The Next Dawn

by Cooper, C. G.

  “Take her to the van,” the voice in the dark said.

  Male. Smoker. Probably late forties. She still couldn’t see him, but at least her other senses were working.

  “Get up,” said one of the men in masks. That’s when it hit her. The other voice, the man with the gun—his voice wasn’t muffled.

  “My legs fell asleep,” she said, trying to make her weak voice carry.

  “What did you say?”

  “She said her legs fell asleep,” said the other voice. He sounded bored, like this was beneath him. “Get up, lady.”

  Dottie hesitated. In the old days she might’ve done it. The blobs weren’t armed and there was cover to hide behind. She could have done it. Taking the two out would’ve been cake. Strawberry cake with vanilla icing. It was the third that worried her. The red mark hadn’t moved. The man’s tone never sounded elevated. Adrenaline fully under control. No amateur.

  Best not to make that one mad. There was still the tingle that this was a mistake, that she’d tripped into a quiet body sweep. She knew from experience that there were always bodies and that it was always someone’s duty to move those bodies. These three men could be the body disposers.

  She was about to plead her innocence, to see if she could slip away unscathed, when a form darted in through the front door.

  Xavier!

  He ran between the two blobs, flashlight in hand. The blobs covered what Dottie could now see were night vision rigs. Even she had to shield her eyes from the blinding light.

  “Mommy!” Xavier screamed.

  Somewhere in the darkness, a suppressed weapon spat two times. Xavier crumpled to the ground mere feet from Dottie’s outreached hand.

  “There’s the one you missed,” said the voice, still nonplussed. “Put him in a bag and get him out of here.” The two blobs did as they were told, huffing and puffing behind their masks.

  A form materialized from the darkness, illuminated by the flashlight that’d fallen from Xavier’s hands. Dottie had been wrong. This man wasn’t in his forties. He was likely in his sixties, a white beard tickling his black-clad chest.

  She recognized him instantly.

  The weapon in his hand was pointed at her again. “You probably think I’m a monster,” the man said, bending down so he could smile at Dottie, eye level. He cocked his head. “You don’t look scared. That’s funny.”

  There was a whiff of peppermint on his breath.

  “Why did you kill the boy?”

  Mr. White Beard glanced over to where Xavier died. “I did him a favor.”

  “By murdering him?”

  “He was already dead.”

  The questions started to pile up in Dottie’s head. But the man squeezed his trigger three times, and three times Dottie felt the hot tear of lead rip through flesh, muscle, and bone. She tried to find her pistol, but her hands wouldn’t work.

  The man stared down at her, shaking his head as she gasped for breath, blood gurgling up in her throat.

  The last thing she remembered before succumbing to her wounds, was a clear body bag wrapping her like a cocoon, and the sound of the zipper closing her off to the world.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fran Markus

  The bodies were stacked and covered with home-design paraphernalia—curtains and rugs—in case the cops started snooping. Calls could be made, but that was the last resort. No need to pull out a badge or hit the big, red button unless things got hot.

  Fran Markus stuck his head in the passenger side window. “Stay at the speed limit. If anyone asks, you stayed late for a job.”

  “Yeah, yeah. We know the story.” The guy was still wearing his suit and mask.

  “Maybe take off the mask before the cops think you’re chasing aliens,” Fran said, the reprimand cutting through any complaint.

  The two helpers did as they were told, though reluctantly. They thought the masks and hoo-hoo getup was some sort of protection. Fran knew the truth. If they were going to be exposed, they already had been. X-99 was an equal-opportunity contaminant.

  He slapped the van’s side twice and the vehicle took off for its final stop of the morning. Fran tugged at his white beard and wished he had a cigarette. But he’d promised his new girlfriend. He’d promised his doctor. He’d promised them all. So he dug in his pocket and took out another cheap, red and white peppermint, popped it in his mouth, and pretended he was sucking the tobacco out of a hand-rolled cig.

  Then he went back to work. A sign was installed in the front yard announcing that the carpets in this house had been cleaned by Happy Clean Carpet Cleaners. A stupid name for what Fran thought was a stupid cover. But people were stupid, at least in his opinion. Look at how the idiots believed everything they saw on TV. Morons. Sometimes he imagined the conversations in the homes he passed.

  “Gee, Ma, did you hear that Congressman So-And-So said that X-99 is passed through ear wax contact?”

  “You don’t say!”

  “They said it on TV.”

  “Well, now, then it must be true!”

  Yeah, they were idiots alright.

  He’d hated the years trucking, running all over the country delivering everything from diapers to grain. But he took his medicine. He knew that the time would come again when the world needed a man like Fran Markus. He’d gotten the hard-working bit from his father, a door-to-door guitar salesman back in the day when no one scoffed at such a profession. The old man would get ’em hooked with a strumming tune and leave with his pockets green. Fran loved going along with his father, sometimes playing backup to show the kids that even a youngster could do it. Yeah, they’d been a good team. And even though they never talked about much else other than how to make the next sale, Fran always appreciated the fact that his father worked hard, never cussed, never had a sip of anything stronger than lemonade. Surprisingly good for a man who’d lost his wife in childbirth.

  He did one more pass around the house. Another team would come in the morning to officially sanitize the place. His was the most important part, at least in his own opinion. The idiots he’d just shoved off to the death park hadn’t even seen the old lady. More idiots. Fran had wanted to kill them, too, just to make a point.

  But he had a job to keep. And he really wanted to keep this one. Things were picking up. He was running one team now. He knew bigger stuff was coming. It was only a matter of time. With X-99 as his wingman, Fran figured that by the time this pandemic blew over, he’d finally have enough money to retire to that little cabin up in the mountains. He’d fly fish every day and ride his Harley when he got bored. He didn’t really care whether his current squeeze went with him or not. A decent lay was one thing. A life partner was quite another.

  His job done for the day, Fran took the long way back to his car, an old beater he bought for this job. It smelled like popcorn and foot funk inside. Perfect for keeping out curious eyes.

  Fran slipped in and coaxed the engine to life. It sputtered and coughed like a hound dog on its last leg. For some reason it made him think of the old woman in the house. She’d slipped in like a cat. Strange. And the pistol—he’d only noticed that after he’d shot her dead. What was she doing with a piece like that?

  There was a bagful of questions he’d never have to answer now. The lady was dead and about to be deader. What caught Fran’s attention, what got him thinking hard, was the look in her eyes before he shot her. She wasn’t afraid. They were always afraid. You throw a little violence at someone or point a gun at their head and they always freaked out. But not that one. Maybe she was crazy and didn’t understand the trouble she was in. Or maybe she thought she could take him on. If that was the case, he hated her that much more for it. She probably thought she was some empowered woman ready to take down every man who’d ever jilted her, or some crapola like that. A lot of good it brought her, facing down against a super soldier like Fran Markus.

  But what did it matter, really? She was dead now and gone. Check her off the list and move on. There’d
be too many jobs to really care about this one. He was already flipping the page when his cell phone buzzed. Another text. Another job. Another chance to secure his future doing something he loved more than life itself. It didn’t hurt to have the world’s best insurance policy pumping through his veins.

  Fran Markus clicked the link to the next address, giving the phone’s GPS a moment to register. Twenty minutes away. He could wait until the afternoon. The job description said three days to execute.

  But he wasn’t tired. And he loved the work. He’d do a quick drive by, maybe park nearby and recon before the real recon. No coffee needed. This was his life now, and he was enjoying every minute of it. Like crack for a junkie.

  Fran grinned and was surprised to see the face of the woman in his head again. She’d keyed his interest. Too bad she was dead. He’d like to see what she really had going on under the old head pan. Maybe in the next life. He put that intangible thought out of his mind. He couldn’t believe in an afterlife. Not when there was too much to do in this one.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fran Markus

  He went over the mental notes in his head. Never on paper. You never know when you might get pinched.

  He passed empty shopping centers and a McDonald’s with a line of cars around the corner. He thought about stopping at Starbucks for something, maybe one of those lemon loaf slices. They made it easy if you ordered through their mobile app.

  Nah. Best to catch some shut eye.

  The house he’d surveilled would be a cinch. New community. Residents who kept to themselves. It was the older ones you had to look out for, where old Mr. and Mrs. Frontporch had lived for fifty years. They noticed a new car. They noticed a van at midnight pulling into a neighbor’s drive.

  Easy-peasy, this one. Not much to think about.

  Nevertheless, he calculated entry times, measured the inside of the house in his head, did all the things that made him who he was: a professional.

  His mailbox was stuffed with junk mail. He’d have to get on his girlfriend about that. She was in charge of the house. She didn’t have a job, so what else did she have to do?

  He found out a minute later when he stepped into the house and smelled enough reefer to make Bob Marley choke.

  “What the—”

  “Hey! Look who’s home!”

  She was wearing a skimpy bikini that normally would’ve made his loins jump.

  “What the hell are you doing, Sheila? You trying to send smoke signals to the cops?”

  She wrapped her arms around him. “Didn’t you hear?” Her voice was dreamy and faraway. “The studies…” She was trying to find the words. “They say a little weed helps the virus go away.”

  “That’s total crap,” Fran said, prying his thirty-years-junior girlfriend off. She giggled when she noticed her breasts jiggle. That’s when it hit him. “Did you have a party while I was gone?”

  “I had some friends over.”

  He released her arms and barreled past her. Sheila’s friends were no friends of Fran’s. He would just as soon see them dead. That was yet another reason why a life in the faraway cabin fly fishing and riding sounded so appealing. If she was coming, she’d have to be alone.

  His heart clenched when he got to the bedroom. The place was a mess and the closet door was hanging open. He walked over and put a hand on the lock he’d installed himself. Ten digits to enter and only he and Sheila knew the code. He, for obvious reasons. She, just in case he got in a jam and needed her help.

  He groped inside, turned on the closet light, and pushed the hanging jeans and sweatshirts out of the way.

  Damn.

  The second door was open too. Maybe she’d gotten bored after her friends left. Sheila would take a bag of grenades from a stranger if asked. Hers was a clean soul, always trusting. He knew it was the only way he had a chance with her. She thought he was some kind of hero. Fran might’ve twisted the truth, a touch.

  Luckily, nothing was missing. He checked twice.

  Then he relocked both doors, thought about changing the code, but that would have to wait. Sheila first.

  The smoke had dissipated somewhat when he entered the living room. She’d been burning the damn stuff like incense. There were plates and old ashtrays everywhere. That made his mouth water. He’d probably get high just by being there.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” she said, her legs curled up under her on the couch. She was high, but contrite. “It’s just that I’ve been in this house for weeks. I got bored, you know? And I’m sure my friends are clean. They’ve been cooped up too.”

  Fran knew the truth. No one was clean.

  “I thought we talked about this,” he said, doing his best to stay calm. What he needed was a shower and a nap. Too much work. No time to babysit her. “It won’t be much longer,” he half lied. “Once I get enough money together, we’ll get on the bikes and be out of here for good.”

  Sheila squirmed a little. “I don’t know. Is that the best idea? They say we shouldn’t—”

  “Stop listening to the idiots on television!” He immediately regretted getting mad at her. The way she shrunk away was pitiful. He gathered her into his arms. She was still trying to cower away. “I’m sorry, honey. It’s just that… well, those TV people have no idea what they’re talking about and they’re trying to scare you. They’re trying to scare everyone because it sells. Haven’t I told you there’s nothing to worry about, that I’ll take care of you?”

  She sniffled and nodded her head. How he wished she wasn’t buzzed right now.

  “Look, I’ll buy you any movie, show—hell I’ll hire Luke Freaking Bryan to call you every day if that’d make you feel better.”

  “You mean it?”

  His heart went out to her. She was the sweetest thing he’d ever had in his life.

  “Of course I mean it. You want me to call him right now?”

  She giggled, “Who? Luke?”

  Fran raised his hand to shoulder level. “I swear on everything I am. If Luke Bryan is the only one that can make you believe me, it’s Luke Bryan who it’s gonna be.”

  She hugged him and now his desires bubbled.

  “You’re so good to me, Fran. I don’t deserve you.”

  He stroked her auburn hair. “It’s me that doesn’t deserve you, honey. Now, how about we get this place cleaned up and I’ll make you a stack of pancakes that’d make a sumo wrestler jealous?”

  When Sheila was fed, showered—twice due to their interlude—and asleep, Fran finally had a chance to get his head back in place. Cleaning helped his mind unwind. He swept and mopped and slid into his zone of non-thinking. It was a trick he’d learned in training. His version of meditation. Some guys sat and closed their eyes, playing the perfect Buddha. Fran Markus cleaned, cleaned, and cleaned some more.

  When the kitchen was done, he moved on to the living room. Then it was his weapons. Unlike some men in his line of work, Fran kept to a minimum—a trusty pistol, his modified rifle, and a couple of knives. All would be cleaned. All would be cared for.

  He was putting a dab of lubricant on the guts of his pistol when his phone rang.

  Unlisted number.

  “Five five two,” he answered.

  The robotic voice got right to the point. Always did. Fran frowned as he listened. He always listened. Never interrupt. Those were the rules.

  “Acknowledge,” the voice said, marking the end.

  “Five five two, acknowledge.”

  Fran set the phone down on the table, the pistol forgotten for the time being. Only one thing to ponder now.

  The voice had said there were only four bodies in the van. There should’ve been five. Family of four confirmed. The extra wasn’t there: the woman with the pistol.

  Fran Markus closed his eyes and replayed the whole scene. He’d killed the old lady. He’d checked her vitals for sure. That could mean only one thing.

  He sent a short message to his bosses. They weren’t blaming him, but they wanted him to
clean up the mess. He would and in short order.

  Now, to find out where the strange woman had gone, and to figure out how he could use her to his benefit.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sandy Kaplan

  Strange times. Straaaaaaange times.

  He kept saying it again and again in his head, like a tune that won’t let go.

  Strange times.

  He’d never been a walker. Why walk when you could drive? His deceased wife had always tried to get him to take a stroll with her. Sandy said no every time.

  “I’m too busy,” or “My feet hurt,” or “You should spend some time alone.”

  He couldn’t take it back now. Too late. Turning down walks was one of many things he wished he could take back. When he imagined her coming back to life, he thought about what he might say, how he might spend that precious time. Each time he came up blank.

  Sounds like my life, he thought, walking on through the early morning. He could just see the glow of the sun warming the horizon. Better to enjoy it now. If the pandemic was any indication, there was no telling when his life might end. He knew it was morbid to think of such things, but who cared? It was just him, alone. If he wanted to mope, he’d mope. No one could tell him differently.

  At least he was walking. She’d like that. If Sandy believed in angels, he might’ve thought she was walking next to him, doing that circle thing with her wrist as she talked to him about everything. But he didn’t believe in angels. There hadn’t been a spiritual bone in his body since that nun slapped it out of him in third grade, leaving a red welt that he carried all the way back home.

  Strange times. Straaaaaange—

  A figure appeared out of the darkness, coming straight for him. Sandy crossed to the other side of the street. It was what you did nowadays. Some said six feet, others said twenty. Sandy didn’t know who to listen to. There were days he wished he’d just get X-99 and be done with it. Maybe he’d walk into a hospital and hug a couple of people. That should do it if X-99 was as infectious as they said.