Whispers of Ash (The Nameless Book 1)

by Adrian Smith

  Zanzi paused next to a figure leaning against a red brick building. She glanced inside, smelling hair products and beauty creams. The door to the shop was open. There were more ash remains inside. Some in the chairs, others on the floor.

  “Where do you think she came from?” Zanzi said.

  “I don’t know. I’m not very good with other countries. My friend Denisha said she was from the upside-down land. And they had lots of poisonous creatures that would bite…”

  Zanzi looked up at Tilly. She was staring into the salon. A man wearing jeans and a plaid shirt was looking at them. At least, she thought he was. His head was smooth and hairless, skin ivory, with red lines crossing all over. But that wasn’t what frightened her. It was his white soulless eyes, staring.

  Tilly let out an ear-splitting shriek as the man charged. Zanzi grabbed her by the arm and hauled her backward. 404 crouched down and fired a quick burst at the man. The impact knocked the sightless man out of the salon doorway and onto the sidewalk. 405 put a bullet into the back of the man’s hairless head and strode away. He swept his rifle from side to side, checking the perimeter.

  404’s radio crackled to life. “Who’s firing? Report in,” Alba said. Even over the airwaves, her voice sounded arrogant and condescending.

  “You better come and look at this. You and the doc,” 404 responded.

  Alba sighed. “Location?”

  404 looked up. “Klean Kuts. Hair salon on Main Street.”

  “On our way.”

  404 glanced over. “You two okay?”

  Zanzi nodded and smiled. She pulled Tilly back across the street and sat at a bus stop. She shut her eyes, breathed in, and soaked in the soft sun, warming her hair. Tilly hadn’t let go of her hand since the man had charged them.

  Gunfire erupted from farther up the street in the direction of Alba and Doctor Lahm. 404 and 405 snapped their rifles up, searching for hostiles. Their radio buzzed back to life.

  “Multiple targets on our backs now.”

  404 waved Zanzi and Tilly in front of him and they took off at a jog.

  Alba, Lahm, and the other commandos were surrounded by more of the hairless people. There had to be over a hundred. 404 joined the other armed men and started shooting. Still they came. Shrieks erupted from behind Zanzi as yet more sprinted toward them. 404 and 405 spun, firing at the new threat.

  In between bursts, 404 looked at Zanzi. “Take cover!”

  Zanzi grabbed Tilly and ran into the nearest house and shut the door behind them. She breathed out as the fighting outside intensified. The soldiers switched to automatic.

  Tilly gasped and pulled on her arm.

  A figure, still in her blue dressing gown, stood at the top of the stairs. Gobs of saliva drooled from the side of her mouth. Zanzi clamped her hand over Tilly’s mouth and ducked into the kitchen.

  Thirty-Four

  Gobo, Japan

  The Nissan 370z sped up in the brightly lit tunnel, the sounds of its powerful engine echoing off the concrete walls like an F1 car driving the Monaco circuit. Goro guided it around several bends as the road steepened. As they exited the tunnel, Ryan sucked in a breath. A sprawling house, perched on a chunk of solid rock, overlooked the Pacific Ocean. Meticulously manicured gardens surrounded the property. Soft glowing lights shone despite the overcast skies. They stopped at the base of a flight of wide wooden stairs.

  An elderly man, standing ramrod straight, stared at Ryan as he exited the car, his eyes never leaving his face. Two men dressed in black suits stood to either side of him. Whoever this man was, he oozed power and demanded respect.

  Ryan knew tradition required him to bow. Instead he locked eyes with him and smiled, waiting for him to speak. The elderly man pursed his lips together and pivoted, walking away. Goro waved Ryan forward and followed.

  “What about Cal?”

  “Someone will care for her,” Goro said.

  The old man led them into a large open area with low tables. Goro slipped off his shoes and knelt in front of the now seated elderly man. The suited men remained outside the room, standing guard.

  “Grandfather. I apologize for the gaijin. This is the man you asked me to find.”

  “Don’t apologize for him, Goro. His disrespect is a test, that is all.” The elderly man waved him silent and locked eyes with Ryan once more. “My name is Touma Yamada. Major General Yamada in another time, long ago. I know you speak our language, so that will save time and energy.”

  “Yes, I do,” Ryan said. “I’m grateful for the rescue and all, but do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “Ah, New Zealanders. Always to the point. I knew one of your countrymen during the war. Determined fellow. Do you think of yourself as a Kiwi? Or are you American now?”

  “Look. It’s been a long, crazy few days. There’s some weird virus loose out there, turning people to ash. Planes crashing into the sides of mountains. People trying to eat people, and robot spiders. To top it off, I’ve been chased by yakuza, death squads and, up until a couple of hours ago, thought my wife was dead. So I apologize if I’m not following customs, but what the hell is going on?”

  Touma sighed and unfurled his long legs. “It’s not a virus Mr. Connors. It’s—”

  “Nanites.”

  Ryan turned to the source of the voice. Cal stood in the doorway, flanked by the black-suited men.

  “Are you serious? You guys know what’s caused all this?” Ryan said.

  “Hard to believe, I know.” Cal smirked. “I didn’t, at first. Microscopic robots buzzing around in our bodies. Responsible for what’s happened.”

  Touma gestured to his guards and they grabbed Cal’s arms, holding her still.

  “Aw, what’s the matter, General. Am I ruining your speech?”

  “Wait.” Ryan stood. “Are you responsible?”

  Touma grunted. “Not directly, Mr. Connors, if you just let me explain.”

  A young woman dressed in traditional clothing poured two cups of steaming tea and handed one to Ryan.

  The guards slid open one wall, revealing a breathtaking vista. Finely cut grass and sculpted topiary dotted the gardens. At first glance they seemed to be placed haphazardly, but the more one looked, the better one saw the logic. They were placed in the Fibonacci pattern.

  The Pacific Ocean beyond was dull and gray. Several ships appeared to be headed for Tokyo and Osaka. Ryan couldn’t help but wonder if there was anyone left alive on board. Or had they become ghost ships, like the Mary Celeste?

  Ryan stood next to Touma Yamada, eyeing him expectantly.

  “For me, it started in 1942, during the war. I was posted in the Philippines,” Touma said. “We heard rumors of a local tribe that had peculiar healing powers. After investigation, we discovered a plant they use, scorpius. It was remarkable, speeding up the healing of cuts and bruises. We experimented and refined it. It was quite astonishing. Once General MacArthur invaded, I saw the writing on the wall. I saw an opportunity to bring honor back to my family by using this plant to create a superdrug. After the war, Offenheim came to me and offered a deal.”

  “You talk of the war like you were there. That would make you well over one hundred. You don’t look a day over seventy?”

  Touma smiled and clasped his hands behind his back. “Have you heard of OPIS?”

  “Yes. Just recently,” Ryan said. He gestured toward his wife. “Thanks to her.”

  “It was formed in 1948 by four powerful families. Offenheim. Prendergast. Ibrox. Santander. Their original modus operandi was to better humanity. Save it from the path of self-destruction it seemed so hell bent on going down. We had all just seen the horrors of hate and fear. Thanks to Offenheim’s deal, I became a member. In those days we focused on scientific advancement, figuring out ways to produce clean energy. Medical advancement. Stop pollution. Grow food cheaply and easily. We exchanged ideas and helped each other. Sought out top scientists and funded their research. My interest lay in robotics. Medical benefits. Offenhe
im and others were all about pharmaceuticals. So we did an exchange: my healing plant for all his company’s research into robotics.” Touma’s voice drifted off.

  “I guess it didn’t work out so well. That’s why I’m here,” Ryan said.

  Touma Yamada turned and faced him. His eyes shone, full of determination.

  “I need your help, Mr. Connors. To be more specific, I need your team’s help.”

  “You have to be kidding?”

  Yamada pulled his lips tight. “No, Mr. Connors, I never kid. I’m deadly serious.”

  “First, you’re going to tell me how your fancy mates went from saving humanity to destroying it. Then maybe I’ll consider helping you,” Ryan said.

  “Very well. It became more obvious, as the decades passed, that despite our best efforts, humanity was doomed. Climate change was accelerating. We introduced solar power. Electric cars. Advanced medicine one hundred-fold. We discovered new and efficient ways for food production. But it made no difference; the same boundaries of hate remained. There was the same obsession with greed. Fossil fuels consumed. Wars fought. Famine. Disease. Overpopulation. Some of our scientists kept saying Mother Nature will find a way; the Earth has lived through five previous extinctions and for us to be patient; the sixth extinction will come, taking care of the problem itself. So seed banks and DNA stores were dug deep into the mountains, away from fault lines, in preparation, but some grew impatient. Grew restless.” Yamada pulled his lips tight.

  “OPIS began to focus on how to solve the overpopulation problem. A faction grew from within, saying we needed to implement an apocalypse. A reset. Start fresh. Many of us opposed it at first, but the faction’s argument was compelling.” Touma stiffened and returned his gaze out over the ocean. “I realized my mistake three years ago and have been battling to control what was going to happen ever since. At least, here in Japan.”

  “Why didn’t you just go to the authorities?”

  “OPIS’s claws dig deep. Much too deep. We have people everywhere. In all countries. NSA, CIA, FBI. Interpol, MI6, MOSSAD, everywhere. In my arrogance, I thought I could change this from the inside. When I found out Offenheim had your wife as his prisoner, I asked if I could use her for further experiments. It was my chance to plant a mole. Gather intel and perform tasks of espionage.” He eyed the guards holding Cal. “It seems she was a double agent.”

  Cal growled and struggled with the guards.

  “The nanites?” Ryan said.

  “Developed for medical purposes at first. We hoped they would cure all diseases. The scientists stumbled onto their capability to burn. Have enough of them and poof. Combustion. We wanted the end to be painless and clean. No decomposing bodies.”

  Ryan scoffed and turned to look at Cal. She now stood calm, across the room, watching him. Her blue eyes sparkled, matching her small smile.

  “Even if this is true, getting nanites into every living person in the world would be impossible,” Ryan said, throwing his hands into the air. “Impossible.”

  “Between us, OPIS owns nearly every major food and beverage brand in the world. Medicines. Supplements. Milk powder. Baby formula. We put the nanites in everything. The rich countries were easy. It was the self-sufficient countries that were difficult. So we became charitable. Offering free medicine and water. Those poorer countries couldn’t get enough.”

  “Okay. But how do you explain those of us who survived? I saw people swollen, some shriveled. Others still, gone mad. Attacking people and sucking on their spinal cords.”

  Touma grunted next to him. “You and others survived because you were chosen. The suckers…we don’t know. In anything, there are complications. That is why some swelled and others shrank. I don’t have the answers, I’m afraid. Because Offenheim brought everything forward by two years, we were still working out all the bugs. Developing fail-safes.”

  Gunfire and explosions rattled the house. Touma spun as a black-suited man entered the room.

  “They’ve found us! Closing fast!”

  Boom!

  “How?” Touma barked.

  Cal laughed and tapped her skull.

  The ground shook, rattling the paper screen doors. Two helicopters, with men hanging from the doors, launched grenades, and more men fired into the sprawling mansion.

  “Go!” Touma shouted.

  “Who’s here?” Ryan asked.

  “Offenheim.” Cal laughed. “Always.”

  “This way!” Goro said, ushering Ryan into an adjoining room as the guards pulled the still-laughing Cal to follow.

  The walls were thicker in this part of the house, made from concrete and painted stark white. Four black suits followed and directed them to an elevator.

  Touma grasped the shoulder of a small man dressed in an Adidas jumpsuit. “You know what to do?” The man nodded and pulled the lever, shutting the doors.

  The elevator descended and Cal leaned against Ryan. He softened at her touch. For three long years he had mourned her, missed her touch, her laugh, her smartass remarks. Time and loneliness had eaten away at her memory. Ryan had all but given up. Now she stood next to him, smiling, but sorrow was etched in her eyes. He wanted to shout and scream at her, curse her for what she had done. All those years fighting the bad guys. Righting the wrongs. All for her to become one of them.

  The elevator pinged and the doors opened. A long, cavernous room opened out before them, brightly lit with halogen LEDs. Sitting in the center, in a channel of water, was a submarine. Ryan blew out a breath. This day was getting stranger by the minute.

  “Is that a Soryu class?” he said.

  “An early model. Yes. One of my companies had the contract to build them, so I kept one for myself,” Touma replied. He gestured to the gangplank. “Please board.”

  “General. You never told me of this. Sneaky, sneaky,” Cal said.

  Concrete dust rained down, filling the air with fine particles that coated Ryan’s clothing.

  “Where are you taking us?” Ryan said.

  “Tokyo. Like I said earlier, I need your team, Mr. Connors.”

  “For what?”

  “To put an end to Offenheim’s plans.”

  The ceiling shook again, violently this time. Cracks appeared, splitting the surface. Ryan glanced around. More of Touma’s men were untying the mooring ropes. He sighed and followed the general into the submarine.

  Thirty-Five

  Portland, Oregon

  Lisa drove Cordwell’s sky-blue Chevy pickup down the empty streets. Everywhere she looked, she saw devastation and chaos. Vehicles were tangled together, mangled, with oil and gas spilling onto the road. A school bus had careened off the suburban street and plowed into a house. Both the house and bus were now on fire, thick gray smoke billowing into the sky.

  Bikes and baby strollers, motorcycles and delivery vans. All stood still as if waiting for their owners to return.

  Cordwell stared out his window, whistling at what he was seeing. He held his Glock and rubbed a finger along the barrel. “This is insane. I can’t see anybody. Hit the horn again.”

  Lisa complied and leaned on the horn. Nothing moved, except leaves in the wind, and a few birds and insects fluttered around. No one poked their heads out or waved, asking for help. Lisa mused that anyone left alive was probably too scared to move. What surprised her more was the lack of disaster response. “Shouldn’t FEMA be jumping to action?” she said.

  “They should be, but even though they’re a federal organization, each state runs its own.”

  “Homeland security? The National Guard then?”

  Cordwell shrugged and jiggled his legs.

  They pulled into another suburban Portland street. Like every street so far, it was void of human life.

  “No dogs or cats either,” Cordwell remarked as Lisa brought the pickup to a stop.

  “This is Avondale’s.” She turned off the ignition and stepped from the vehicle. Bringing her M4 to her shoulder, she scanned for hostiles. After the events of the
last few days, she was wary of coming across more of the black skull commandos. She waited for Cordwell to take up position, then jogged up to the basement door. She knocked once, then twice, and once again. Bolts disengaged and she pushed the door open.

  Lisa had provided Avondale with everything he needed to run an off-the-books monitoring station. To the casual onlooker, Avondale was just another quiet resident, minding his own business and paying his taxes.

  She smiled when he rose off a tatty couch, holding what looked like a garage door remote. “I’m glad you’re alive,” Lisa said.

  “Me too. I’ve got a hell of a headache though,” Avondale said.

  “Just like a hangover, eh?” Cordwell said.

  Avondale frowned, took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. He had a slim frame and messy black hair. Lisa had no idea how old he was. The computer genius kept to himself, not liking much human interaction. He did not like to be touched.

  “This is Cordwell. He’s an old friend. We can trust him,” Lisa said.

  Avondale rubbed his eyes again and sat down behind a vast bank of computers. Lisa counted ten monitors. Some were blank, while others had numbers scrolling through, like the code in the Matrix films. He clicked something on his keyboard, and they all lit up.

  “What have you found out? Have you managed to contact anyone?”

  “No.” The screens showed traffic cams and CCTV from museums and other government buildings. The Smithsonian. The Capitol. Downtown Portland. The camera feeds slowly crawled through, showing the same scenes over and over. Carnage. Vehicles crashed, and the frozen ash remains.