The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1) (20 page)

Tears flow like a stream down both of her cheeks, and then her eyes open and hold my gaze. The pain and heartbreak I see there overwhelms me, threatening to tear me apart. Archer looks at me, and that’s all the time it takes.

In the instant his eyes turn from Mira, she screams and heaves the limp body of her dead father across the room with inhuman force. Eckert’s body blocks Mira from the gun in Archer’s left hand as it crosses the room in a heartbeat and slams into him like a wrecking ball. Eckert was slim, but tall, easily weighing in at two-hundred pounds, and the impact knocks Archer over backwards in his chair.

At the moment she releases the body, everything instinctively goes to slow motion for me, and I push with my feet, angling my body back and over the couch to take cover behind it, my stitches ripping loose from the effort. But Archer has reflexes honed by years of hunting Festers. He squeezes off a shot at my head even as he’s going down in a heap under Eckert’s body. The bullet spins slowly through the air, and I’m barely able to move my head enough that it only grazes my scalp, causing a sharp sting as it takes a bit of flesh with it, but then I’m on the other side of the couch as Mira flips over the far end and lands beside me, her teeth gritted like an animal.

There’s a scrambling sound from the other side of the room as Archer pushes Eckert’s body aside, followed by the loud thunderclap of his guns. We both dive to the floor knowing the plush couch will offer little protection against the bullets punching holes in the material. Mira rolls onto her back and pushes off of the couch with both legs, sending it racing violently across the hardwood floor towards Archer, furniture crashing as it takes the coffee table and another chair with it. But Archer’s already moving, and I catch a glimpse of him as his body snakes around the island separating the kitchen and living areas, providing cover for himself.

I hear him speaking quickly into a communicator, low and intense, but snippets of his conversation are clear enough for me to realize he’s calling in everyone in the building for backup. I catch the words “assassination attempt” and “compromised agents”.

The seconds tick by and no one moves. Archer is shielded by the kitchen island, while Mira and I are likewise shielded by it from the other side. I try to think of something to do, but my brain feels muddled from the medication, and I curse myself, not that there was any way I could have expected this outcome.

We have no guns, and he could stand and begin to fire at any moment. I’m still struggling for a solution when something arches through the air from behind the island. I recognize the small shape of the grenade as it reaches its apex and starts its downward path to where it will land between me and Mira.

I move in her direction to shield her, but she’s a split second ahead of me and slams into me with enough force to send us flying across the room. Our eyes meet for a millisecond, and I see a knowing in the fierceness of her expression. We’re still in mid-air when the grenade explodes with a deafening boom. Several pieces of shrapnel embed themselves in my body, but not in any place vital, thanks to Mira, who takes the brunt of the explosion, her flesh shredding grotesquely from the blast.

Even through her body, the concussive force feels like a punch to the gut.

We slam into the floor, my breath puffing out painfully, as Mira’s head smacks into the hard wood, knocking her unconscious. Everything is muffled, my ears ringing and pounding. Before I can react, another grenade is coming at our new position and I have just enough time to bat it away wildly. It flies into the open door of my bedroom and the bedroom wall bulges from the second blast, protecting us from further damage.

Blood is running into my left eye from the bullet wound and blurring my vision. Mira groans weakly and remains still, but she’s alive for the moment, and a demonic, instinctual rage kicks inside of me. I push Mira’s broken body to the side and make a mad dive at the island counter top just as Archer stands up behind it, his weapons raised, but I’m on him before he can get off a shot and we crash onto the floor, punching and grappling for control of the weapons.

I slam my forehead into his face, and he screams in conjunction with a loud cracking sound, blood gushing from his nose which now sits at an awkward angle. His hands go to his face automatically, and I sweep my forearm across both of them with enough force to send his guns flying. He quickly recovers and uses his legs to toss me to the side into the front of the stove. He pushes himself up in an attempt to chase down his weapons, and I reach up above me, snatch the simmering pot of chili from the stove top, and send it careening into his head with all of the force I can muster, knocking him back to the ground.

This time, we both rise simultaneously, and instead of going for the guns, Archer comes at me with lightning fast strikes and kicks. I parry and dodge and retaliate with strikes of my own. Normally, I could take Archer, but he’s an amazing fighter and my body is just sluggish enough from the medication to keep me from being as effective as I need to be. He connects a right hook that makes me see stars and turns to sprint for his guns, but I dive after him, the collision sending us through the plate glass window onto the balcony, shards of glass raining down all around us.

It’s funny how fights in the movies go on forever. Real life is far different. Most real fights end up in grappling matches and last for a handful of seconds. Already this fight has been going on too long, but I find myself unexpectedly with the advantage, with Archer’s body pinned face-down underneath me. I swing my right leg up and sink my knee into his lower spine, feeling it give beneath the blow. Archer’s tortured scream reverberates off the walls of the city’s buildings all around us. From somewhere in the distance, a Fester takes up the cry with a shriek of his own.

In two large steps I’m up, have Archer’s pistols in each hand, and face him down. He uses his arms to push himself onto his side until he’s facing me. I expect to see regret in his expression, fear, pain, anything, but instead, he stares me down coldly, as if he’s the one holding me at gunpoint and not I him.

From the corner of my eye, I see an ever-so-slight movement from Mira. She’s in desperate need of medical attention. I also know that at any moment, Archer’s backup will be crashing through the door. They’re men I’ve worked with for years, good men who’ve done nothing wrong and have no idea of Archer’s deception; they’re men I have no desire to hurt or kill. I need to go, and time is all but gone.

Realizing my plight, Archer locks eyes with me. I know his lower back is broken, and he’s made no movement with his legs that I can discern. I wonder fleetingly if I’ve paralyzed him and feel an unexpected twinge of guilt. This is the man who made me who I am today, gave me meaning, purpose, a reason to exist. I realize painfully that he’s someone I hardly know.

“Time for you to go, kid,” he says, breaking the silence. “My advice to you is you’d better kill me now.” I stand there, speechless at his brazenness. “If you don’t, I promise I will track you down no matter how long it takes, and I will make you pay a terrible price for your worthless compassion. I trained you better than that.”

Is the man really tempting me to pull the trigger? I slowly, unconsciously raise the gun in my right hand higher and peer into his eyes over the sight. He doesn’t even flinch, and my finger begins to tremble on the trigger.

Can I do it? Can I really kill him, the only thing resembling a father I’ve ever known, this traitor to everything I’ve ever believed in, including myself? Seconds tick by in what seems like an eternity before I lower the gun, feeling sick at my stomach for not pulling the trigger on this monster that has done unspeakable things.

Before he can say anything else, I rush forward and kick him in the jaw, and his head snaps back into unconsciousness. I turn without looking back at him and rush to Mira’s side, feeling a gut wrenching horror at the damage she’s sustained. Amazingly, her wounds seem to be clotting. Any other person would have bled out by now.

Sticking the guns in the back waistband of my scrubs, I pick her up as gingerly as possible and place her over my shoulder, moving to the doorway and out into the hall beyond. I slip into the stairwell just as the elevator door opens and Frank, Doc Stanton, and a handful of others emerge into the hallway and rush towards me.

I’m at the first landing when the door I just came through starts to open. I already have one of the guns in my free hand, and I put a bullet into the door jamb at eye level. As I’d hoped, the door quickly shuts again, and I continue my mad sprint down the stairs.

They’re not warriors, and they know all too well what I’m capable of. They make no further effort at pursuit, and I’m thankful I won’t be forced into a confrontation with them. By the time I reach the bottom floor and emerge from the hotel, I am near to collapse, Mira’s light frame now seemingly weighing a ton after carrying her down nearly four hundred feet of stairs. My legs wobble and I’m woozy, nauseous.

I force myself to keep moving with sheer will. My throbbing, agonized body begs for relief from the effort, but I swallow it back through angry tears. I will not let Mira die!

I move across the lobby to the front desk, reach over it, and hit an emergency button that disables the entry checkpoints. They all swing open, and I carry Mira out into the chilled night air. I stumble on the sidewalk, collapsing to one knee. It takes everything I have to stand again. I press on, and in a couple of minutes, I have her in my car and we’re speeding into the night, away from my home, and the only life familiar to me.

We walk across the arctic landscape, our heavy parkas insufficient against the intense cold, the massive black fortress looming ahead of us. We move warily, unsure what to expect, and I marvel that no one has discovered this place, sitting like a giant smear on the white wasteland.

Beside me, Mira walks with a heavy limp. Underneath the hood of her parka, her face is radiant, cheeks rosy from the frigid air, strands of her dark hair framing her face elegantly, but I wince as I recall the terrible night many months before when she took a grenade blast to protect me, her body shredded by the explosion. Although her face is unscathed, her body is covered with scars and gouges where the shrapnel tore into her soft flesh.

Since The Virus, illegal trade has boomed, and there are always things to be had on the black market if you know where to look and have enough to barter with. Medical attention is no exception. I was able to get help for her at the bargain price of trading my car to a physician who agreed to keep the treatment secret. He took good care of her, all things considered, but her wounds were nearly crippling. It pains me to know what she’s lost for my sake. Still, she insists she would do it all again, and I know without a doubt, I would do the same for her. But I also know if it weren’t for her ability to control pain, she would now be living a life of constant torment.

In the days that followed the incident at the Soho, news was released of an assassination attempt on the head of The Organization by one of its own and a female government agent. They gave no reason for this so-called attempt. Nevertheless, we became fugitives, accused of killing an unnamed high-ranking government official, Eckert, and attempting to assassinate Cedric Archer. Archer suffered a broken back in the confrontation, but was making a full recovery. Archer’s false figurehead, The High Council, vowed to track us down and make us pay for our treachery.

There are plenty of places to hide out in New York, and no one knows them better than me. We holed up in random buildings, bartering for help and stealing food and other necessities for a few months until we both recovered sufficiently. The time was an emotional roller coaster as we healed and grew closer while mourning the loss of Eckert and dealing with Archer’s betrayal. Once, as Mira and I talked long into the night, I worked up the courage to ask her how she had the fortitude to use Eckert’s body as a shield. She only responded that he would have wanted to protect us in any way possible, even in death.

Compounding her emotional loss are the many unanswered questions. After the island, she had intended to seek answers from Eckert, but she never had the chance.

Once we recovered enough, we moved ahead with finding the cure. It was the only logical step. Surely, there were respectable people in power in the world who would be willing to use it for the good of all humanity. Not to mention, it would be a significant bargaining tool in gaining us permanent safety and refuge somewhere outside of The States.

We mapped out the coordinates and formulated a plan, securing passage on a Russian icebreaker whose captain also agreed to stow the snowmobile we purchased from a small group of outliers in Norway. Outliers are pretty much nonexistent in The States, but in many other countries, people in sparse regions often pulled together to form little communities that were self-protecting from Festers and largely self-sufficient. The communities were generally nicknamed outliers, or the equivalent of the word in whatever country they were in.

It took us almost two months of covert travel, but we finally reached the Arctic Circle and trekked for several days across the ice. Earlier today, we exhausted the last of our gas for the snowmobile and began walking. It wasn’t long until the fortress became visible in the distance.

Now we approach it with incredulity, an unreal black monolith towering over us in a world of ice and snow and sub-zero temperatures.

“What do you think?” Mira asks.

“Well, we’ve come this far with little provision to survive on if we turn around,” I say, knowing that neither of us would really consider that an option. We both know this is our only shot at rectifying the terrible circumstances we’ve been thrown into. It’s our last chance. We find the cure, or we die trying.

I take another step towards the massive structure when a rumbling begins to shake the ground. We both freeze mid-stride as two enormous doors in the face of the fortress slide apart revealing a long, darkened passageway yawning like the mouth of a colossal beast. Instantly we’re on guard, but nothing happens until I can make out a wisp of movement in the distance.

Through the darkness, a lone figure walks toward us dressed in a thick, black overcoat and boots. As he moves nearer into the daylight, his features become clearer and clearer, revealing a handsome, older man with dark gray hair and a short beard, his brown eyes intense and intelligent.

Mira and I steal a glance at each other as the man approaches, but he makes no threatening movements. His appearance is relaxed and casual – at least as relaxed and casual as one can be in such an intense environment.

He continues forward until he stands twenty feet from us, his hands in his pockets, smiling slightly, his eyes squinting in the light. The arctic wind gusts, knifing a chill through me even before he speaks, but that pales in comparison to the effect of his words.

“Hello,” he says. “It’s been a long time, son. My name is Damian Harbin.”

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