The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1) (5 page)

I cast furtive glances at Mira as she stashes a plethora of weapons into the pockets of her uniform. It’s constructed from a similar material as the ones the Sweepers wear, the one I’m wearing now. It’s tight, no extra material to get tangled up in, but it’s also flexible. We don’t need anything that will restrict movement. But it’s the “tight” part I keep coming back to. Try as I may, I keep looking again and again, even though she catches me several times. I’m like a moth to a flame, and my cheeks are burning to prove it. If she’s annoyed, she doesn’t show it.

As Archer instructed, we met here in the armory at 6:30 to gear up for the night. I haven’t spoken to her yet and she doesn’t seem to care. She seems comfortable with the silence. Me, I just don’t want to say something stupid.

Let’s get this over with,
I think.

I turn towards her and try to make my voice sound confident.

“Ready?”

Mira simply smiles and nods, and I feel a little warm fuzzy sensation at the dazzling brightness of her teeth, the way her cheeks dimple, and how her face lights up.

Dude, get it together.

We stop at Frank’s desk to put on our electrodes and vitals trackers. He takes one look at Mira and starts giving me goofy smiles and thumbs up when she’s not looking. This only compounds my discomfort, and by the time we enter the elevator, I’m long since ready to leave. We ride down, cross the main lobby, and make our way through the security checkpoints.

The night is frigid, and I pull the collar of my shirt up to keep the chill off of my neck, all the while breathing in the smells of the city. The familiarity washes over me and helps to calm my nerves.

I’m lucky to get to experience the night without being behind a barricade. It’s fraught with danger, but I get to walk freely in the after-hours. There are so few that get to experience that, and I feel sorry for the multitudes that don’t.

There was a time when you couldn’t walk out the front doors of headquarters without having to take down a pack of Festers, but things have changed. Tonight we hunt.

My car is parked across the street by the curb. Mira doesn’t wait, but goes right to the passenger side door and climbs in. I try in vain not to notice how the uniform hugs her hips, the way her hair swings side to side as she walks, and the glint of the full moon on her flawless skin.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I twist the key in the starter, savoring the purr of the sleek sports car’s engine. I shove it into gear, and pop the clutch, accelerating into the empty street.

No one is out at night except me, and I always push the car to its limits. I fly through stoplights, and act like the streets are my own private property. I love speed – the thrill of flying over the pavement, the wide tires hugging the road as we race around curves. We’ve gone a couple of miles before Mira speaks.

“Overcompensating for something are we?” She says with a sly chuckle.

I’m caught off guard by the joke and instantly feel the awkwardness I had managed to forget for a few wondrous moments. I struggle to respond. I want to say no, but that would make me sound defensive. And even if it were true, I would never say yes. I would die first.

“Uh…I thought we’d head down to the docks near the old Brooklyn Army Terminal,” I say stupidly, unable to come up with a clever response. “I’ve been tracking a cluster in that area for a while, but they keep giving me the slip. I think it’s a pretty large group, but so far they’re a step ahead of me. Sound okay to you?”

I get the feeling she’s laughing quietly in the darkness, but I dare not look over at her.

“Whatever,” she says. “This is your area. I’m just along for the ride.”

We lapse back into awkward silence. At least it’s awkward for me. She seems to be doing just fine. I notice my forehead feels damp and realize I’m breaking out in a cold sweat. I must look and sound like an idiot. I risk a glance to find she’s watching me and I have the strongest urge to vomit.

Please God, don’t let me blow chunks!

“Can I ask you a question?” she says, and continues without waiting for an answer. “What’s it like for you out here? I mean, being a Sweeper and going out by yourself every night killing?”

There’s something odd about her tone. I think she’s genuinely curious, but I also feel like she pities me, and it bothers me.

“It is what it is.” I know that’s not an answer. “I can’t speak for the other Sweepers, but I do what I have to. Killing night after night, it’s not fun, but it’s necessary. Somebody has to do it.” I realize I didn't stumble over my words. Talking about work feels more natural. The jitters are easing off a little. Was that her intention?

“What made you decide you wanted to be a Sweeper?”

“Uh, well, I kinda didn't. Not like that. Archer found me; he asked me to join. He thought I would be a good fit.”

“Because of your abilities,” she says.

I risk a casual glance. She's looking straight ahead, watching the road.

“My abilities,” I repeat, unsure if it's a question or a statement.

“Archer told us all about your gifts.”

I feel betrayed, but that's stupid. It's no secret what I am.

“Yeah. I'm...” I struggle with the right word. “Different.”

She studies me in the darkness. “You make it sound like that's something bad.”

“No, I mean, yeah...at times. It hasn't always been a blessing.”

“I think what you can do is amazing,” she says. “I like
different
.” As soon as she says it, she looks at me quickly, like she may have pushed me too hard.

Was that a simple compliment, or flirtation?

“Anyway,” she continues, “sounds like your job is pretty tough.”

“Is yours any better?” I say.

“Maybe,” she says cryptically, a teasing smile crossing her face.

It’s obvious by her manner she doesn’t intend to expound on it any more. She stays silent for the rest of the ride and now I’m more intrigued by her than ever. Whatever her intention, I'm breathing easier, no longer feeling sick. I can do this. I'm even feeling a prick of thrill being with her.

I occurs to me that she's very close. The car is small, tight. Her arm is only inches from mine, and suddenly, it's all I can think about. It seems like the car is driving itself. Every ounce of my awareness is focused on her. I imagine I can feel the heat radiating off of her body. I breathe, and all I can smell is her. My stomach starts churning again, but in a different way. A good way. But in too short a time, I pull into the abandoned parking lot, and it's back to business.

I climb out of the car, keeping an eye on our surroundings. It’s a dark night. Blue-gray clouds obscure the moon and stars, but there’s enough ambient light to see by. I can already hear the call and response of Festers nearby as one cries out, an eerie, mournful wail, and another takes up the call. They’re far enough away that we’re safe for the moment, unless there are quieter ones lurking nearby.

I quickly remove our gear from the trunk, stuff I had put there earlier in the day.

I look over as Mira pulls something from behind the passenger seat and hoists it onto her back, slipping her arms through straps on either side. She hooks a clasp in the middle of her chest. My curiosity overcomes my shyness.

“What is that?” I say.

She angles her back towards me in response, pursing her lips playfully. “Just some toys I brought with me.”

I can see the outline of two sheathed swords forming an “x” across her back.

“You brought swords? Guns are more efficient.”

She rolls her eyes in pretend mockery. “Where’s the fun in that?”

But then something else occurs to me. She didn’t bring them from the armory. These are her personal weapons, and I know my car was locked.

“Wait, when did you…?”

“Oh come on,” she says. “I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I couldn’t get past a locked door now and then.”

She walks away in the direction of the Festers, leaving me standing there, feeling again like an idiot.

Thirty minutes later, we crouch behind a concrete barrier, tracing the path of five Festers with our eyes as they wander in our direction. Once we left the car, we followed their sounds until we saw them at a distance. I could take them in the open, but Mira insisted on handling them herself, and for the sake of experience, we track them together, making a long semicircle, always keeping them in sight, until we're ahead and to their right.

Now, we wait. The water is to our backs, sloshing hypnotically against the pilings. The effect is eerie, conveying a deceptive peacefulness that's about to be shattered in the oncoming carnage.

Mira is like a statue, sighting the Festers through the scope of a high-powered rifle as they walk down the darkened road towards us. I keep my primary focus on the infected freaks, but I still glance at her often, how her long, elegant fingers curve around the barrel of the gun, the nearly imperceptible movement as she tracks her shot, her breathing steady and calm, no sign of nervousness or jitters anywhere in her body.

Everything in my nature recoils against letting this beautiful girl take on this group by herself, but she insisted. I know she wants me to feel confident in her abilities, and I want to give her the benefit of the doubt, but despite what I promised, I’ll take whatever action I have to if it comes down to it.

The Festers are almost directly in our path now, and I hear Mira release a slow, soft breath and hold it. She’s as still as a rock now, the only movement from a wisp of her hair dancing lightly in the breeze. I know the shot is about to come, and the powerful rifle kicks with a puffing sound as the bullet leaves the silenced barrel.

What happens next is unbelievable. Three of the Festers’ heads explode in almost instantaneous succession as the bullet passes through each one. She lined the shot up perfectly and caught them when they were almost in a straight line to each other.

Dang! Why haven't I ever thought of trying that?

She’s bounding over the barrier almost before they hit the ground, leaving the rifle and me behind.

Startled by the sudden demise of their comrades, the other two Festers are turning to scatter when Mira’s boots hit the pavement and she blasts a shrill whistle. They turn in the direction of the sound and charge headlong at her, teeth glinting in the streetlights, snarling and crazed.

Mira doesn’t move, but stands quietly waiting as they charge. She stares them down, unflinching, immobile, exuding perfect confidence. When they’ve covered half the distance between them, she puts both hands behind her head and slides the two swords from their sheaths, lowering each blade down and to her sides until the tips are skirting the ground, and waits.

“Uh…Mira?” I start to move in her direction. The Festers are coming in fast and my instinct is to jump to her defense.

“Stay back,” she says over her shoulder, no trace of strain or stress in her words. “I got this.”

I wish I felt as confident as she sounds. My body trembles with the tension, everything in me screaming to act.

The Festers streak towards her, side by side, their diseased muscles pushing them to inhuman speed. When they’re no more than ten feet away, Mira makes such a quick spin to the side that it’s almost hard to follow, and the screams of the Festers are abruptly silenced as one of the blades sweeps cleanly through their bodies, each neck severed. I’m so shocked I just stand there as the headless bodies flop to the pavement, blood spurting from the open necks.

That was awesome and frightening all at the same time. Her movements were fast and powerful, but also smooth and seemingly effortless. She turns to me, a picture of grace and power, like the goddess Athena come to life. I suddenly find myself wondering how I would fare if it ever came to a fight between us.

Shaking off my stupor, I hop over the barrier and make my way to her. She’s grinning mischievously, standing over her prey like a huntress, a beautiful angel of death.

“Still worried I might slow you down?” she asks.

“Slow me down?” I say, looking at the lifeless bodies of the Festers, putrid blood pooling around their severed necks. “I’m starting to worry if I can keep up.”

Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport in Atlanta, Georgia, used to be the busiest airport in the world, transporting nearly one hundred million passengers per year in its heyday. Encompassing over six million square feet, it’s one of the largest operational structures still intact in the States. I’ve heard stories from people who experienced the hustle and bustle of the behemoth place during its glory days, stories of thousands upon thousands of frustrated, busy travelers crowding in on each other and jockeying to make it to their flights on time.

Imagining the scope of what was done there is awe-inspiring. The amount of manpower necessary to keep that one airport functioning was a monument to the ingenuity of mankind. In my opinion, you could lump it together with Stonehenge and Easter Island without doing a disservice to either of the latter.

Now, air travel is virtually nonexistent with the exception of government officials and occasional Organization operations. Interstate commerce by flight has been relegated to extinction. For one, it isn’t necessary. Each refuge city has to be completely self-sustaining. The Council mandated it that way. If one city falls, it would be catastrophic for another city to suffer because they relied on that one for goods or food. Second, having excessive flights is considered an unnecessary drain on important resources.

In a strategic move, The High Council made the airports the governmental housing structures of the refuge cities. It gave them quick access to travel, and made it easier to control unauthorized flying by any private citizens who had the means. Being the biggest, Hartsfield Jackson was selected to be the primary hub and effectively became the new capitol building of The States. Atlanta was the new Washington. I guess the South finally got what it wanted.

Everything was chaotic after The Virus hit, and what was reformed of our government made a lot of changes that they felt were imperative given what the world was up against. There were very few survivors in comparison to the number of prior citizens, and it was decided they should be moved into a handful of the larger metropolitan areas where they could be better protected. New York City, Chicago, Los Angeles, Dallas, and Atlanta were the cities chosen, with the additions of a few smaller cities in the less densely populated areas of the country.

The relocation was theoretically optional, but few chose not to participate. It was made clear that if you refused, you were on your own. In the wake of the disaster, it seemed like a fabulous idea to almost everyone, and had the added benefit of providing the emotional support of organized community.

Sadly, what was left of our society fit quite comfortably into the refuges. And it was in these revamped metropolises that The Council reformed educational systems, trade, employment, and built a new way of life for what was left of our country. It was around this time that Cedric Archer formed The Organization with the approval of The Council.

Mira and I sit at a small table looking at an overhead projection from an ancient camera showing a schematic of Atlanta.

“Mr. Eckert created the necessity for a trip to Atlanta tomorrow to meet with some of the officials at Command. Population management issues,” Archer says as he stands at the head of the table with his hands resting on the edge. “He convinced them to do a nighttime meeting under the guise of needing to get back to Chicago to head up an investigation. He and Johnson have managed to obtain the location where Jonathan Harbin is being held.”

He points to a building on the map in downtown Atlanta surrounded by a bright red circle. “This is the Georgia Pacific Tower. Once used for other purposes, it’s now used by the government. But in actuality, they don’t use it for much of anything. A couple of non-essential offices and storage mostly. It does, however, contain a peculiar addition. On the twentieth floor, a detention center was constructed after The Virus. Allegedly, it’s used to hide away prisoners of various government interests.”

“Are there a lot of those these days?” I ask. “Prisoners of government interest I mean.”

“Apparently enough to warrant the construction,” Archer says dryly.

I look over at Mira who sits observing quietly. If anyone here would know about people being detained by the government, it would be her.

She shrugs. “I’m sworn to secrecy,” she says conspiratorially.

Archer pulls out a chair and sits across from us, crossing his arms over his burly chest.

“Eckert is confident that Harbin is the only prisoner there right now. Fortunately for us, security is slack. In this case, their primary protection is anonymity. Only those with the highest clearance even know the detention center is there.

“With your talents, you two should have no problem getting in. The few cameras they have are concentrated on monitoring the main entrances and perimeters of the complex. The place is massive, so you should be able to get around relatively unseen, but that’s not the real problem. The problem is we’re going to need a precision parachute drop from each of you to pull this off. You'll have the cover of night, but there's no room for error. Mira, you’ll be jumping on the way in to Command and will stay covered in your prep position. Cray, you’ll hide out in a storage compartment on the plane until Eckert is done with his meeting and re-boards for flight back to New York. In the second pass over the city, you’ll be jumping. And that’s where all the fun begins.”