The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1) (15 page)

Cloning chambers, all of various sizes, many with the remains of their contents still inside. I have a strong stomach, but I can taste bile in the back of my throat as I peer into one and see a twisted, gnarled fetus, it’s shriveled umbilical cord attached to a strange looking cube on the inside wall of the tube. This was where I was conceived? I feel revulsion deeper than any I’ve ever had before. Deeper than any disgust over any Fester I’ve ever come across. This is far more intense, almost physically painful.

Suddenly, I can’t take seeing anymore, and I run away, springing over debris and back into the previous room as fast as I can. I stand there, hands on my knees, my breath coming in gasps, a sharp constricting feeling in my chest. Right now, I would like nothing more than to beat Damian Harbin senseless if he weren’t already dead.

A hand grabs my arm and pulls me into a strong embrace as Cray wraps me into himself, my neck and face nuzzled next to his as angry tears blur my eyes. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “Calm down. Deep slow breaths. You’re about to hyperventilate.”

A choked laugh escapes me and I ease back until I can see his face, his dark eyes piercing into mine, and I want to scream at the crazy reality. “Well, how do you like knowing the girl you have a thing for is some kind of assembly line freak?”

He cups my chin gently, and raises my mouth to his in answer. He kisses me for a long, breathless moment, our intensity born out of pain and travail and the need to have someone solid to cling to lest our world completely collapse on top of us. We hold each other tightly and he whispers, “I don’t care where you came from, or when, or how. Only that you are, and that you’re here with me.”

We stand that way for a while, just holding each other in the midst of this bizarre zoo of genetic mutation, or maybe more accurately, genetic mutilation. After a while, Cray nods at something over my shoulder, and I turn to see Ilana approaching, her pained expression mirroring my own.

I’m surprised when she walks up to me and places a hand gently on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she says simply. “Over time, I’ve come to terms with what I am. This is all new for you. But we’re not defined by where we came from, rather what we do from there. I’ve watched you. You are a strong woman. I know you’ll be fine. Just like me.”

I’m thrown by this intimate gesture. It's comforting and almost motherly. For the first time, I wonder what her life has been like. What laughter and sorrow has she experienced? Are we much alike because we share the same DNA code, or are our personalities completely molded by our experiences? I may never know the answer to these questions, but Ilana is right about one thing. I
am
strong. I’m a survivor.

I may not have had an actual mother or father in the traditional way, but I’ve had Eckert who has always loved me, and been the best father anyone could ever ask for. No matter what happened in my past, I’ll always have that.

I square my shoulders, stand a little straighter, and let my training take over. I put on the agent like a piece of clothing, and the power is soothing and comfortable.

I look at Ilana, a world of understanding passing between us. In just a few moments, she has gone from being a complete stranger, to someone I share a deep connection with. “Thank you, Ilana.” Turning to Cray, I squeeze his hand. We share a smile, his expression tender.

Looking suddenly at Ilana, he says, “Is there much more beyond those blast doors in there?”

“What blast doors?” I ask.

“Set into a small alcove off the back end of the room.”

I didn’t see them. I suppose I was too distracted by the cloning chambers.

“I don’t know,” Ilana says. “I’ve never been able to get in. I don’t know what those things are made of, but the strongest explosive I could find didn’t make a scratch.”

Cray moves into the room again, me and Ilana trailing him as he walks to the back of the room, past the cloning cylinders and smashed equipment, until we stand in front of the alcove. The blast doors are enormous, nearly ten feet tall, and made of some kind of metal or alloy. There are no visible handles or locks. The walls of the surrounding alcove are also inlaid with the same metal, giving the whole place a futuristic feel.

“Very Star Trek,” Cray says.

“What?” Ilana asks.

“Never mind.” He stares thoughtfully at the doors and mumbles almost to himself. “What were you hiding in there?” Taking a step forward, he reaches out to touch one of the doors, but before he does, an electronic female voice speaks.

“DNA analysis complete. Access granted. Welcome Alex Harbin.”

The doors slide open to reveal a room beyond.

“Oh, crap,” Cray says. We both cast a sidelong look at each other. “Well, I guess that settles any doubt I had about whether or not Jonathan was telling the truth,” he says.

“Harbin?” Ilana says. “You’re related to Damian?”

In an instant she's on guard again, backing away like she's seen a ghost. It's obvious she's about to bolt.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Cray says quickly. “Take it easy. I only recently found out. I never had any contact with him. I was adopted as a child and was completely unaware of the connection.”

Ilana looks at me and I nod.

“It's true,” I say. “You have nothing to fear from him. It's been a nightmare for him just like it has for us.”

With great effort, Ilana regains her composure, but she was definitely rattled.

We all stand gazing into the chamber in front of us. The entire room glistens with computer banks and oversized monitor screens. In the center is a raised dais about ten feet wide, with a captain’s type chair in the center, but despite the computers, there are no visible keyboards, nothing near the chair, no noticeable control panels.

“Now,
that’s
Star Trek,” I say.

We walk into the room, taking in the amazing scene around us.

“Please be seated, Mr. Harbin,” the computer voice again. “It is my pleasure to be of assistance.”

Cray steps onto the platform and sits slowly in the chair, as if it might bite him. Immediately, every screen in the place comes alive. All around us are images: what appear to be lines of code, pictures, videos, and strange graphics, almost too much for me to take in.

“Beginning protocol tango-alpha-seven,” the computerized voice says. “Authority verification gamma-echo-echo.”

We all wait with baited breath, unsure what’s about to happen and what we’ve gotten ourselves into. From somewhere nearby, there’s the faintest whirring sound, and the images on the screen begin to change, slowly at first, then quickly building up speed until the changes are flashing by so fast it hurts my eyes to try to keep up. I drop my gaze. Across the room, Ilana does the same, shielding her eyes from the bright flashes.

In the center, Cray sits in the chair, immobile, his hands gripping the armrests like he’s hanging on for dear life. I move a few steps closer to see his face. He seems okay, but his eyes move in every direction like lightning, processing everything he’s seeing at a speed beyond anything I can imagine.

The whole thing only lasts about a minute before everything in the room shuts down, bathing us in darkness save for the muted glow of the single monitor directly in front of Cray. He breathes out as if he’s been holding his breath.

On the screen are three sets of coordinates denoted by longitude and latitude, with the one at the top of the screen highlighted. Ilana swears softly and I resist the urge to do the same. Cray leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, using both hands to massage his scalp as if that will soothe the mental barrage he just had.

I walk to his side and place a hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t bother looking up at me.

“What
was
that?” Ilana says.

I have a suspicion and Cray confirms it.

“That was a message meant just for me. It was triggered by my being here. The computer verified my identity by my genetic code. It was a pre-recorded log of sorts, meant to be played in the contingency that I ever found this place.”

“A log of what?” I ask.

“A log of Damian Harbin’s work.” He’s still speaking with his head down, rubbing his temples like he has a headache. I can’t see his eyes, but he seems distraught. “Formulas, experiment results, all kinds of records of what was done.”

I look up at the coordinates on the screen. I know enough from my work to be able to figure out general areas of the world based off of the numbers, and I certainly know the first one. “And what about those?” I gesture at the screen. He must have been able to see my movement because he looks up for the first time and stares at the coordinates too.

“The top coordinate is our current location.” He looks over at Ilana, who stands quietly, and then back at me before going on. “The others…well, I’m afraid they didn’t keep all of their eggs in one basket. This was only one of three secret research facilities that they had scattered around the globe.” He turns back to the oversized screen.

“Damian Harbin’s attempts to be Dr. Frankenstein were much more extensive than any of us have thought. There’s no telling what’s at those other two research facilities.”

“But what about the cure?”

“There’re references to it, but it’s cryptic. It does say that it was completed, but not by Jonathan.”

“Then who?” I say.

He leans back, still staring at the screen. “I’m afraid I don’t know. It doesn’t say. But it did tell me the data’s been moved to another site.”

“One of the other research facilities?”

“No. Somewhere else.”

“Where?” I ask.

He’s about to answer my question when I catch an odd sound, a slight scraping sound, something out of place. I hold up my hand and they both freeze, Cray instantly alert and concentrating on the environment around us.

“I know you’re there,” he says suddenly.

Avery Johnson and several armed soldiers emerge from the shadows of the tunnel that led us to this room, their guns trained on each of us.

“In that case,” Johnson says, “don’t mind me. I’d like to know where the rest of that information is being stored myself.”

Johnson speaks through clenched teeth to minimize the movement of his broken jaw. I bet he’ll never tell anyone they hit like a girl again. He eyes us warily, taking in the presence of Ilana with curiosity, but not attempting to find out any more about her. They must have found one of the entrances to the tunnel, and now they know everything Cray’s just told us.

Cray catches my eyes, concern showing on his features, and I know what he’s thinking. The last time he pushed Johnson too hard, I got shot. I shake my head slightly, trying to get him to understand I’m not worried about myself.

I’m about to say something, when Cray speaks. “Fine,” he says to Johnson. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ve found out more things here than I want to know. You promise to get us off of this rock, and I’ll not only give you the coordinates, I’ll go with you.”

Johnson looks at him like he’s grown horns, but I can also tell he’s weighing Cray’s words. I’m not sure what Cray is getting at. I know he has to have something up his sleeve, but I have no idea what it is.

I look over at Ilana. Her expression is nearly devoid of emotion, but there’s something about her posture that tells me she’s ready for anything. It’s easy to see she’s a woman not unaccustomed to action.

“So what’s the catch?” Johnson says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Have you lost it?” I’m gambling by throwing in my two cents worth. What I just said could actually work against whatever Cray is doing, but then again, I may have given his bluff credibility. If Johnson thinks I would believe Cray capable of caving in, he might find it easier to believe it himself.

Johnson looks back and forth between us, and Cray responds to my question instead of Johnson’s.

“Look, the last time you got hurt. I don’t know what his play is, or why he wants this for himself, but I’m willing to risk it to keep you and Ilana safe. As long as I’m promised their safety,” he says turning back to Johnson.

“And that’s it?” Johnson says. He’s nibbling, but he hasn’t taken the bait yet. I just hope Cray knows what he’s doing.

“Well, now that you mention it, no. I’m a Sweeper. I’ve lived the last six years of my life in the dark, hunting freaks, and risking my life every night to make a better world. Thing is, I’m not much of an idealist, and I don’t get to enjoy much of the world I’m helping to reform. I look out for myself first and foremost, and I’m growing tired of my lot in life. So, you take us somewhere safe, away from here, where we can release the girls, no strings attached, and my payment to you for that will be the location of the cure. Once they’re okay, I’ll help you find the cure, but for that, I want compensation. You said it yourself. You can use a brain like mine. What’s it worth to you?”

Johnson licks his lips like he’s about to salivate. Whatever he is, he realizes the value of Cray’s analytic capabilities. I’m sure he’s doubtful, but he’s considering the possibility that Cray is telling the truth.

“Look, I’ll shoot straight with you. As you probably overheard, this place is hardwired to me. I’m a Harbin, and it gave up its secrets without a second thought, figuratively speaking. I’m betting wherever we’re going may be the same, so why don’t we say, a million dollars for my fee?”

Johnson thinks for a long time, his forehead beaded with perspiration. A full minute passes before he speaks. “Done,” he says at last, “but if I even
think
you’re going to try to double cross me, one of them will get a bullet in the head without hesitation.”

“Agreed,” Cray says. “How do I know you have that kind of cash? No dickering?”

Johnson laughs. “I’m not a novice, Vamp. And the people I represent have more than enough at their disposal. If you’re finally starting to see the light, we could help each other, and you could become a very rich man. Prove yourself, and you’ll never have to sweep again.”

Johnson’s goons position themselves around us at his direction, and he starts leading us back to the tunnels, making sure his men stay far enough out of reach to keep us from being able to jump them.

“So who are the people you represent?” I ask.

Johnson shoots me a look and his eyes roll over me. I can’t tell if he’s sizing me up or being lustful. Probably both. He’s seen a little bit of what I can do, and I hate to think about him trying to slice me up like a guinea pig. I scowl at him and I guess he decides it’s okay to tell me at least a little.

“Let’s just say, there are more governments than The States interested in what Jonathan Harbin was working on.”

“So you’re a double agent? How cliché,” I say dryly.

“That’s enough questions from you unless you want a bullet in the other leg. You’re lucky to be getting out of here alive, provided your partner there keeps his end of the bargain. Now, shut up!”