Plank fished for his key ring, unlocked the door, and pushed it open about an inch until it met resistance. Albie and Rayford stepped forward to help, but Plank said, "I got this."
He backed up his chair, then threw it forward, bashing into the door and pushing past the bed that had been wedged against it. "Oh, no!" he said, and Rayford stepped over him, driving his shoulder into the door to force his way in.
The room was dark, but when he flipped the light switch, sparks startled him from the ceiling where the fixture had been. Light from the hall showed the fixture now on the floor, knotted at the end of a sheet. The other end was tight around Hattie's neck, and she lay there twitching.
"Tried to hang herself from a flimsy light," Plank said, as Albie leaped past him and slid up to Hattie on his knees. He and Rayford dug and tore at the sheet until it came loose. Rayford gently turned her on her back, and she flopped like a dead woman. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he saw that hers were open, pupils dilated.
"She was moving!" Albie whispered, grabbing her belt and lifting her hips off the floor. Rayford plugged her nose, forced her mouth open, and clamped his mouth over hers. Her tiny frame rose and fell as he breathed into her, and Albie applied pressure to help her breathe out.
"Shut the door," Albie told Plank.
"You don't need the light?"
"Shut it!" he whispered desperately. "We're going to save this girl, but nobody but us is going to know it."
Plank steered his chair to push the bed out of the way, then shut the door.
"She's got a pulse," Albie said. "You OK, Ray? Want me to take over?"
Rayford shook his head and continued until Hattie began to cough. Finally she gulped in huge breaths and blew them out. Rayford sat heavily on the floor, his back against the wall. Hattie cried and swore. "I can't even kill myself," she hissed. "Why didn't you let me die? I can't go back to Buffer!"
She collapsed in tears and lay rocking on the floor on her knees and elbows.
"She doesn't recognize anybody," Albie said.
Hattie looked up, squinting. Rayford leaned over and turned on a small lamp. "No, I don't," she said, peering at Albie and glancing at Rayford. "I know Commander Pinkerton here, but who are you losers?"
Albie pointed to Rayford. "He saved your life. I'm just his loser friend."
Hattie sat in the middle of the floor, her knees pulled up, hands clasped around them. And she swore again.
"You're not going to Buffer, Hattie," Rayford said finally, and it was clear she recognized his voice.
"What?" she said, wonder in her voice.
"Yeah, it's me," Rayford said. "There are no secrets in this room."
"You came?" she squealed, scrambling to him and trying to embrace him.
He held her away. She looked at Plank. "But…"
"We're all in this together," Rayford said wearily.
"I almost killed myself," Hattie said.
"Actually," Albie said, "you did."
"What?"
"You're dead."
"What are you talking about?"
"You want out of here? You want the GC off your back? You go out of here dead."
"What are you saying?"
"You called your old friend to rescue you. He refused. You were despondent. When you gave up hope and were convinced you were going to Buffer, you lost all hope, wrote a note, and hung yourself. We came to get you, discovered you too late, and what could we do? Report the suicide and dispose of the body."
"I did write a note," she said. "See?" She pointed to a slip of paper that had fallen off the bed.
Rayford picked it up and read it under the lamp. "Thanks for nothing, old FRIENDS!!!" she had written. "I vowed never to go back to Buffer, and I meant it. You can't win them all." "Sign it," Rayford said.
Hattie massaged her neck and tried to clear her throat. She found her pen and signed the note.
"How long can you hold your breath?" Albie asked. "Not long enough to kill myself, apparently." "We're going to wheel you out of here under a sheet, and you're going to have to look dead when we load you on the plane too. Can you pull that off?"
"I'll do whatever I have to." She looked at Plank. "You're in on this too?"
"The less you know, the better," he said. He glanced at Albie, then Rayford. "She never needs to know, far as I'm concerned." They nodded.
Plank told them to leave the sheet the way it was, with the light fixture still embedded in one end. "Use the other sheet from the bed to cover her, and do it now."
Rayford ripped the sheet from the bed, and Hattie lay on the bare mattress. He floated the sheet atop her and let it settle. Plank opened the door. "Mrs. Garner!" he called, "we've had a tragedy here!"
"Oh my-"
"No, don't come! Just stay where you are. The prisoner hanged herself, and the GC will dispose of the remains."
"Oh, Commander! I-is that what I heard?"
"Possibly."
"Could I have done something? Should I have?"
"There's nothing you could have done, ma'am. Let's let these men do their work. Bring the gurney from Utility."
"I don't have to look, do I, sir?" "I'll handle it. Just get it for me. I'll dictate a report later."
Despite her ashen countenance and protestations, Rayford noticed that Mrs. Garner watched the "body" until it was loaded into the minivan. He was amazed at Hattie's ability to look motionless under that sheet.
Plank agreed to call ahead to the former Carpathia Memorial Airstrip to clear the way for Deputy Commander Elbaz and his driver to pull Judy Hamilton's vehicle right up to their fighter jet in order to load a body for transport. No, they would not need any assistance and would appreciate as little fuss as possible over it.
Hattie slipped back under the sheet a few miles from the airstrip, and though curious eyes peered through the windows, Rayford and Albie carried her aboard without arousing undue suspicion.
SEVEN
Buck pulled the Hummer out of the garage under the Strong Building after dark, lights off. He had spent the afternoon rigging up a special connection to the brake lights and backup lights. Once in regular traffic outside Chicago, he didn't want to risk getting stopped for malfunctioning rear lights, but neither did he want those lights coming on when he braked at Zeke's place.
Zeke himself was an expert at this and walked Buck through it by phone. It would be great when Zeke was tucked away at the new safe house, available to help with just those kinds of details. The brake lights were now disengaged, so with his lights on or off, Buck would have to manually illuminate them when applying the brake. A thin wire led from the back, through the backseat and up to the driver's side. If he could just remember to use it.
No one knew how frequently, if ever, the GC invested the time, equipment, and manpower to overfly the quarantined city their own databases told them was heavily radioactive. It didn't make sense that anyone would be near the place. If the readings were true-which David Hassid and the Tribulation Force knew was not the case-no one could live there long.
Still, Rayford's plan was to come and go in his helicopter from the tower in the dark of night. And Buck, or anyone else coming or going, would do the same from the garage. It was tricky going, because no light sources-outside the Strong Building-were engaged in the city. Unless the moon was bright, seeing anything in the dark was almost impossible on what used to be those miles of city streets.
Buck pulled away slowly, the gigantic Hummer propelling itself easily over the jagged terrain. He wanted to get used to the vehicle, the largest he had ever driven. It was surprisingly comfortable, predictably powerful, and-to his delight-amazingly quiet. He had feared it would sound like a tank.
Driving around Chicago in the dark was no way to familiarize himself with the car. He needed open road and the confidence that no one was paying attention. Half an hour later he hit the city limits and took the deserted frontage road that would deliver him into the suburbs without detection. He turned on his lights and set
the manual brake light switch where he could reach it with his left hand.
Near Park Ridge a rebuilt section actually had a few miles of new pavement and a couple of working traffic lights. The rest of northern Illinois seemed to have regressed to the earliest days of the automobile. Cars made their own trails through rubble, and rain sometimes made those routes impassable.
Buck saw a couple of GC squad cars, but traffic was light. When he felt safe, he tested the power of the Hummer and practiced several turns at varying speeds. The faster he went and the sharper he turned, the more violently his body was pressed against the safety belt. But it seemed nothing would make the Hummer tip. Buck found a deserted area where he was sure no one could see him and tried a couple of fast turns even on inclines. The Hummer seemed to ask for more. With its superwide stance, its weight, and its power, it had unmatched maneuverability. Buck felt as if he were starring in a commercial.
He floored the vehicle, got it up to near eighty on packed dirt, slammed on the brakes, and turned the wheel. The antilock system kept him from skidding or even hinting at going over. He couldn't wait to compete with whatever toy the GC was using in its stakeout in Des Plaines.
Buck had to calm himself. The idea was to pick up Zeke undetected. He considered stopping at the station like a normal customer and ramming the GC as they came to investigate. But they had phones and radios and a communications network that would hem him in. If he could find a way to approach the station from the back, lights out, they might never see him, even after he pulled away with his quarry.
His phone chirped. It was Zeke. "You close by?" the young man said.
"Not far. What's up?"
"We're gonna hafta torch this place."
"Why?"
"Once they figure they've busted every rebel that used to gas up here, they're going to torch it anyway, right?"
"Maybe," Buck said. "So why not let them?"
"They might search it first."
"And find what?"
"The underground, of course. I can't even think about gettin' all the stuff outta here that could give my dad away."
"What more can they do to him?"
"All they got him on now is sellin' gas without GC approval. They fine him or make him sit a month or two. If they find out me and him was runnin' a rebel forgery biz outta here, he becomes an enemy of the state."
"Good thinking." Buck never failed to be amazed at the street wisdom of the unlikely looking Zeke. Who would have guessed that the former druggie-biker-tattoo artist would be the best phony credentials man in the business?
"And remember, Mr. Williams. We were feedin' people outta here too. Groceries, you name it. Well, you know. You bought a bunch of 'em. OK, here's what I'm thinkin'. I rig up a timer to a sparking device. You know, it ain't the gas that burns anyway."
"I'm sorry?" Buck felt stupid. He had been a globe-trotting journalist, and a virtual illiterate was trying to tell him gasoline fires aren't what they seem?
"Yeah, it's not the gas that burns. When I was workin' above ground, helpin' Dad in the station when it was legal and all, I used to toss my cigarettes in a bucket of gas we kept in the service bay." "No, you didn't." "I swear." "Lit cigarettes?"
"Swear to – I mean, honest. That was how we put 'em out. They'd hiss like you was tossin' 'em into a bucket o' water."
"I'm confused."
"We kept gas in there to clean our hands on. Cuts grease, you know. Like if you just did an axle job and now you gotta go fill a tank or write on a credit card receipt or something."
"I mean I'm confused about how you could throw a cigarette into a container of gasoline."
"Lots of people don't know that or don't believe it." "How'd you keep from blowing yourselves to kingdom come?"
"Well, if the bucket of gas was fresh, you had to wait awhile. If you saw any of that shimmerin' of the fumes over it, like when you first pour it in there, or when you're fillin' your tank, well, you don't want any open flame of any kind near that."
"But once it sat and the, uh, shimmering fumes were gone?"
"Then we tossed our cigarette butts in there."
"So, it's the fumes."
"Yeah, it's the fumes what burns."
"I get it. So, your thoughts?"
"See, Mr. Williams, it works the same in an engine. Like a fuel-injected engine shoots a fine spray of gas into the cylinders and the spark plugs spark and burn it, but they're not burning the spray."
"The spray is emitting fumes and that's what's, in essence, exploding in the cylinder," Buck said. "Now you've got it."
"Good. I'm heading your way, so cut to the chase." "OK. I moved two huge boxes of stuff out by the pile of dirt in the back, and I got one big canvas bag. All my files, my equipment, everything is there. Even had room for some food."
"We have plenty of food, Zeke." "Never have enough food. Anyway, the stuff's out there waitin'. I figure if you don't get seen comin', I can be waitin' for ya and load my stuff in there real quick before I jump in."
"Sounds like a plan. Back to the torching." "Yeah. I've got auto parts down here. I cut a feed from the pipe that leads to the storage tank, which runs right by the wall we dug out here, and I hook a fuel injector to it. When I leave, I turn the spigot, the gas runs through the fuel injector and starts sprayin' gasoline."
"And pretty soon the underground is filled with gas." "Fumes."
"Right. And you, what, toss a match down the stairs on your way out to the car?" Zeke laughed.
"Shh."
"Yeah, they can't hear me. But no, tossing a flame down here then would blow me all the way to Chicago. Save you a trip, eh?"
"So how do you ignite it?"
"Put a spark plug on a timer. Give myself five minutes or so, just in case. At the right time, kaboom." "Kaboom." "Bingo."
"Zeke, even if I agreed, you'd never have time to rig that all up. I'm not ten minutes away." "I figured you'd agree." "And so-?" "It's all done." "You're kiddin' me."
"Nope. If you're ten minutes away, I'll set the timer for fifteen, and when I leave I'll open the spigot." "Hoo, boy, you're resourceful." "I know how to do stuff." "You sure do, but do me a favor." "Name it."
"Set the timer for five, but don't start it until after you've turned the spigot on your way out. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Oh, and one more thing. Make sure I'm there before you open that spigot."
"Oh, yeah, right. That would be important."
"Kaboom, Zeke."
"Bingo."
"Call you when I get there."
"Her name is not in our system, David," Nurse Palemoon said. He tried to sit up and she shushed him. "That doesn't have to mean the worst."
"How can you say that? The sun is coming up, and I haven't heard from her. She'd communicate with me if she could!"
"David, you must calm down. This room is empty but not secure. Your friends are on their way, but you can't trust anyone else."
"Tell me about it. Hannah, you have got to get me out of here. I can't stay here another few days. There is so much I have do before leaving New Babylon."
"I can supply you with extra meds and dressings and try to make sure you're set, but you're going to be sore."
"I'm not worried about that. Will you-" His throat caught and he couldn't say it. "Ah, would you-"
"You want me to check the morgue?" She said it with such compassion that he nearly broke down.
He nodded.
"I'll be right back. If your friends get here while I'm gone, remind them there are ears everywhere."
Rayford and Albie and their human cargo from Colorado put down at a tiny airstrip near Bozeman, Montana, rather than try to get back to Kankakee without sleep. Albie bluffed and blustered the tiny GC contingent at the strip, who bought his story of transporting a criminal and let the three of them borrow a jeep to get into town.
Such as it was. Bozeman had been left with few amenities, but one was a nearly deserted motel where they rented two rooms. "I don't guess w
e have to worry about you bolting," Rayford told Hattie.
"Compared to Buffer," she said, "the new safe house sounds like heaven."
"You'll be in for the pitches of your life," he said. "There are more of us, and you're going to be our prime target."
"I might just listen for once," she said.
"Don't say that lightly." "I don't say anything lightly anymore." Hattie had a million questions about Pinkerton Stephens, but Rayford and Albie told her only that "he is one of us." Then she wanted Albie's story, and he told of becoming a believer after a lifetime as a Muslim. "You know who I mean when I mention Tsion Ben-Judah then?" he said.
"Do I know?" she said. "I know him personally. Talk about a man who loves the unlovable…"
"Are you speaking of yourself, young lady?"
She snorted and nodded. "Who else?"
"Let me tell you something. I was unlovable. I was no kind of husband or father. My whole family is dead now. I was a criminal, and the only people who cared about me paid me well to get what they needed for illegal acts. I began to justify my existence when my black marketing was used to oppose the new evil world ruler. But I would not have called him Antichrist, would not even have known the term. I was in the same business when the world was merely chaotic, not so evil. My god was cash, and I knew how to get it.
"When Mac and Rayford needed my services, I took some comfort in the fact that they seemed to be good people. I was no longer just helping criminals. I watched them, listened to them. They were outlaws in the eyes of the Global Community, but to me that was a badge of honor.
"When all the predictions Mac and Rayford had told me began coming true, I could not admit to them I was intrigued. More than that, I was scared. If this were all true, then I was an outsider. I was not a believer. I began monitoring the Internet messages of Dr. Ben-Judah without telling my friends. I was full of pride still. What struck me hardest was that Dr. Ben-Judah made it so clear that God was the lover of sinners. Oh, I knew I was that. I just could hardly accept that anyone would love me.
"I downloaded a Bible to my computer and would switch back and forth between it and Dr. Ben-Judah. I was able to see where he was getting his information, but his insights! Those had to come from God alone. What I was learning went against everything I had ever heard or been taught. My first prayer was so childish that I would never have prayed it aloud in front of another living soul.
The Mark: The Beast Rules the World Page 8