Mr. Smith looked down at his suit like he just realized he was wearing it. “What? This? Tell me Ms. Roth, do you think this is what I wear on a normal workday?”
Dottie met his eyes and realized the truth. No, this wasn’t his usual getup, this was a disguise. But how did she know that?
“You’re hiding from something,” she said. “You don’t want people to know who you are or what you’re doing.”
Smith nodded, “Very good, Ms. Roth. Now, tell me what you think it is that I do for a living?” Mr. Smith rested his elbows on the table and let her look into his eyes. Deep into his eyes.
Dottie was no mind reader, but she could pick up on certain tells, the barely visible scars on his knuckles. Just his right hand. The way one eye socket sagged a bit. The intensity in his gaze.
“You’re some kind of soldier, or...?”
“I think the word you’re looking for is mercenary,” Mr. Smith said.
She nodded. “Mercenary.”
The word called back details from her scholastic past, Romans and the Mongols, American revolutionaries and the Hessians.
Mercenary—someone hired to fight, someone hired to kill. A freelancer in the art of violence.
So, who was this Mr. Smith, really?
“I’m here to see if you want a job,” Mr. Smith said. “I can’t promise you’ll get it, but we’ll give you a fair shake. And if you make it through our training, we’ll take care of you.”
When Dottie would look back years later, she wouldn’t know if it was the impetuousness of being a 17-year-old girl or the relief of someone understanding who she was, but she did not hesitate. She reached out a hand to Mr. Smith and said, “What do I need to do next? And how are you going to get me out of here?”
Mr. Smith smiled, took her hand, and said, “I’ll take care of everything.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dottie Roth
“So who was this Mr. Smith?” Chuck asked.
She looked at Chuck, this man she’d only just met, but one whom she’d come to respect. He had a quiet power about him, something she admired. He cared for everyone. He made sure the young ones had food and water. He made sure people got along. If there was a conflict, Chuck Yarling was usually the first one in, soothing emotions, rebuilding that bridge, that bond they all needed if they wanted to survive.
Blessed are the peacemakers, she thought with an inward chuckle.
She looked him in the eye. “How much do you know about what the government doesn’t want you to know?”
Chuck took a moment to think about it. “If you mean covert operations or black ops or black budgets, I know a little. Toward the end, I was heavy into what was happening on the dark net through a few forums. I heard some things.”
Dottie nodded. “What kind of things did you hear?”
Again, Chuck thought. “Kidnappings, mostly. Everyone always blamed the government, but no one could really say which branch of the government was involved. There were the cleaners, of course, you know, the people that came in to take the bodies away. But the stuff about the others, the ones that came to kill us when you showed up, not much about them other than fairy tales if you want my opinion.” He laughed as if remembering the truth. “But we all know how that went. Maybe unicorns really do exist.”
That made Dottie laugh. There had been more than one instructor who had called her a unicorn, that rare thing in her field with valuable skills that only a few possessed.
The explanation was complicated, so she started with the simple. “You were in the army. You understand how chain of command works. You’ve got the president on down to individual units, squads, and fire teams.”
Chuck nodded.
“Okay,” she continued. “Then you have special operations. The SEALs, Delta, Rangers even, they’re all part of the chain of command—unless something bad happens in this country. They’re not supposed to, or weren’t supposed to, operate on U.S. soil. Same goes for the CIA. Native soil belonged to the FBI. But then what happens when things really hit the fan? When you need to take care of a problem that the Constitution does not specifically address?”
She could see that Chuck was beginning to understand.
“Emergencies like X-99,” he said.
Dottie nodded. “Most superpowers have…” she paused. “It’s so strange to not use the present tense considering what’s going on. So, I guess I should say most superpowers had a loose network of mercenaries they could call on in times of distress or emergency, or when someone needed to be taken out and they couldn’t use local police, and that someone was too important or too dangerous to put in prison. You wouldn’t believe what damage a true fanatic, a true leader, or a true underworld kingpin can work from behind bars. Sometimes it’s better to put a bullet in their head and bury them out to sea. That’s what they trained me to do. I was the bullet. Somebody else did the burying.”
She let that settle in on Chuck. And for a time they didn’t speak. They listened to the night falling all around them.
Finally, Chuck asked, “Do you regret it? Killing people?”
She looked down at her feet, shaking her head. “You know, I’ve had years to think about that exact question. It’s easy to paint yourself into a corner and say that because you killed another human being that you’re evil, the spawn of the Devil. But the answers to questions of morality are always hidden in layers of sea foam. They’re uncovered briefly with the receding of a wave and you can see them for only a moment before they’re washed away again. Don’t get me wrong, there were those who went full dark. They embraced the killing, enjoyed it. I’d seen men who would look in a dying man’s eyes and then spit in his face.” She chuckled at her own accidental slip of self-righteousness, then cleared her throat. “Minus the occasional, overzealous, angry hiccup, I had never given in to that temptation. And it is a temptation. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.
“Truth is, Chuck, I really didn’t see it as right or wrong. I saw it as my duty. Was I wrong for that?”
“I don’t think you were wrong. You don’t seem like a bad person to me. You don’t seem like someone who’s trying to make amends for their past self.”
His words gave Dottie more relief than she thought possible. This man, this stranger understood her.
“How many people would you say you’ve killed?” he asked, that childlike curiosity coming back.
“I couldn’t say,” she said.
“Because you’re embarrassed?” he asked.
Dottie shook her head. “No, it's not that. I don’t remember. It’s not like I kept count. I didn’t get some stupid tattoo every time I took someone out, though I knew more than one guy who did. One of which ended up on my list and could be one of my tattoos… if I ever find the right tattoo parlor.”
They both laughed at that. It felt good to laugh.
Something about the night, something about someone listening, something about someone not judging her, made her feel whole, like every decision she’d made, every action she’d taken up to this very moment had brought her here for a purpose.
Chuck handed her another water bottle. There was a twinkle in his eye now.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I was curious about something. I don’t mean to make light of what you used to do, or I guess you could say what you still do, but do you mind if I ask?”
She nodded.
“Okay. What was the most interesting place you ever killed someone?”
Dottie chuckled. “Well, that’s easy. A castle in Russia.”
Chuck’s eyes went wide. “But I thought you said you only did things here in the States."
“I didn’t say that. I said I worked for the United States of America.”
“Okay. So tell me about this castle. You don’t have to tell me the details about the killing and all. That’s fine. But tell me about it. Where was it? What were you doing there?”
“Well, obviously I was there to kill someone.”
&n
bsp; Chuck rolled his eyes at that.
“And the place was beautiful. It was snowing outside. It looked like Cinderella’s castle. The dining room had Monets hanging up. The living room had one of the most beautiful Rembrandts that I’d ever seen. I almost took it with me.”
“You should have. I’ll bet you could have gotten a pretty penny for that.”
Dottie looked all around. “What would I do with that now?”
“Huh, sorry. You’re right. Go on.”
So Dottie told him all about the castle, deep in the heart of Russia. She did not tell him about the things that she had done, the things that she had seen. She stuck to the beauty and for that moment, that was fine with her, because she knew deep in her gut that there would be more violence and bloodshed, and that she would have to shield this new friend from it. This new confidant, this kind man.
Why did she have the sudden feeling that he had only a week’s worth of air left to breathe?
Chapter Thirty-Six
Fran Markus
He eased the spear out millimeter by millimeter, marveling at the way blood gurgled from the man’s mouth.
“It’s okay,” Fran said. “It’ll be over soon.”
The dying man winced and shut his eyes when Fran plunged the spear into his chest again. Another gurgle of blood and the eyes opened one last time, and then Fran knew he was dead.
“I hope you’re happy now,” Fran said, “you sorry sack of meat.” He said it lovingly as if he envied the man.
As he did each day, he thought of Montana, of crystal-clear waters, of trout snapping his line taut. That’s where he wanted to die, out there in the middle of nowhere far from all this bloodshed.
He extracted the spear and was careful to wipe every drop of blood from the blade. Then he re-sheathed it and went to find the rest of his men.
He heard a woman scream and cursed under his breath. If one of those yahoos had hurt her...
He cleared the corner of the McMansion just outside Richmond and saw three women lined up against the wall as he’d instructed. There were six men at their feet, all dead bodies now, guarded by ten of Fran’s own men.
It didn’t take long. One glance and he knew she wasn’t here.
“Kill them,” he said, and a moment later the three survivors were dispatched with a fury of lead.
This was how it usually went. They got that bloodlust in their eyes and couldn’t stop, not even when Fran’s orders had been clear: “Do not kill the women, leave them alive until I can take a look at them.”
He didn’t tell them what or who he was looking for. They wouldn’t have cared, and they really didn’t need to know. But Dottie Roth was always on Fran Markus’s mind. She came to him in his dreams, leering over him, sometimes with a pistol, sometimes with his own spear, the one he’d taken from the bandit outside of D.C. There were nights where she would sing to him, lull him into complacency, put her mouth next to his ear and then plunge a blade into his heart. It scared him and thrilled him all the same, but to Fran it was a sign the universe was telling him to finish it, or the dreams would never end.
He’d rather his dreams went back to riding Harleys through the wilderness, catching trout, eating it right off the stick, pulled out of the fire, but she had stolen that from him. She’d slipped into his life and weaseled her way into his heart.
“Burn the bodies,” he told his men.
There had been complaints about this. Why burn the bodies when they were moving on and they’d probably never come back to this place? But something about dead bodies lying out in the sun, bloated, feasted on by coyotes and buzzards alike made even Fran Markus’s stomach turn. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural. Or perhaps it was a little too natural. But even though he wouldn’t admit it to his men, the dead women deserved at least a modicum of dignity. It wasn’t their fault all this happened. It wasn’t their fault that Fran and his men had killed them. The least he could do was burn their bodies and send them back to whatever ether they’d come from.
As the first matches were lit, Fran went inside. The McMansion was much neater than others they’d found. Sometimes they found survivors in hovels or shacks. Other times they found them on the top of high-rises living the high life in the penthouse suite. Fran figured that they’d never had the taste of luxury so they ran for it, they grabbed it when they could.
The order in the house soothed his mind, helped him forget, just a bit, that he hadn’t found his prey. There was a bag of Doritos in the kitchen cupboard. A luxury item. He grabbed, tore open the bag, and munched as he went.
He found no weapons. This subset of survivors seemed to be the peaceful type. The kind that thought you didn’t need a weapon to survive in a post-apocalyptic environment.
He’d almost given up hope that there was anything of real value in the house. He had enough food to last thirty-seven years, probably more if his men died off or if he wanted to kill them all and take the food with him. He had no use for even a hundredth of it. He was more than happy to live off the land.
He’d already seen that wild game was making a rebound. Deer strolled through neighborhoods as if they’d never left. Turkeys settled on the roofs of houses, clucking away at passersby. He’d even seen a bobcat lying on the turret of a burned-out M1 Abrams tank, watching them go by like it was counting them.
He found something wonderful in the guest bedroom. At first it looked like a closet, but then he examined the wall. It was a safe room, something built by the previous owner of this house in case ruffians came to call or a tornado came through.
There were maps on the wall of the small enclosure, circles in certain towns throughout Virginia, an X over the city of Raleigh. Fran had flown over Raleigh himself. It was a burned-out hulk now. There was a list on the wall in yellow paper. A list of survivors—now a list of the dead.
He shuffled around the papers on the small desk and was about to leave when a paper fell to the floor revealing a small notebook. One quick flip revealed that it was a journal, a detailed one. It might be nothing. They’d come across plenty of poor souls who’d taken to journaling each day setting a log to their new pathetic lives. And he almost missed it.
He had that name so close to mind up and down each day that he thought he’d seen it, maybe imagined it. He flipped back and there it was two weeks earlier:
Party passed through town. The leader was a woman by the name of Dottie. Didn’t say much. Counted close to fifty survivors with them. Invited us to go along. Offered to leave us weapons. We begged them to leave us alone. She said if we ever changed our minds to head to the coast, maybe Virginia Beach, maybe farther south to the Outer Banks. Won’t be going. Like it here. Think we can make a life here.
The entry ended and it was the last mention of Dottie Roth.
Fran’s body vibrated with renewed vigor. This was the first sniff of Dottie Roth in months. To the coast they’d go.
He had a handy outpost he could use in Dam Neck where there was an arsenal they’d hidden right under the noses of the Navy SEALs. Besides, he could use a stroll on the beach.
A stroll on the beach, a cast of the line, reeling in Dottie Roth’s beautiful, severed head...
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Fabian Moon
He carefully stacked the cans of tuna. One after the other, labels always perfectly centered. “One-forty-nine,” Fabian said, jotting the number in his inventory log. Next came the ramen noodles. “Two hundred sixty-three.” He put that in the log as well.
Every day was the same routine. Every item in his warehouse was counted. It was how he kept his sanity. After he left, he put himself on a strict ration. He was thinner now, though not too thin—healthy.
He thought about where his life might go now. He always thought that having an abundance of money was the answer. He thought that having millions in the bank, cars in the garage, and the big house in the hills was what life was all about.
Throw an apocalyptic event into the mix and suddenly all plans go down
the crapper.
He counted his cans, boxes, bags, and envelopes. He had enough weapons to outfit a small battalion. He was counting through cans of tomatoes when he threw down the journal and yelled, “Enough!” The word echoed through the warehouse. Something scurried in the corner. Fabian closed his eyes and again asked the universe what he was supposed to do. There was a long list of things he’d done wrong. Those always came to mind as part of the answer. The kidnapping, the theft, the bribery, all of it mixed to make a caustic stew of no good in Fabian’s brain. It blocked him from finding the solution, finding the answer to what he needed to do, where he needed to go, what he needed to say. What he really wanted was someone like Iggy to show up and tell him, “Fabian, you need to do this. Fabian, you need to go here.” But no one showed.
Occasionally he’d hear a helicopter flying overhead. He’d seen a small plane crash spectacularly into a high-rise office building not more than a mile away from his warehouse. He wondered at the time if it had been suicide or someone who thought to go for a joy ride in a newly acquired plane. When it came down to it, Fabian now understood that he’d only had one goal—make money. There had been no passion behind it. No image of what he genuinely wanted. Quiet life in a cabin in the woods, maybe, or maybe a cabana on the beach, but he never once thought of those things. He never went on vacation. After the army he’d never flown overseas. Never taken a train to a faraway city. No. His one pursuit had been money. Money above all because that’s what they hadn’t had as children.
That’s what his parents had always talked about: We don’t have enough money for this, Fabian, we don’t have enough money to buy you clothes for school. Fabian, we don’t have money for you to buy lunch at school, so you’ll have to take what they give you. Money, money, money. It had to become the one and only, his Holy Grail. And now that he held the Grail in his hands, he knew that it was empty. There was no life-giving wine inside. No eternal life. Money was a thing that meant nothing now. Some nights he would turn on his television, tune into one of the loop recordings for the final fall. From before everything went completely quiet. Maybe there was an answer there. Maybe it would say something different like: Survivors have been destroyed, or survivors take a train down to Houston.
The Next Dawn Page 11