Buzzworm (A Technology Thriller): Computer virus or serial killer? (28 page)

Roger looked down
at Spotsylvania County from a height of several hundred feet, his stomach boiling and his knuckles white. The Ultralight they were flying was owned by Bob Goodyear, who sat in front of Roger in the fragile aluminum frame, his big hands on the control tiller, a pump shotgun across his lap.

Goodyear, during their earlier briefing, had told Roger that most of the farmland around Fredericksburg was planted in snap beans and corn. Roger could only see square patches of brown and green fields, separated here and there by large stands of oak, an occasional pond or dugout and the ominous Trench Hill Lane, which cut its way through the heavy forest into
Buzzworm’s
property like an unhealed wound.

Roger had seen the Ultralight logo on a rusty shed in Goodyear's yard. He knew what was inside, so he asked the BATF veteran what it was used for. Goodyear's eyes lit up. It turned out it was Goodyear's hobby, something that often came in handy in investigations. Roger told them his idea and Goodyear got wound up like a steel spring. They would pretend they were hunters. That was their cover. Goodyear would bring the two-man plane down in the small open field as near as possible to the mysterious out buildings that Roger had seen on the surveillance photos. Meanwhile, Med would head back to the city to shield the Avion from harm.

Goodyear banked the small plane and Strange's stomach lurched. Below, a seamless forest of mature trees covered the landscape to the east. Ahead of them Mott’s Run reservoir looked swollen and dark in the fading light of the day.

"Deer. Down there!" yelled Goodyear, pointing into the foliage. Roger didn't know if this was for information purposes only or if Goodyear truly expected him to fire on them. He tightened his grip on the shotgun, wishing he could hold on with both hands. It was now almost six thirty and they wouldn’t have sun for much longer. It seemed impossible that they could find anything to do in the next few hours that would stop
Buzzworm
. And it seemed so pointless now to be hundreds of feet above farmland and oak forest without a computer in sight.

Goodyear pointed again. A small clearing opened in the forest below, some freshly tilled soil to aim for. A long unmarked steel shed stood near the center. The second building had a small exhaust stack, where they guessed the generator was housed. A pick-up truck was parked in the shade by the forest, but there was no sign of people. Goodyear turned into the wind and they dropped in altitude.

They had discussed making the landing look like an accident, something that was fairly common in Ultralights so no one would be suspicious. Goodyear had laughed. The difference between a real accident and a fake one was what? One broken leg instead of a broken neck? But the challenge appealed to him. You could tell.

Roger looked now at the back of his close-cropped skull encouraged by the man's skill with the small plane and at the same time, aware that this was the BATF equivalent of a suicide bomber. A single guy, twenty years in the field, Mr. Guts and Glory. This would not be a gentle landing. If Goodyear wanted it to look like an accident it would damn well give every appearance of the genuine article.

They were low now, skimming the last of the treetops, when Goodyear killed the engine. Roger imagined this was for effect. He gunned it, again making the engine pop and sputter. Goodyear had told him to let go of the shotgun just before they hit the dirt. He didn't want it wrapped around his ears. "Take a deep breath, and then let it out. Relax your body. Taught muscles mean more broken bones." Roger looked perplexed and Goodyear smiled. "Something's going to break. Let's make it something unimportant."

They were skimming clods of black earth now, their descent path parallel with the biggest steel building. Strange had expected the plane to glide. It was dropping far too fast. All he could think of was the rotor spinning a couple of feet behind him.

The Ultra light’s right wheel made hard contact with the dry soil and the plane flipped over onto its back in a sudden sickening explosion of separating aluminum. Roger landed harshly on his neck and was instantly dazed. He sensed a brief flash of pain and light. When he cleared his head, a man dressed in Army fatigues carrying a dangerous looking automatic weapon had him laying on the fresh soil several feet from the crash site. He could smell gas.

"Can you hear me?" said the other one, a boy in overalls, acne raging across his cheeks, snapping his grimy fingers in Strange's face. Roger tried to move, but a terrible stitch of pain drove down through his back.

"Who are you?" the older man asked.

"Roger," said Roger, guessing that lying would only get him in trouble.

"Who's your friend?"

"My Uncle, Bob Goodyear. He has a farm up the road."

"You don't sound like you're from around here!"

"I'm visiting. We were just deer hunting."

The man in cammies seemed to relax. "That's against the law."

"So arrest me," winced Strange.

"Your uncle got a wife back home? Kids?"

Roger didn't like the sound of that question. He tried to sit up. "No," he answered, trying again to stay with as much truth as he could.

"Your uncles bought it."

"Let me see," grunted Strange. He could only stand with difficulty. He turned to the wreck, but what he saw of Goodyear convinced him the farm hand was right. Goodyear’s head was at an impossible angle to his body. His eyes and mouth were open, his teeth covered with fresh dirt. He had taken the brunt of the landing impact.

Roger slumped over and shook his head. He couldn’t believe that Med’s uncle was dead. It was like he had killed him or had at least been complicit by going along with the exagents gung ho plans. Med would never forgive him. Without even thinking Roger mumbled, "I need to call someone," and pulled out his cell phone. The older man knocked it out of his hands with the butt of his rifle and then angrily stomped it into the dirt.

“You won’t be needing that here,” he growled, pointing towards the nearest building with a tobacco-stained finger.

They stumbled the one hundred and fifty yards to the shed, Roger between them, his arms over their shoulders. They entered the dark interior of the building. "You just sit. And don't touch a thing. I’ve got to call the owner first."

"Why don't you call the police?” Roger asked, his mind racing. How would he explain this to Med? And how was he going to carry out their plan of taking out
Buzzworm’s
power without Goodyear?

"The local sheriff? Shit, you'll be waitin' here till Halloween."

“Who’s your boss? The owner of this place.”

“You ask a lot of questions. This is just a farm. You own a gun?"

"It's in the wreck."

"It's bust. If you're meaning the 330 pump? That you're Uncle’s?"

Roger shook his head. The older man pushed him away from the door and deeper into the shed, looking more concerned by the minute. Roger guessed he just realized that this new development wasn’t going to make his boss very happy. Roger waited for his eyes to adjust, the inside of the shed smelling of diesel fuel and freshly cut grass. There was a newer tractor and a number of pieces of farm equipment parked inside. Skylights lit up the interior, but not by much. They sat him down on an old folding chair next to the biggest tractor and nylon-strapped him to the upright exhaust pipe. The younger man took Roger’s shotgun and shoved it into a tool locker by the door.

“You stay put. I’ve got to check with the boss. You make a fuss and I’ll have to bury you with your uncle.” Then he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.

"Two shit kickers have landed in our pea patch. Crashed in an Ultra light.” Roger couldn’t make out a voice on the other end, but he got a sense from the worker’s expression that he had stirred up a wasp’s nest. “I don’t know. One of them tells me they were deer hunting. The thing is, Mr. W, one of them is dead."

Mistah Double-yuhh
was how the guy said the name. The farm hand looked stressed, his boss yelling in his ear. Roger realized then what a problem Goodyear’s death created for
Buzzworm
. He had a body on his property now that he had to deal with. As well as two employees he needed to keep in his confidence. Was he going to call the local police? And risk a dozen cops roaming over his property?

The hired hand continued explaining into the phone. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Goodyear lives around here. I’ve seen him fly over before looking for whitetail. The other guy is shook up a bit. Nothing broken, but he may need help.”

More chatter that Roger couldn’t make out. Then he put the phone back in the side pocket of his overalls. “You’re going to have to sit tight for a while, son. I’ve got to go up to the farmhouse and work out what to do with your uncle. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Both workers left quickly and closed the steel door behind them.

Roger sat up, feeling his arms twist in the strap. Handcuffed again. Second time in three days. He figured he could slide the nylon cuffs up the vertical stack, so he had a bit of room to get comfortable. Could he slide it all the way to the top? He twisted around. The stack had a cap at the top with a rain cover on a hinge with a big bolt. The cuff would never slide over. He looked around the floor. It was clean, like in a military barrack. He was twenty feet from the nearest wall with no tools in sight. He pulled hard and the fine nylon cord cut into his wrist causing his eyes to water. He guessed that
Buzzworm
had more things on his mind right now than to worry about an illegal deer hunter on his property.

Roger twisted around as far as he could. Then using his grip on the exhaust pipe, he pulled his right leg up and stepped onto the tractors frame. He slowly slid the cuff up along the pipe until he could stand straight again. He started to sweat. He realized now that if he lost his footing and fell, he would be hanging from his wrists, the nylon cutting into an artery. Could you die from that? Would it matter once they found him here looking like a strung up rabbit? Several feet above him was the top of the stack, too high to reach. He had to give it to these boys; they came up with a clever plan. He twisted again and realized he was only a foot from the open cab. If he could step onto the floor of the cab, he would be safer and less likely to slip and hang himself in the process. He wiggled his wrists up again, turned and stepped up onto the operator’s platform. Then he saw the keys. Someone had left the keys in the ignition.

Roger stared
at the shiny tractor keys only inches away. What good would starting the engine do? He couldn’t steer, couldn’t press the clutch from where he was tied. The tractor was hemmed in by what looked like some kind of plow machinery and the steel north wall of the storage shed. How about the exhaust pipe though — how long would it take to heat up? Could it melt the nylon strap? He might be fried in the process or gassed. But was there any choice?

What he did know is that tractors had a throttle set by hand. Starting was really just turning the key. He lifted his foot up and touched the keys with the toe of his hiking boot. Nothing. He pressed down, twisting his body against the exhaust pipe. Making a mistake like that in a few minutes, if he could get the engine started, would be painful. This time he pressed his toe along the top edge of the key. It moved. He pressed harder. The newer engine ground and coughed to life in seconds filling the steel shed with a frightening roar. Someone had to hear the noise. Black smoke jetted from the exhaust and filled the top of the storage shed with a stinking gray-black fog.

Strange tried not to breathe in the suffocating exhaust. A futile effort. He could feel the exhaust pipe already starting to warm. He tried to relax and pull his wrists away from the pipe as far as possible.

Very soon, Roger began to feel light-headed. The exhaust was nauseating and had quickly filled the large shed. Black smoke continued to pour out of the exhaust pipe. How long did it take for carbon monoxide poisoning to take effect? He knew the symptoms were long-lasting, full recovery sometimes taking months. And once you nodded off, you were unlikely to ever wake up. He was almost hoping that the hired hands would come back and rescue him. He could feel the warmth from the exhaust stack on his palms, but he couldn’t be sure if there would ever be enough heat to melt through the tough plastic.

He leaned hard away from the stack, pressing the nylon up against the pipe. Minutes now. He was visualizing the carbon monoxide molecules locking onto red blood cells, his ability to get oxygen to his brain slowly and relentlessly decreasing. His leg slipped momentarily. He hadn’t thought about that – loss of motor control. Great. He was gassing himself to death.

He pulled harder, barely feeling the strap cut into his wrists. Was it giving way? He wasn’t able to turn enough to see any effect. He felt drunk now, his mind wandering. He pulled harder, hardly caring, starting to cough now. His eyes were stinging from the thick smoke. For a few seconds he zoned out. It’s happening, he thought. It didn’t take long although he was no longer sure how long this had gone on for. His head was pounding now and he was on the verge of passing out, his body swaying. Then he rolled back, his palm touching the hot exhaust pipe and he cried out weakly as he tumbled to the concrete floor below.

It was like a dream. He had flown over this dark landscape through a fog and then plummeted from the sky and hit the ground hard. He felt cold concrete against his temple, blood in his mouth. His hands were an agony. He moved them forward and was able to touch his head. His fingers came away wet. He laid there — the cool floor against his cheek, the tractor engine roaring above him.

Slowly the pain was ebbing away. Roger felt the space grow darker, fuzzier, the noise receding. Roar? What roar? Then he remembered the tractor pumping out the noxious smoke. He coughed. He realized he was dying and there was nothing he could do. Time was running out. Then he rolled slowly and his legs struck something hard. He pushed himself up into a crawl position and started to move away from the angry rumble above him. When his head struck the metal wall of the shed, he awoke enough to understand where he was and what he had to do.

Outside, he breathed in a ragged lungful of air that surprisingly didn’t stink and burn. He was dizzy and alarmingly weak. He had gagged once as soon as he got past the door and fell on the dirt walkway. Blood from the wound on his forehead was running into his left eye. He had rushed back in and retrieved the 330 shotgun from the locker by the door, but he was sure he lacked the strength to hold it up or even pull the trigger — if it even worked. Everything was happening in a frustrating kind of slow motion. He made his way haltingly to the generator shed across the field, the shotgun banging against his legs.

Roger had no plan. His brain was incapable of strategy. He just needed to get there before he collapsed. It was the only thing that occupied his narrowed focus. Maybe a final suicide attack would do the trick and he laughed under his breath. How many video games had he played where he came around a corner and surprised his enemy, guns blazing? It felt like that kind of world now. He was in a video game, his health sapped and an alarm bell flashing somewhere. Big problem. There were no magic health pills to gather now, no stores of ammo or huge rocket launchers to gather up. He was stuck with what he had, an uncooperative body and a useless weapon. He was desperate. Without Goodyear’s guidance, he had to shut down
Buzzworm
before the bastard launched his attack.

What had worked for him in the past, playing those first-person shooter video games, was just to rush in, guns blazing, moving as fast as possible to avoid getting hit. The power of surprise. It worked sometimes on the artificial intelligence of the enemies in the games. Would it work on these two guards? And how much surprise could he muster when his legs felt like they were trapped in wet cement and he was seeing double?

He brought the shotgun up to his face, trying to focus. He crept up to the generator shed. He had no idea what the time was. But his mission was simple. Make the generator unusable. How hard could that be?

Roger raised the shotgun and slammed through the door of the generator building. His anger growing, he screamed as he entered, charging into the darkness. He saw the youngest guard, sneaking a smoke, standing alone by a steel column. He rushed at him and pushed the barrel up into the eyes of the surprised soldier, screaming like a mad man, spittle spraying. The worker dropped the cigarette, his eyes wide, his head back. What he saw was a frightening mirage, a bleeding and crazed man yelling obscenities.

“Drop everything. One mistake and you’ll never have to worry about that acne problem again.” The soldier dropped his shotgun to the floor where it landed with a crack. Roger felt wired, a combination of adrenaline and lack of oxygen to the brain. He still had no idea of the time. “Where’s your buddy?” The soldier choked out, “Jake’s up to the house.” Roger, feeling relieved he only had to deal with one enemy, nodded towards a workbench. Acne-face, who had his hands above his head, stumbled backwards, doing his best to follow orders.

“Ever spent any time in nylon cuffs?” asked Roger, pushing the boy down onto the floor. “It’s a real good time. I recommend it highly.” There were a bundle of the straps on the bench. He took several in his left hand. “You take both hands like that, good, bring them around behind your back. Then I loop this around like that and zip. You are now hog-tied. Now move back, snug up against this workbench where I can tie up your legs.” Roger linked two of the straps together and bound the teenager’s ankles together. He stood up woozily and examined his work, an angry clock still ticking away somewhere in his brain.

Roger checked out the bench. There were no cutting tools and the kid couldn’t get up to reach a tool even if he wanted to. He was going to sit on the cold cement until someone untied him. Roger pointed the shotgun at the young man’s head.

“Where’s the power come in around here?” Acne face looked puzzled. “The hydro lines. Overhead wires.”

“I’ll tell ya. But you don’t need to be pushing that shotgun into my face. I know it’s broke. What kind of governmental agent are you anyway?”

Roger glared at the kid. “See that tank over there? What’s that? About five hundred gallons of gasoline that I’m about to bust open. And you’re getting smart with me?”

The kid looked over at the fuel tank, his eyes noticeably wider. “The power line comes in along the road. I drive past it every day I come to work. Shouldn’t you know that?”

Roger grabbed a dirty rag off the workbench and worked it into the kid’s mouth, enjoying the look of disgust on his face. He sat back and watched for a few seconds, thinking. Then he pulled it out again, smearing grease across the boy’s teeth.

“Last chance to not be a smart ass and get yourself killed. Where’s the girl? I know you know about her.”

“What girl?” he said, but he hesitated a second too long. Bad complexion and a bad actor.

“I don’t have time to fool around. I’m going to soak this rag in gas and shove it back in if you don’t tell me where your boss has her hidden.” The teenager just shook his head.

Roger stood up, irritated. Maybe the kid had no idea. Maybe he was just stupid. It was quite possible that Hyde’s daughter wasn’t even on the property. Time was wasting and he needed to shut down the generator and go after the main power before Hyde could breech the main farmhouse. He looked over at the north wall of the shed. Against the steel paneled wall sat a stainless steel enclosure, about eight feet long and four feet high. Several conduit lines fed into the structure, a steel exhaust pipe exited and ran up to the ceiling. The generator. A few feet away sat a large steel tank, rounded at the top and bottom. Roger guessed, based on size, that it held several hundred gallons of gas and could run the generator for at least a week.

Roger ran over to the enclosure and lifted the cover, revealing the generator inside, looking like a very modern high-tech gasoline engine surrounded by banks of electronic switches and modules. Only the very best for
Buzzworm
, he thought. Looking around he realized there were a number of ways to make the generator useless. Roger propped the cover up against the back wall and raised the shotgun like a baseball bat. He brought it down on a cluster of small switches and valves, watching them shatter and fracture. He attacked the engine as well, cracking the housing and snapping off the wiring harness. Then he turned his attention to the lines running from the fuel tank.

As he struck them with the wooden stock of the shotgun, the thin copper lines folding and cracking, fuel began spilling out onto the painted concrete floor. He then attacked an external control device, watching shattered bits of circuit board and control switching units scatter across the concrete. He was sweating now, beating his demons into submission. He imagined
Buzzworm
in front of him, his arrogant smile beginning to fade. He dropped the useless weapon into the spreading pool of fuel. He turned back to the kid who was watching the gasoline inching towards him.

“Your memory any better now? I’m leaving. This is your last chance.”

His eye still on the fuel that was making its way slowly across the floor, the teenager gasped. “Check out the door over there.” He nodded to the far corner of the shed. “Untie me. This whole place is going to go up.”

Roger picked up the other shogun off the floor near the steel support beam and then walked over to the south wall, to the furthest point away from the generator, into a relatively uncluttered open space. He was looking at the unadorned wall for a hidden door, but what caught his attention was a thick round cover on the cement floor near the corner. A drain! He walked up to it and poked the cover with his boot. It seemed heavy and solid. Like a bank vault door. He knelt and looked at the latch. He squeezed the steel handle and heard a hollow clunk inside, almost an echo that seemed to bounce back from a considerable distance below. He lifted the door cautiously.

The first thing Roger noticed was that the edge was gasketed, as if it were designed to be water or air tight. Roger guessed it might be a drain or cesspool cover, but when he peered down into the shadows he saw clean corrugated sides and an aluminum ladder. It certainly didn’t smell like a sewage or waste oil container. Could this be a hidden electronics room? A backup to the backup?

Roger turned his body and rested his foot on the first rung, about to head down, the door propped open to let some light in, when he glanced back at the kid he had tied up. The teenager’s eyes were wide, his feet pulled up to his chest, swearing to himself. The gasoline was spreading quickly and was now only a foot away from the workbench. Roger tried to estimate how long it would take before the gasoline reached the edge of the tunnel he was about to climb down into. Maybe a minute or two, he guessed. He turned back to the task at hand and quickly clambered down the ladder. After descending about eight to nine feet he stepped down onto what looked like gridded industrial flooring.

When Roger turned away from the built-in ladder he was surprised to see bunks, four rows on each side, two high. A sleeping and living area for at least sixteen people. Living quarters underground? He walked along the passageway, checking out the bunks. Everything looked new, untouched. Under the grated poly flooring he could see tins of food stacked — thousands of them. He stopped part way down the tunnel-like room, the light growing dimmer. He couldn’t see a light switch anywhere. Maybe the overhead LEDs came on automatically at some point. Ahead, at the end of the section of beds and storage, was a door that was marked
galley
. A kitchen. Roger didn’t think this looked like any storm shelter he had ever seen before. Med had said earlier that the property looked like it had been designed by a survivalist.
Buzzworm
seemed to be preparing for the end of the world.

When Roger came to the galley door he was surprised to see a heavy sliding latch, something that had been added after the fact. The lock was rusty and looked oddly out of place. Roger slid the latch free, wondering if this door might lead to a tunnel or even
Buzzworm
’s hidden computer center. He tensed then, not sure what to expect on the other side. He checked the shotgun and flicked the safety. He had never fired a gun in his life; wasn’t sure if he could. He slowly edged the galley door open with his left hand. The kitchen, or what he could see of it, was in complete darkness. He froze when he saw the dim light from over his shoulder reflect momentarily from a pair of eyes. They were close, only inches away. Before he could react, the person inside the room burst out at him, knocking him back, his head bouncing off the rough flooring, the shotgun firing into the darkness. The noise was deafening in the small space and Roger was momentarily stunned by the noise and the impact of the fall.