to call you?”
“Call me Bud.”
Larry Nowak
Parking area, Rainbowland, UT
The grumble in Larry’s belly drew him to the Escalade’s rear hatch, the same car he’d been driving when he arrived in Rainbowland. He was down to his last can of beef stew. Strictly speaking, the stew and everything else in the truck really belonged to Bud, and Larry certainly appreciated how well his friend had stocked up for the long drive. But signs of food shortage in Rainbowland were everywhere. The cult members had spent a handful of years hoarding what they could, but surely these New Age knuckleheads couldn’t have expected it to last very long once survivors began showing up, most of them looking for handouts. Clearly, security wasn’t the only concern here. If Rainbowland was to continue and perhaps even flourish, then they would need to find a way of providing the bare necessities. Larry opened a cardboard box, fished a hand inside, and produced his last can of food. The opener was perched on a tarp, crumpled in a corner.
Where’s a goddamned spoon when you need one?
Must be back at his bunk. Larry upended the can and savored the brothy juice and the thick chunks of beef.
Reading through All Father’s journal had convinced Larry there was something incredibly fishy about the man who fancied himself the spiritual leader of Rainbowland. The disappearance of his daughter. Their differing views on the direction the cult was heading in. Not to mention her warning that someone – her own father, no less – would tear the cult apart. It didn’t matter if the old man had really killed her, not once Larry exposed his lies and planted the seeds of doubt in people’s minds.
The hand that touched his shoulder startled him. He turned around to find Timothy, his normally cheerful cherubic features looking strained.
“I hope you weren’t intending to drive this, Brother Larry.”
Larry finished chewing, wiped some broth off his chin with the sleeve of his shirt, and put the can down. “I’m one of you now,” he said. “I know it’s forbidden.”
Timothy relaxed. “I just wouldn’t want anyone seeing you and getting the wrong impression, is all. I had to pull an enormous amount of strings to have you inducted, I hope you understand.”
“I do,” Larry said evenly.
“What was it you wanted to see me about then? Is it the food shortages, because All Father’s quite concerned ... ”
“It’s not the food,” Larry said. “We’ve got a bigger problem.”
Timothy leaned in, concerned. “What now?”
Larry produced Abigail’s journal from under his shirt and handed it to Timothy.
“Where did you get this?”
“Don’t ask,” Larry snapped. “Have you read it?”
“‘Course not. We were told it had been destroyed. The only existing copy we knew of was what All Father had transcribed by hand.”
A female cult member passed them and smiled.
“Sister Tracy,” Timothy said in acknowledgement, not entirely able to hide his astonishment at Larry’s news.
“There’s stuff in there that’ll make your head spin,” Larry said. “All Father keeps blathering on about how he doesn’t believe in evil, that people are inherently good, yada yada yada. Well, guess what? Your own prophet, Abigail, says different.”
“Please keep your voice down.”
“Why? People need to know they’re being lied to.”
“Yes, Brother Larry, but not like this.”
“How did Abigail die?” Larry asked pointedly.
“She drowned in the river.” Timothy dropped his gaze, his face glowing red even in the fading light. “We suspect it was a suicide.”
“Hmm,” Larry said, biting his lip with a touch of disappointment. “Did you know she was trying to warn against a corrupt leader within the cult? She didn’t quite call him out by name, but she was practically pointing the finger at All Father, and I think he had her killed.” Larry paused. “Might have even done it himself.”
“That’s absolutely ridiculous.”
“Is it really? She’s talking about an approaching war between good and evil. Granted, it’s all a bit far out, but it doesn’t matter whether it’s true. She thought it was, and All Father didn’t. It’s clear enough he’s been trying to create some sort of New Age utopia. Peace and love and all that hippy shit, but he had one problem: His prophet wasn’t playing ball. With her gone, he could twist the cult’s beliefs into whatever shape he wanted.”
Timothy was stunned. “What are you going to do?”
Larry smiled, peeling the book out of Timothy’s hands. “I’m gonna use this to make him give us what we want.”
“What we want ... What do we want?”
Just then a young cult member jogged over and nodded to Timothy.
“All Father would like to see you.”
The two men looked at each other, then Timothy turned back to the messenger. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”
Larry put a hand on Timothy’s shoulder. “All we want is to make Rainbowland safe again.”
With Timothy off to address All Father’s wishes, Larry decided he’d clear out the Escalade’s hatch, if for no other reason than to make sure there wasn’t a box of food he’d overlooked. The tarp was the first item he re
moved. Under it was a box with a number of hoses for siphoning gas. Beside that was a bag filled with shotgun shells. Under that a thick metal briefcase.
Was this some fancy pistol Bud had snatched from a gun shop in NYC?
He flipped both latches, opened the lid and couldn’t believe his eyes.
Holy shit, Batman!
What he was seeing wasn’t a gun at all. It looked like two bricks of C4 with detonators taped to the side and a cell phone attached to the face.
“The hell was Bud doing with this?” Larry asked himself.
“What’d you say?”
Larry slammed the briefcase shut and spun around. Dana was standing there. A metal sheriff’s badge was pinned her to chest. It was all beginning to feel like some very strange dream.
“Who’s Bud?”
“Nobody, I was just grumbling about the food shortage.”
“A group is heading out first thing in the morning to get some supplies, but I don’t know how long we can all keep living off of canned beans. Our tent’s already smelling pretty funky on its own. I’m afraid we’re gonna need to start growing things.”
“I agree,” Larry said, sounding distracted and knowing it.
“Anything wrong?”
Yeah, there are two fucking bombs in my trunk, that’s what’s wrong, he thought, but didn’t say. Instead, he gently flicked her sheriff’s star. “What’s this all about?”
“Not really sure. Good news, I think you’ll agree. All Father asked me to be the head of security for Rainbowland. I’ve got a ton of projects in mind for strengthening the compound.”
“Yeah, don’t hold your breath.”
“That’s not very helpful,” Dana said. She looked as though Larry was pissing all over a report card filled with A’s.
“Believe me, I’m not in a hurry to have another gun shoved in my face. I just know the kind of man All Father is. We’re at war with these people, Dana. They want us dead or enslaved, and the only way to stop that from happening will be to make some very hard decisions. Decisions I don’t think he’s capable of.”
Primal Shift: Volume 1 (A Post Apocalyptic Thriller) Page 32