This night would see Fabian Moon doing another dirty task. Maybe his last. Iggy perked up when the fluids and cocaine hit his system. They talked about the old days. Mostly remembering how his older brother had always been shy, reserved, and how Iggy had been the protector. They weren’t the best memories, but they were theirs, the Moon brothers.
Despite the chemicals swirling through his system, Iggy fell asleep at midnight. Fabian watched his brother breathing until he took breaths no more. He said no prayers and stared until something willed him to rise. He locked the door and did what he does best. He got back to work, the reluctant survivor. Now, everyone was dead. What was there to survive for? Why should he even live? He buried that thought with what he knew best. He inventoried everything that night. Checked and triple-checked.
And the world sat silent around him.
Chapter Thirty
Fran Markus
God knows how many minutes it was after he left that splintered and smoldering house. He ran hard from it, the screaming voices of victims resounding through his head. He tripped on a root, tumbled, hit his head on something—a rock? He rolled to a stop, dazed, feeling half-conscious. And there he lay, panting, looking up at the sky, wondering what the hell had gone wrong.
And that woman, that woman again. She was supposed to be dead. And then like a specter out of some weird sci-fi novel, she’d shown up, gun blazing. The dead, dead lady coming to save the day. And then two of his men mowed down like dogs.
And what had Fran done? He ran. Ran like a coward, ran like he’d never run before. Deep down in his soul, in places he didn’t like to look, he believed in the Devil. And while he didn’t think this woman was the Devil, he thought that maybe she was something very much like it, an avenging angel from Hell come to pay back what Fran had taken.
Fran Markus wanted none of it.
By the time he doubled back to make sure his two men were in fact dead, the others were gone. He and his crew had watched these people that called themselves the Immune. They’d come, oblivious to the scene that was soon to unfold.
Fran didn’t know how his higher echelons knew of the meeting. Only that there had been an informant inside, a woman who was supposed to be killed in the blast. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t. Fran didn’t know now. She’d been in the house, he was sure of that. But now she was gone. They were all gone. The ghost of the dead woman was gone. No need to do anything with the two bodies of his comrades laying on the ground. They hadn’t really been comrades anyway. They were merely coworkers, obeying his orders, doing his bidding.
But who was Fran Markus, really? He was a great solider, not just another peon. He wasn’t some mercenary hired to kill men, women, and babies. He was a warrior.
And yet, why was he shivering?
It was that woman, that damnable woman.
It was a two-mile trek to the vehicle that they’d brought, a tough, old pickup that Fran made a snap decision to keep. Screw what his orders were. Screw what his mission was. There was no mission anymore. Everyone was dead.
On the drive back he tried to think of something else. He tried to think of Montana, of fly fishing, of driving his Harley across the country through lands littered with dead. So many dead. There would never be an official count, but he knew it was horrendous. He didn’t care. His role in the entire ordeal had been minuscule. What was hundreds of dead compared to millions—billions probably? Trees had collapsed. Even his beautiful girlfriend, the one he didn’t really deserve, she was dead too.
So he’d gone with what he knew. The dream of Montana. He did his job, waiting for that perfect moment when he could up and leave for good. The time was now. The perfect time for Fran Markus to make his run. Montana and those beautiful trout were calling. He’d hole up in an empty little place. He’d probably have to remove a bunch of bodies, burn them somewhere far, far away. But once that horrific duty was done, he’d live there until his last days. He didn’t need people. He’d gotten his fill of people, both dead and alive. Screw the world, screw his job, screw everything.
By the time he’d gotten back to the warehouse that had served as their staging point, his mind was made up. No one could make him stay. Furthermore, he’d kill anyone that got in his way.
He checked in with a nerdy clerk who was wearing a mask.
“Where are the others?” the clerk asked.
“Dead,” said Fran.
The clerk made a note like it didn’t matter, and then took more details—the number of rounds that Fran and his people had expended, the casualties they’d taken, the casualties they had doled out. The whole affair took five minutes, and during that time, Fran wanted nothing more than to reach across the table and wring that young turd by the neck.
Time’s a-ticking, he thought. And Montana’s calling.
There was one other man in the locker room when Fran went to shower and change. They didn’t exchange pleasantries. They barely exchanged a look. In this line of work, it was better to keep to yourself. No sense making friends when that friend might be your enemy the next day.
When Fran went for his payment, there were three options now. Dollar bills, which nobody took because they were pretty much worthless. Gold and silver coins, which had their worth at times. But Fran went for the third, the best option in his case: ammunition. He had cases and cases of it at his house. All he needed to do was put it in the trailer, hitch the trailer up to the truck, and get the hell out of Dodge. So he took his payment of ammunition and headed home, taking the same truck that he’d left in hours earlier with two other men. Two dead men. Two of billions.
The trailer had plenty of space for his ammunition, weapons, plenty of food, and his two Harleys that he’d take along. Don’t forget the fly-fishing gear, the water, a well-used set of camping gear he’d use along the way if he couldn’t find a hotel or motel, though that should be plentiful. He was on the road in under an hour. The rest of the crap in his house he didn’t care about—old pictures meant nothing; music meant nothing. Even the money he’d stashed under the house meant nothing now. Though he’d stashed a suitcase full of hundreds in the trailer, just in case.
The first stretch of road was jam-packed with vehicles. It took him four hours to go what used to take thirty minutes. Never know what lunatic might be setting up an ambush. Fran was armed to the hilt.
Once he got out of town, it was smooth going. The highways were clear. He could almost see his entire life ahead of him. And yet, something was dragging a hand across his vision of Montana—and of fly fishing and living in solitude until the end of time—and smeared it like wet paint.
That woman.
Fear had changed to something else—some amorphous blend of anger and obsession. And before Fran was six hours into his journey, he found himself taking a circuitous route back. Montana could wait. Montana would wait.
Again came the nagging image of that woman who refused to let his peaceful dreams of the future alone. She was a cancer that needed to be cut out of the world.
And now he remembered her name from a file. Like a gift dropped from heaven: Dorothy Roth. Only she went by Dottie.
“I’m coming to get you, Dottie Roth,” he said aloud, tasting the words like bitter acid.
Chapter Thirty-One
Fran Markus
He’d only been to the makeshift headquarters once. Any sort of head shed wasn’t really his jam. Fran preferred to work independently. When you went to headquarters, that meant the bosses could boss you around. But Fran knew he’d have to go straight to the top to convince them of his new mission.
He figured the place was probably running every operation within the state, maybe even the region. He’d never cared to ask, and they probably never would have told him. An organization cloaked in this kind of secrecy didn’t really run off at the mouth on all the details.
Having left the trailer in a safe location in the middle of nowhere, he parked his truck in front of the building, right smack dab next to the big bosses. He couldn�
�t believe there was a red Lamborghini to his left and a blue Maserati to his right. Who in their right mind would be driving that when the entire world was crumbling? Then he laughed. The world was dead. If Lamborghinis were your thing, might as well go for it.
The first two gatekeepers let him through without much question. It was the third that took some working. And not without a healthy dose of convincing. But Fran convinced him. Obsession was like that in a man—unyielding and determined, not to mention as sincere as a nuke attack.
He was shown to the top floor of the building. Sunlight shining through all the windows made him want to cringe like a vampire. Besides, what moron would think this was a secure location? If he were in charge, he would have gone underground. But then he realized the truth. Who was going to attack this place? This wasn’t some fictional post-apocalyptic hoo-ha where the good guys were banding together to kill the bad guys. So Fran relaxed, took it all in. The expensive paintings on the wall. The chairs that looked like they might’ve only been comfortable to a 2-year-old.
Gatekeeper number three ushered him into the expansive office with a flourish of her left hand.
“Mr. Smith will see you now,” she said unnecessarily.
Mr. Smith, was it? So he was in The Matrix now. Fine.
Fran had never met this particular Mr. Smith, though there were plenty to go around. Original aliases, it seemed, were as scarce as toilet paper. The man looked up at him from behind the mahogany desk—something that would probably would have been better back in the nineties—with a mixture of curiosity and startlement, like a teenager caught looking at porn.
“This better be good,” Mr. Smith said.
Again, Fran had to resist the urge to leap over the desk and wring the man’s neck. This Mr. Smith was most likely one of those weenie pencil pushers that he’d hated from the day he knew what a pencil pusher was. He looked the part. Black-rimmed glasses. IBM-type. Cropped hair and a square jaw to match the pocket protector.
“I have a proposition,” Fran said.
“Wrong office. This is not a collection point for propositions.”
Restraining himself further, Fran took a tentative step forward. “The meeting of the Immune. You heard about it?”
Mr. Smith gave a one-inch nod. “I am aware of it. Why?”
“I want to finish the deal.”
“We’ve already dispatched another team to take care of the problem, friend.”
Friend?
“Then put me in charge,” Fran said. “I’m sure you know my reputation, disregarding today’s hiccup.”
Mr. Smith stared and put his hands out on the desk, tapping both pinky fingers alternately on the desk like the world’s most obnoxious metronome. “I’m very aware of your reputation, Mr. Markus.”
Fran’s body tensed. Using real names was never done.
“Your record is considerable, Mr. Markus, but unfortunately for you, things have changed. The operations previously under your purview are no longer deemed necessary for the mission going forward. In short, Mr. Markus, your services are no longer needed.” Mr. Smith looked back down at his computer as if those final words had been a dismissal.
Fran Markus was not one to be dismissed. He wouldn’t beg. He didn’t need the job. He only had one need—to erase Dottie Roth from existence.
“I found out where they’re going,” he said. “Put me on the trail and I’ll have them before tonight.”
Mr. Smith looked up, unimpressed. “If you have their location then we will handle the situation. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some work to do.”
When Fran would later look back on this moment, he’d be amazed at the swiftness with which the decision was made. Those not bred and raised with violence did not understand violence, though they thought they did. Mr. Smith obviously believed he had a magic wand that controlled men like Fran Markus, which is why his annoyance turned to surprise when Fran whistled to get his attention.
And that turned to pure fear when he found himself staring down the barrel of the .45 that had been stashed in Fran’s waistband.
A drop of spittle left Mr. Smith’s mouth as he tried to speak. “Now there’s no need—”
Fran unloaded the entire magazine into the man’s face. It was unnecessary, but Fran had had a bad day.
Things happened quickly after that. A security guard showed up, barely a man with his scraggly goatee. He raised his hands in the air, dropping his walkie-talkie on the ground.
“What do you want?” the kid asked.
“Get the entire staff up here now.”
The guard hesitated.
“I said now.”
His mind was working quickly, so fast that maybe his actions wouldn’t be able to keep up.
Seventeen employees of this shadow organization made their way to the head honcho’s office. Only two had to be killed. The rest, well, they were used to heads rolling.
And when the others left, Fran heard at least one say that he was happy to have someone with balls in charge again.
They didn’t know he wouldn’t be in charge for long. Montana was a’calling.
First, he’d reap the rewards of this visit. If he had to be the man in charge, he’d use that. He’d take the resources, find this Dottie Roth, kill her, and be on his way. Fran’s wheels were in motion now. And it didn’t take long for Mr. Smith, whose real name was Nathan Lisu, to be wiped from the system, and for every access point in the headquarters to be manned. He’d have what he needed within a day. And he’d be off to hunt down and slay the wraith that haunted him.
His fingertips buzzed with the idea of Dottie Roth twitching at his feet.
Part Two
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Chapter Thirty-Two
Sandy Kaplan
He’d been charged with criminal possession of a weapon in the fourth degree, a Class A misdemeanor, and was awaiting transport to prison. In total, he’d spent five days behind bars—five days alone, five days to think, five days to watch the unfolding pandemic from behind the safety of bars.
Five days...
Was that how long it was supposed to take?
The cop he saw most, Officer Silvers, had been rather chatty with him, for he thought Sandy had taught one of his children how to drive at the high school. Silvers told him the Sheriff would be transporting him soon. Did “soon” mean five days?
Then Officer Silvers disappeared. Sandy had seen the signs, of course: flushed skin, the beginning of swelling around his eyes. Sandy knew by that point that he himself was somehow immune. He had to be.
Reports came in. Rioting in the neighborhood had burnt down half of the homes, Sandy’s included. Another cop, Officer Stammith, a twenty-five-year veteran on the force, lost his own family, including a 7-month-old baby. Yet here he was coming to work because, in his own words, he had “nowhere else to go.” Sandy listened and watched as fewer and fewer police came to do their job.
Finally, one day when he hadn’t been served breakfast or lunch, Officer Stammith arrived, face swollen, hands swollen, limping like he’d been kicked in both shins. He pressed his face to the bars, held on with what looked like great struggle and said, “I don’t know whether I’m the lucky one or you are.” He unlocked the cell and then sat heavily on the floor. “Your gun’s out front on the desk. If you look in the drawer, there’s some extra ammunition. Take as much as you want.”
Sandy hesitated like a newborn rabbit, scared to go out into the world.
“It’s a real mess out there,” Officer Stammith said. “A real mess.” Then he added, “I thought I was immune.”
He’d said it with such hopeless betrayal in his voice that it nearly crushed Sandy to the ground with pity for the man.
“I can stay. I can help you,” Sandy offered.
Officer Stammith closed his eyes, breathing ragged breath after ragged breath, and that’s where Sandy left him.
He took the gun and the ammunition, then searched every drawer in the office. There were snacks, some loose change, even a couple of dollar bills. He found a penny from 1978, the year he’d wrecked his first car. How many lifetimes ago was that?
He thought about looking for some keys so that he could take one of the cruisers, then thought better of it. Too conspicuous.
And so began weeks of hiding, from one abandoned home to another. There were days holed up, wondering whether Officer Stammith had wanted him to literally blow his brains out, or keep living. Sandy had to make that call every morning when the sun shone in and maybe a motorcycle zoomed by, or a big truck rumbled nearby. Sometimes he wanted to run out into the street, wave his hands, and slow them down. Maybe they could help. But he never did. Instead, he stayed in hiding, curled up in a ball, as the world around him shriveled to nothing. Out at night, he scrounged for what food he could find. Grocery and convenience stores were a no-go. They’d all been ransacked. But homes and their secret stashes still gave Sandy little treasures, like the case of Spam that fed him for two weeks. He never thought he could love a taste so much.
The Next Dawn Page 9