The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) (4 page)

He turns and must notice the expression on my face.

“Extravagance is one of the indulgences I allow myself
without reproach,” he says. “I seldom, if ever, leave this place, and since
that is the case, I prefer to live as comfortably as possible. Please don't
think less of me if it is a bit garish.”

“Not at all,” I say honestly. “It's beautiful.”

He smiles like he’s genuinely pleased with my good
opinion before directing me to one of the sofas and sitting on the other one
facing me. I sit down and notice immediately the luxurious warmth of the
leather, heated by some internal device. The floor too is warm on my naked
feet, heated from underneath somehow. The softness of the sofa seems to rise up
to meet my body, and I resist the urge to moan with pleasure. Instead, I force
my senses to sharpen and remember that I'm in the lair of the wolf, alone, at
night, and grandma may very well have some big teeth. Despite my earlier
protest, the door remains open. I guess this is his way of showing good will.

Damian looks perfectly at ease. He hardly even
glances at me as he leans forward to a small tray on the table in front of us
and pours an amber liquid into a glass from one of several decanters.

"Would you like a drink?" he says without
looking up.

"No thank you," I say. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Perhaps something to eat? I have a
wonderful stash of delicacies that I keep in supply. I would be happy to whip
something up for you. I don’t mean to brag, but I like to think I’m a
pretty good cook."

Again. "No thanks.” I'm careful to be polite, but
I try to flavor my words with just enough ice to let him know that I still
regard him with caution. “So what do you want to tell me?"

He leans back and crosses his legs while taking a sip
of his drink. "You're much like my son in that way," he says, the
firelight dancing in his eyes. "Straight to the point."

"Are we referring to Cray or Jonathan?"

He smiles with genuine amusement.

"Of Cray," he says. “I'm sure by now he has
told you the truth about Jonathan.”

"And you know Cray well?" I ask, again taking
an intentional jab at him, but this time he doesn't take the bait, and he sits
there calmly, an easy grin now creasing his face.

"Better than you might think," he says.
"You know, Mira, I must apologize. I'm afraid I've kept you at somewhat of
a distance since your arrival here. To be frank, it's difficult for me to look
at you." He glances down at his drink and swirls it in his glass.
"You see,” he continues, “you remind me of someone I once cared a great
deal about. When I see you...I see her, and that's not altogether pleasant.
Though I must confess, it was a very long time ago."

I feel confident that he's speaking of Ilana, but I’m
not about to let on that I know anything about her. It's safe to say
given the history, that he doesn't know she's alive, nor she him for that
matter. And even if she did, I don't think she would reveal herself. She's
obviously angry and hurt over whatever happened between them. But I am
curious about what he might divulge about her.

“Who was she?” I ask.

“Someone wonderful,” he says without hesitation.
There’s no mistaking the admiration in his voice. Whatever happened
between him and Ilana, he still thinks very highly of her. “Someone very
strong, like yourself. That’s only one of the reasons you remind me of
her. There was a time – a brief time – that we spent together in the most
unexpected of circumstances. It was terrible and wonderful and all too
short. I loved her deeply, but I didn’t realize that until after.”

“So what happened?” I would love to keep him
going, to find out anything he’ll tell me about Ilana, the island, the
operation there, the history of my own creation.

His eyes take on a distant expression. He appears
to be looking through me, and I think he’s about to continue, but in a flash he
snaps back to attention and takes a quick swig from his drink.

“She had a misunderstanding,” he says unceremoniously.

“Meaning…?”

But he’s done talking about it. “It’s not
important, Mira. She’s gone now.”

I try another tactic. “What about Cray’s mother?”

He clears his throat and smiles. “Are you asking
if I loved her? No. I was certainly fond of her, but the feeling
didn’t extend beyond much more than animal passion if I may be so crass.”

Ew.

“You’ll forgive me if I confess that in my youth I
lacked a certain amount of discretion and self-control when it came to the
fairer sex. Alas, as surprising as it may seem, she didn’t want a child
and I did. We were together a few times before I found out about the
pregnancy. She wanted to give him up for adoption, but I was insistent that
I would take full responsibility of Cray after his birth. She was
well-compensated.”

But that doesn’t ring true to me. “If you wanted
him so bad, what happened? You haven’t been around, no matter what you
say your feelings are for him.”

“You’ll understand soon enough, Mira. I want you
to know that I'm not what you may have been led to believe. History has a way
of creating legends that are not always based in fact. I don’t mean to
make it sound trivial, but that is the nature of the world. To that end,
I'm prepared to tell you everything you want to know. No secrets, no charades.”

So you claim
, I think.

“Why now,” I say, “after all these weeks?”

“Simple. I needed time to see if you both could
be trusted. It was never my intention to keep things from either of you
indefinitely. I’m certain you have many questions, not the least of which
was my relationship with Benjamin Eckert.”

A fresh stab of pain hits me at the mention of my
adoptive father, but not physical pain. Emotional. I choke back the
unexpected tears. I refuse to cry in front of this man.

“And there’s another reason for the delay. One
that will take some considerable explaining,” he continues, his demeanor
completely relaxed. We may as well be old friends having a polite dinner
conversation. “I believe that you care deeply for my son, and he, in
turn, for you. That is why, in some ways, it is far more imperative that I earn
your
trust than his. If I can convince you, you can convince him.”

“Convince him of what?” I ask, not liking the
implications. He’s kept us at arm’s length for weeks and now he wants my
trust?

He considers for a moment before responding. “It's not
as simple as that, Mira. That is why I need to show you everything first. So
you will understand the magnitude of the truth.”

“For somebody who says he doesn’t want to keep secrets,
you sure beat around the bush a lot.”

He laughs easily, genuinely, a deep baritone that
softly echoes through the room. “Patience,” he says genially. “It’s often best
not to reveal all of your secrets at once. But you'll get the answers I
promised.” He rises and offers me his hand. “If you're ready, we can begin our
tour.”

I ignore his outstretched hand. I still don’t
trust him as far as I can throw him, which is actually a long way. Instead
I stand up quickly, biting my lip to keep from grimacing at the pain the quick
movement causes. I know he’s perfectly aware of my injuries, but again,
I’m not about to show weakness right now.

“Lead away,” I say.

There have been a few times in my life when things took
such an unexpected turn that I found out what I believed I knew was only a
miniscule portion of the truth. This tops them all, and that’s saying
something. I’ve definitely had a world rocking, mind blowing experience.
But regardless of that, I'm not on board with what Damian wants from Cray.

“You can't ask that of him!” I rail, not even bothering
to keep my voice down. I'm sure no one else can hear us anyway, and I’m angry
enough to want to punch him. But I don’t. Not yet.

“And why not, Mira? You must see the logic behind it,
the potential repercussions if it isn't done.”

“Because he's not a monster. He had a chance already
and didn't take it. Why would he voluntarily do it now? And even if you could
convince him, I'm not convinced it's the right path. Not to mention you'd be
destroying part of his humanity.”

For the first time since our night began, I see the
slightest ruffle of frustration in Damian's demeanor as his human emotions peek
out from beneath that annoyingly stoic facade.

“Oh come now,” he says. “Do you really think after all
of the things he's done this is really any different?”

“It
is
different,” I say angrily. “Doing
something out of ignorance or lack of understanding is one thing, but this is
different and you know it! I won't be a part of it. I can't, and won't,
convince him to do that.”

“Please.” He’s almost pleading now. “He’ll
listen to you.” He takes a deep breath, and I see his composure
return. I don’t fear the man, but his ability to control his emotions is
disconcerting. “I don't deny that it's distasteful, Mira. But it
is
a
necessary evil.”

“Sure you would say that,” I argue. “You’re the classic
example of the end justifying the means,
if
the end really would be
beneficial to the human race, and there’s no way to know that for sure. Do you
think any of that excuses the island, the things you did there, your other
secret labs?”

“I've already explained that. I would think that
you of all people would feel justified in what I'm suggesting.”

I stare at the wall, trying again to let the
information sink into my brain. I've just spent the last two hours touring
parts of the facility I had no idea existed while Damian gave me a dissertation
on everything from the beginning until now. My head aches with the unreality of
it all if he can be believed.

“And if I refuse, what will you do to me then?”

He watches me with the calm demeanor of a monk, his
arms crossed easily behind him, convinced of his rightness. He’s utterly
persuaded that his cause is righteous.

“I'm giving you all of the information, Mira. Take the
time you need to process it, analyze it, and think about it. But ultimately, I
give you the choice. If you aren't completely convinced, he won't be either.”

There's a sick sort-of logic to it all, and I wonder if
he's genuine about giving me the choice of what I will do with the information
and proposition he's given. But even if I could justify it, it still leaves me
feeling nauseated.

“Let me show you one more thing,” he says before I can
speak again.

He leads me back to his apartment and into the
luxurious main room. I see no movement of any kind other than his walking, but
this time the door slides silently closed behind us. I feel a trickle of
apprehension crawl up my spine, but I keep walking as he leads me down a short
hallway obscured from the view of the main living space so that I didn’t notice
it when I was here before.

Like the larger hallway outside, this one is smooth
marble on every surface, except at the end of this one are two large metallic
doors that remind me of the doors into the control room of the lab on the
island. I’m really starting to feel like this is a bad deal now, unable to
shake the cold chill that sweeps across me despite the room being considerably
warm. I slide my knife silently from its sheath as Damian plods ahead
toward the doors.

He suddenly stops and turns on me, but his move is not
aggressive, his posture relaxed. He takes in the knife without concern and
returns his gaze to my eyes.

“You don’t need that, Mira, but please feel free to
keep it out if it makes you feel better. I promise no harm will come to you.”

I’m not as confident, and I stand waiting for his next
move.

He turns back to the doors and says quietly, “Damian.
Access protocol alpha two five.”

“Confirmed,” a computerized voice chimes elegantly, and
the large doors slide open to reveal a darkened room. There’s something ahead,
but the lighting is muted and Damian is blocking my view. Instead of going
inside, he turns to me again and smiles easily.

“You see Mira, as I told Cray, I'm nearing the end of
something wonderful. It's time to eliminate anything that stands in the way of
my progress.”

Before I have a chance to respond, he steps aside
clearing my view of the room beyond.

I step cautiously forward. The room is far larger than
it first appeared, but pretty empty given its size. In each opposing corner,
strange looking machines surrounded by computer monitors stand guard over an
elongated tube in the middle, wires and cables running from it to them. I inch
closer until my eyes are able to focus better in the near darkness and I can
make out a shape in the tube. Realization crashes into me, and I absentmindedly
notice the clank of my knife as it falls to the floor. I don’t remember
dropping it, but I’m too stunned to care.

After a short while, I find my voice again and speak to
Damian without bothering to turn around. My question comes out barely louder
than a whisper.

“Is that a clone?” I ask.

He walks up beside me and places a warm hand on my shoulder,
but keeps his eyes straight ahead at the tube. He says nothing.

Nausea consumes me like a wave.

"What have you done?"

“Alex?” My mom yells from the other room, and I set
down the toy soldier I’ve been playing with. His battle of life and death with
the evil Gorgons will have to wait for now.

“Coming mom,” I shout back.

Emerging from my room, I sprint down the hallway as
fast as my legs can take me, narrowly avoiding tripping over Cara, my chocolate
lab and best friend. She cuts her eyes at me as if to say, “There he goes
again.”

Mom calls me her little lightning bolt sometimes
because I run everywhere I go. I can’t help it. The world just seems to
be standing still and I want it to catch up. Maybe if I run fast enough, it’ll
chase me. I know that makes no sense, but I like to think it anyway. There’s no
fun in being logical all the time. That would make me a robot, and robots are
dull, lifeless things.

I round the corner at top speed, barely managing to
stay on my naked feet as they slide across the tiled kitchen floor. Mom looks
up and throws out her arms for me, and I run and jump into them. She crushes me
to herself in a bear hug, laughing at my silliness.

“You need to slow down, sweetheart. You’re going to
hurt yourself one of these days,” she says, plopping me into the chair next to
hers at the kitchen table. Cara trots into the room and grunts as if to
punctuate mom’s warning. She crawls under the table to the foot of my chair to
lie down, and I rest my feet on her warm back, digging at her soft fur with my
toes and giggling all the while.

Mom slides a book over to me. It’s thick, with a black
cover, and nearly falling apart from overuse. Most of the students use
information pads, but they’re expensive. Mom’s been taking classes, trying to
earn a degree in engineering. She wants to make a better life for us. Dad
does what he can, but the plant doesn’t pay well enough even though he works
long, exhausting hours.

We're lucky dad has his job at the plant. Mom says at
least we’re surviving compared to a lot of the country. But she wants better
things for us. She works odd jobs as much as possible and, combined with dad's
income and her student loans, she's been able to take a few classes a semester
now for a couple of years. She says she knows it will take a long time, but
“any plan for a better future, is worth the time it takes.” It's kinda like
her motto or something.

Pointing to a problem on the page, she says, “Mommy’s
having trouble figuring this out, baby. Can you help me with it?”

I perk up, savoring the chance to help my mom. There's
nothing I enjoy more than making her happy, in whatever way I can, and math
problems are one of my favorite things to do anyway. I look over the problem
for a few seconds and blurt out the answer.

She pats my nose gently with one finger, a gesture of
affection, and chuckles while rolling her eyes at me.

“I
know
the answer,” she says. “I’m just not
sure how they
got
the answer.”

“Oh, okay.”

We can’t afford a babysitter, so mom’s professors have
agreed to let me sit in with her in class. I really enjoy the lessons, and they
all say how well-behaved I am. Mom won’t let me answer any of the questions in
class, though. I think she's afraid it will bring unwanted attention.

I launch into a detailed explanation, careful not to go
too fast, giving her time to ask questions and work through it on her own.
She’s pretty sharp, my mom. We’re just finishing up when dad comes in
from work and tosses his faded flannel jacket on a nail pounded into the back
of the door.

“Hi dad,” I say.

“Hi guys.” He walks over and gives mom a kiss before
ruffling my hair with a calloused hand. “Whatcha working on?” he says to mom.

She rubs the space between her eyes with a thumb and
forefinger.

“Calculus. Alex was showing me how they arrived at the
answer to one of the problems I couldn’t figure out.”

Dad looks at me for a moment with a funny look on his
face, and I resist the urge to giggle again.

I know dad is uncomfortable with my “smarts” as he
calls them. Sometimes I hear him and mom talking when they think I’m
asleep.

“It’s unnatural,” he’ll say. “Maybe there’s
something wrong with him. Maybe we should call the agency, see if they
can dig a little deeper into his background.”

Mom’s answer is always the same. “Hank, it’s a
gift. He’s amazing. He’s blessed. Why can’t you see
that?” And so the conversation will continue, but dad never sees things
her way.

I love my dad, but he’s not around very much, and when
he is, he’s nice, but not like my mom. He sort of keeps to himself.
He’s content to sit and watch TV after work. Mom says he’s had a hard
life, whatever that means. I look up at him now and watch his expression.

“Well, that’s pretty amazing for a six year old,” he
finally says, and there's no mistaking the slight edge to his voice.

Mom on the other hand just laughs and hops up.
“Dinner’s almost ready you two; go wash your hands, Alex.”

For the first time, I let myself slow down enough to
notice the rich aroma of stew on the stove, and I skip to the bathroom to wash
up, taking a little time to play with my toy cars in the sink. Every car needs
a good car wash now and then. When I come back a few minutes later, dad gives
me that funny look again before glancing hurriedly back down at his newspaper.

The door crashes open and I'm sitting up in an instant,
jarred from the dream, the gun from under my pillow already in my hand and
pointed at the darkened figure in the doorway.

"Cray, it's me," she says.

I lower the gun as my eyes focus on the silhouette
standing there. Frustration floods me.

"Sheesh, Mira, I could have killed you! What were
you thinking?" I'm more awake now, and questions start popping into my
head. "Where were you? Have you been out alone?"

She doesn’t answer, but walks forward and sits on the side
of the bed next to me, her body radiating warmth, a hint of mint on her breath.
Now that she’s closer, I can see she’s upset. Her eyes are bloodshot and her
expression is drawn. I feel a sudden surge of panic, not knowing what to make
of the situation.

"Did someone hurt you?" I say. If
someone did something to her, things are about to get ugly around here!

"No," she whispers.

"Then what?" I’m at a loss.

Instead of answering, she walks to the closet and
retrieves a jacket, a large parka with fur around the seams. She hands it
to me then takes my hand and pulls me from the bed, her grip revealing the
tremendous strength in her petite frame. She pulls me quickly out the
door and leads me to the elevator and the ground floor. It opens onto the
dome and again she pulls me behind her, this time across the still-wet grass to
the far side. Once there, we take one of several hallways leading into
the bowels of the main level.

Several times I start to ask questions, but she shushes
me.

“Wait,” she says. "Not here. I need to
talk to you in private, and this place has eyes and ears everywhere."

I really despise being patient, but I trust her wisdom
and instincts, so I bite my tongue and follow. She's moving quickly, faster
than she normally would, her stride awkward. Whatever she's doing, it's
important enough to her to endure a little extra pain to make good time, and
it's not long until we reach a dark expanse I remember as being on the western
edge of the fortress. It’s an unused loading dock with small naked bulbs
covered in wire mesh hanging high above, pitifully straining to pierce the
shadows to give us enough light to navigate by.

Raised platforms sit evenly apart on both sides of the
walls, massive doors standing in front of each one. At some point in the
past, this place was used to receive cargo, send it out, or both.

She stops abruptly when we reach the far wall, presses
a release switch, and a smaller door slides in and to the side exposing us to
the frigid landscape outside. The cold hits me like a dagger, sucking my breath
away, and I scramble into the jacket that until now I've been holding in my
hand. My pants are thin and painful chills race up my legs. I begin
shivering, the moisture in my nose freezing into ice crystals. My eyes
burn from the sub-zero temp, but Mira charges ahead.

“Wait, you don’t even have a jacket. Mira!”
Stubborn
mule
. “Do we really have to go outside?”

“Come on,” she yells back, “you know I can handle the
temp for a while.”

“Gee thanks. That helps
me
so much,” I retort.
“By the way, thanks for the jacket, but shoes would have been nice too.”

She looks down and seems to realize for the first time
that my feet are bare.

I can make out an “oops” from her over the howling
gale.

I roll my eyes and plop down. The pajama pants
are just long enough that I can curl them under my feet and tie them off, not
that it’s going to help much.

I stand back up and plod into the elements towards
Mira, trying to ignore the aching cold oozing through the pants onto my feet
and legs. Mira is standing with her hands on her hips, looking for all
the world like she’s going out for a casual stroll, but as I approach, she
turns on her heels and moves farther out and away from the fortress.

I fall in behind her as she moves thirty yards down the
side of the monolithic black structure, the door still open behind us, teasing
me with the promise of warmth, snow blowing in through the opening. I feel like
an ice cube, but she appears unfazed.

Suddenly, she stops and turns to me. I’m
surprised that two tear lines streak her face forming crystalline trails of ice
running down her cheeks. It gives the macabre appearance that she’s
crying glass.

“Mira, for crying out loud, what is going on?” I yell,
my teeth chattering so hard I’m afraid they’ll shatter.

She doesn't keep me waiting any longer.

“I’ve just spent the last couple of hours with your
father.”

That gives me a different kind of shiver unrelated to
the weather.

Uh-oh. “Did he hurt you?” I'm instantly on the
offensive, ready to run off into the fortress and find my would-be dad to exact
an agonizing revenge for any pain he may have caused to her.

“No. I already told you nobody hurt me. I'm
angry. Cray, there is so much more going on here than we dreamed. There are
things I can barely believe and things that I wish weren’t true. But more than
any of that, I found out something terrible, something that affects us both. I
wanted to tell you in private, without prying eyes, but there’s no place inside
there that Damian can’t see.”

I still can’t shake the unnerving panic gripping my
chest. “Okay, okay, you’re freaking me out. Just get to it
already.” I shake as a particularly strong arctic blast pummels us. Mira still
seems fine even though she’s only wearing a tank top and pajama pants like
mine. Her bare feet are covered in a small snow drift.

She waits, like she’s trying to figure out how to best
say what she needs to. Instead, she reaches a hand up and caresses my cheek.
It’s surprisingly warm.

“Cray,” she starts, but a frown creeps across her expression.
“Cray,” she starts again, but in a flash her face changes, her brows knitting
together. A pained look contorts her beautiful features. “Something’s
wrong…” She collapses. I catch her before she hits the surface; her eyes
are rolled back in her head and her body is racked with spasms so hard it’s
difficult to keep my grip.

“Mira?!” I scream. “Oh,
God. Help!!” I pick her up and cradle her to my chest. Her
body flails so violently it feels like my arms will be pulled from their
sockets. God, she’s strong. I run back to the door, stumbling and slipping on
the ice, screaming for help the whole time, my chest taking a beating from one
of her elbows. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I pant. “Somebody help me…!”

Mira’s seizure is getting worse, but I try to keep
moving back towards the core of the fortress. I blunder awkwardly in the dark,
but I can hear voices coming towards us now, the clamor of people headed this
way. I continue yelling, but before I can reach them, Mira bucks violently and
our heads crash together. For a brief instant there’s a blinding jolt of pain,
then darkness.