When a little boy with dark hair near the back of the line spotted Sister Ezekiel, he did a doubletake and ran into the child ahead of him, his cotton candy flying out of his fingers and landing at the sad man’s feet. The man picked up the candy, brushed off the dirt and handed the treat to the boy as one of the security guards sauntered over.
Holding up his hands, the sad man backed away and the security guard nodded.
Although half a dozen people stood before “Emerging Man,” Sister Ezekiel instinctively knew they were meeting the sad man. She was proven right when he spotted Lendra. The sorrow in his expression disappeared as he straightened his shoulders. A little taller than average and slim, but with a hard wiry look, he carried himself effortlessly, sauntering across the pavement toward them, smiling with what seemed to be genuine affection as he neared.
He said, “It’s not often I see a nun wearing a habit.”
“They’re not required,” she answered. “I wear it because I like to be reminded of why I’m here.”
The man extended his hand. “I’m Jeremiah Jones. Thanks for meeting me.”
He gave her a firm grip, his hand warm, and a brief electric tingle shot through her. She ignored it, studied his face instead. The frown lines surrounding his hazel eyes advertised again, as if she needed the confirmation, that he had spent a lot of time in sadness. And yet his eyes were bright, shiny, well nourished and alert. Sister Ezekiel had met thousands of men over the years but none with the kind of intensity this man displayed in just a look. There was something magnetic about him. Immediately she liked him. And she generally trusted her first impressions of men, though on rare occasions she found herself fooled.
“I’m here, Sister, because of Gray Weiss and Walt Devereaux, as I’m sure Lendra mentioned.” He pointed to a bench at the edge of the parking lot. “Would you care for a seat?”
Sister Ezekiel preceded him to the bench and sat down heavily. “Dear Lord,” she said, “I am tired. I could use a nap.”
“Would you like something to drink, Sister?”
“Some water would be wonderful.”
“I’ll get it,” Lendra offered. “Jeremiah?”
“The same, please.”
Jeremiah sat beside her and stared up at the statue, saying nothing, as if just enjoying the day. She felt comfortable next to him, relaxed enough to close her eyes for a moment and enjoy the warm breeze on her face, the smell of cotton candy wafting from the souvenir shack, the trill of a wren coming from a tree to her right. As the stresses of the morning began to melt away, she found herself staring into Jeremiah’s eyes. He reached for her wimple and removed it, allowing her long blond hair to cascade about her shoulders. With the back of his hand he caressed her cheek and this time when he smiled all the pain vanished from his eyes.
She jerked her head up, suddenly awake, as his hand brushed across her cheek, the pleasant aroma of soap filling her nostrils.
“You had an ant on your cheek,” Lendra said as Jeremiah opened his hand to reveal the ant. He nudged it onto the bench and the insect scurried away.
“I’m afraid I fell asleep,” Sister Ezekiel said, blushing, “I didn’t get any last night.” She reached up and tucked a loose strand of gray hair into her wimple, then adjusted her glasses. Lendra offered her a bottle of water. Thanking the young woman, Sister Ezekiel opened the bottle and took a long drink. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was.
How she wished she could control her dreams. Awake she would never allow herself to contemplate images like that. She was happy doing God’s work. Being a nun was her best, highest purpose. She hadn’t desired a man in years. And despite her dream, she didn’t desire this one, either. She was just tired.
Jeremiah leaned in close and said, “What can you tell me about Walt Devereaux?”
She shrugged. “I’m sure you know more about him than I do.”
“You haven’t seen him at the shelter?”
“No. And I don’t know why he would come here. Why are you all so sure he’s here?”
Jeremiah pointed to the statue. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
She nodded. “I’ve always thought so.”
Jeremiah stared at her, his dark eyes intense in the sunlight. “You don’t believe it’s a symbol of atheistic thought, glorifying evolution at the expense of God?”
She smiled. “I see you’ve been reading the plaques installed by various religious groups. No,” she answered his question. “I see the statue as representational. It could equally well serve as a metaphor for humanity’s struggle to reach the heavens—to become closer to God.”
Lendra said, “Did you know that one of the sculptors—Ryan Connelly—was Walt Devereaux’s maternal grandfather?”
Sister Ezekiel sat up straight. “What?”
“Oh, yes,” Lendra replied.
“The plaques don’t mention that. How could…”
Jeremiah said, “This is an old statue, Sister. Most of these plaques were installed years ago, before Walt Devereaux became famous. And I suspect not much money has been spent on upkeep over the past two decades. The governments—state and federal—have their hands full trying to finance much more urgent concerns.”
Lendra said, “I doubt many people even know of the connection.”
“But Gray Weiss,” Jeremiah said, “undoubtedly does. And he wouldn’t be in Crescent Township if he wasn’t sure Devereaux is here.”
“Well,” Sister Ezekiel said. “You certainly have surprised me. But I’m afraid I can’t help you because I haven’t seen Devereaux. And if I had, I still wouldn’t help you. You seem very sincere but I don’t know who you are or what you’re capable of.”
The schoolbus pulled out of the lot, the two security guards now mounted in glass-domed turrets at the front and back of the vehicle. The dark-haired boy waved at Jeremiah from a side window. Jeremiah held up his hand in return, though his smile seemed sad. The bus turned south on the highway, probably heading to the house where Ryan Connelly once lived or the cemetery where he was buried. Jeremiah leaned forward and lowered his voice. “We’re here because the President believes Devereaux has created bioweapons that he’s given to the Escala—Mars Project Astronauts sometimes called pseudos, and suspected terrorists. I see by your reaction that you know something about these Escala.”
Sister Ezekiel shook her head. “Mr. Weiss didn’t say anything about bioweapons or terrorists. He only talked about the harm Devereaux’s Ladder has done to the country.”
“Weiss has his own agenda,” Jeremiah said. “And if he captures Devereaux, the resulting trial will bring out the fanatics on both sides. Rioting, looting, mayhem. Weiss wants that. He wants the anarchy so he can step in as the righteous savior.”
“And you want to save Devereaux?”
“Devereaux’s bioweapons could wipe out humanity. Whether he’s built them or not, he’s got the blueprints in his head, which makes him extremely dangerous. The President just wants to talk to him, negotiate a quiet settlement with him and the Escala. She has no intention of putting him on trial.”
“No. She’ll just lock him away somewhere, make him disappear like so many of her predecessors have done to others.”
Jeremiah said, “I have no desire to hurt Devereaux, Sister.”
She stared at him for long seconds. “But you’d do it if you had to, wouldn’t you?”
She waited for him to look away but he maintained eye contact, his expression determined, yet still sad. Finally he said, “My job is to protect this country.”
“That’s what Mr. Weiss says too. And you both sound very sure of yourselves. But this country is in pretty bad shape. So neither one of you seems to be doing a very good job. I’ll say it again. I don’t know where Devereaux is, so I can’t help you.”
“What about these Escala?”
“Mr. Weiss has one locked up
behind the shelter right now. I don’t know if he’s one of these Escala, but Mr. Weiss seems to think he is.”
“Very well, Sister.” Jeremiah reached over and shook her hand. Again his warm grasp caused a brief electric tingle to shoot through her. She hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Thank you for your time.”
Lendra took Sister Ezekiel’s elbow and helped her to her feet. She said, “Mr. Weiss is not the caring leader the conservative press would have you believe.”
Sister Ezekiel nodded. “Don’t worry, child. Mr. Weiss’ charms don’t work on me. But understand this—I will do what I must, what God has chosen me to do. I hope you can accept that.”
“Lendra will walk you back, Sister,” Jeremiah said. “Please be careful.”
As they strolled along the sidewalk toward the shelter Lendra said, “I sense that you’re suppressing a lot of anger, Sister.”
Did she know about the rape? Probably. Sister Ezekiel sighed. No need to get upset over it. She said, “I’ve learned not to judge too harshly anymore. The world isn’t as black and white as you might believe.”
“I admire your ability to control your emotions.”
“And I admire your self-confidence, your belief that things will work out for the best in the end.”
“I know that good doesn’t always triumph,” Lendra said. “But is Devereaux good?”
“Just because he insists that we need to live without God, doesn’t mean he’s evil. In fact, I rather admire him. He’s a man of integrity. He’s simply wrong. I’ve told you what I know. I haven’t seen him. And you aren’t going to change my mind about him. If he makes his presence known to me, I’ll warn him away. I won’t be a party to his capture.”
“I think you’ve already encountered him, Sister. He just hasn’t identified himself to you yet. But he will, because you’re a good person and he’ll know he can trust you.”
“And what about your colleague, Jeremiah, is he a good person?”
“Like you, Sister, he has a troubled past.”
Sister Ezekiel stopped, grabbed Lendra’s arm. “Does Jeremiah know what happened to me too?”
“No,” Lendra said. “I didn’t tell him.”
Sister Ezekiel felt relief, then annoyance. Why should it matter whether he knew about the rape? “I’ve moved beyond that,” she said. “It was a long time ago.”
“That’s my point, Sister. Jeremiah hasn’t. His son was kidnapped four years ago and is still missing. His wife killed herself not long ago. He blames himself for both those tragedies.”
“Ah, that’s why he looks at children so sadly.”
From the direction of the shelter the sound of weapons fire intruded: the hiss and sizzle of lasers; the quick bangs of grenades; then the roar of an explosion. Screams followed. Two more explosions occurred nearly simultaneously. The ground trembled. “Oh, dear Lord,” Sister Ezekiel said.
They stood still and watched as black clouds billowed skyward.
She began to run forward.
“Wait,” Lendra yelled.
“I should have known something like this would happen. Where soldiers go, war follows. That’s always the way.”
“Hold on, Sister,” Lendra said as she grabbed Sister Ezekiel by the arm. “It’s too dangerous there.”
Sister Ezekiel nearly fell as Lendra tugged at her habit. She stopped and glared at the young woman. “Let me go,” she ordered. “My place is at the shelter.”
Lendra released her arm. “We can’t. It’s too dangerous. Let’s just move ahead a little until we can see what’s happening.”
Sister Ezekiel ran towards the weapons fire, stopping a few hundred yards up the sidewalk.
Near the road, in the shelter’s parking lot, a flatbed truck was parked. Atop the bed three large men crouched, firing away at the shelter and the Army troops, who crouched behind their transport vehicles. Another attack came from the vacant buildings across the street. Caught in the middle, stopped in the center of the street, was the schoolbus.
“The children,” she yelled. But as she tried to move forward, Lendra pulled her back.
“They’re okay for the moment, Sister,” Lendra spoke calmly despite the laser blasts filling the air. “No one’s firing at them.” She took out a PlusPhone and directed its camera at the action, focusing on the combatants, the schoolbus and the flaming vehicles. “Jeremiah,” she said, “where the hell are you? I could use a little help here.”
Out of the corner of her eye Sister Ezekiel saw a movement in one of the buildings across from the shelter. She reached for Lendra and pulled her down as a blue laser pulse flashed past. Lendra dropped the PlusPhone. The next pulse hit the small object, instantly melting it.
The laser moved off, returning sporadically to keep them pinned to the ground. She had to get to the children. But how? As she and Lendra crouched together, exposed to the man in the window, she began to pray. The noise from the fighting diminished until all she could hear was the sizzle of lasers and the occasional scream. Then another explosion hammered her eardrums, temporarily dazing her.
“Sonic grenades,” Lendra shouted into her ear.
She nodded. Her muscles tense, her stomach roiling, Sister Ezekiel watched the battle progress, always keeping her eye on the schoolbus. Lendra had been right. The fighters on both sides were being careful to avoid hitting it. Laser pulses flashed past it like fireworks—blue, red and purple—crackling as they sizzled through the smoke and flames. Yet for the moment, at least, the bus remained unscathed.
Chapter Eleven
Colonel Truman, leading his squad along the projected path of the bio-signs they had detected, heard an explosion in the distance, followed shortly thereafter by two more in quick succession. They appeared to be coming from the shelter.
“We’re under attack,” Major Sims spoke into his earpiece.
“Keep that perimeter established,” Weiss’ voice cut in to Truman’s earpiece. “This could be a diversion to allow Devereaux to escape.”
Truman repeated Weiss’ order and led his squad toward the shelter. Scrambling west through undergrowth that clawed at his uniform, he felt the familiar battle hollowness come over him—the calm that came from rigorous training. He began receiving reports through his comm link, but learned little more than that hostiles were attacking the shelter. When he reached the road, he turned north. Twice more, explosions thundered up ahead, nearly knocking him off his feet. Through a thick cloud of black smoke, he could barely make out the shelter. Weiss’ mobile command center sat in the small parking lot out front, glowing red, its multi-colored lights blinking on and off. Smoke billowed from the two transport vehicles nearest the command center.
Atop a flatbed truck, three large men fired blue laser pulses at the shelter. Blue pulses, thank God, meaning their weapons were set on low power, although that was no guarantee of safety. Even low-power laser pulses could be lethal if they struck a person in the heart or head. Another attack came from the buildings across the street—also blue pulses. Were they just conserving their power charges or did they not want to kill?
Just north of the flatbed, caught in the middle of the street, was an armored bus painted brown and green—a military castoff with manned turrets at front and rear. Truman saw children’s faces through the windows and realized it was a schoolbus.
Although no one was shooting at the bus, the guards in its turrets fired sporadically: medium-power purple bursts aimed at the flatbed. Keep firing on the attackers and they’ll start to fire back, Truman thought as he shook his head. Idiots. Red and purple laser fire spewed from both the shelter and a group of soldiers in the parking ramp just to the north of it. Captain Lopez. Via his comm link, Truman directed the shelter’s defense, speaking to his squad leaders clearly and calmly.
Through the increasing smoke he saw that the men shooting from the flatbed truck were gigantic. A slight glow surrou
nded them—a variable energy shield powered by a field generator. Very high tech.
“Concentrate fire on the flatbed,” Truman said. “We’ve got to get through that shield. And whatever you do, don’t hit that bus.”
In his ear Major Sims’ voice sounded brittle: “The DS-9000 is taking heavy fire. Shield is engaged. Repeat, shield is engaged.”
“We’re moving to your southern flank, Major,” Truman said.
Keeping low, he led his squad closer to the shelter, his troops firing as they moved. “We need to get that bus out of there,” he said even as he spotted the driver slumped over the wheel.
The fighters on the truck looked like Cookie Monster. Pseudos. They wore military style coveralls but with shaggy beards and long hair, they looked distinctly non-military. One of them wore no beard. A woman. Her long golden hair cascaded down her back, sparkling under the iridescent glow of the shield.
Truman couldn’t help but stare at her. With the shield flicking on and off at rapid intervals, she timed her shots perfectly, firing as the shield flickered off, then as the shield resumed its protection, she repositioned herself for the next shot. Only enhanced humans could so precisely time their shots to the fleeting openings presented by the variable shield. His soldiers’ return fire bounced harmlessly away.
The pseudos on the truck ignored Truman’s squad. Humiliation and rage swept through him as he rushed forward through the haze.
Lopez spoke into his earpiece: “We’ll charge the flatbed.”
“Negative,” Truman shouted. “Circle around to the north, Captain. No shooting until you can come at the flatbed from the back. Less chance of a missed shot or a ricochet hitting the bus.”
Truman ordered Captain Baynes to circle around from the west and join up with Captain Lopez. Meanwhile, Truman’s squad edged closer to the enemy, coordinating a barrage of laser fire against the flatbed truck. But the shield held. Truman ordered half his squad to redirect their fire on the building across the highway. His troops fired multiple shots, every laser burst opening a hole the size of a tennis ball in the brick wall. The pseudos in the building finally directed their fire at Truman’s detail. At least I got their attention, Truman thought as he dropped behind a shrub. What he needed and lacked was a particle beam cannon—so expensive and rare the Army had none. Only the Elite Ops carried such weapons.
The Susquehanna Virus Box Set Page 13