The look she gave me was one of hard, unflinching fatalism. It was the reason there was no trace of hope or optimism in her eyes. “It’s everywhere, man. How can you not know that? This is the actual end.”
Suddenly hands began pounding on the outside of the bus. Heavy, soft, artless thumps. Nothing fast, nothing precise. Just the battering of mindless need. I knew that sound. The hungry dead. The relentless dead.
I’d fought this before. It was how I got into the DMS. Sebastian Gault had developed a prion-based pathogen that turned people into something straight out of The Walking Dead. Except this wasn’t TV. This was the world and we’d had to do terrible things to save it. So many people died to put the monster back into its cage. Then it surfaced again after Artemisia Bliss stole the seif al din pathogen from the secure facility where it had been locked away. She’d unleashed it on a subway train in New York, at a Best Buy in Pennsylvania, and at a science fiction convention in Atlanta. Worst day for civilian deaths in American history. Again, my team and I had been forced to pull triggers and cut throats in order to save the nation—hell, the entire world—from consuming itself. No joke, no exaggeration.
So what happened? How was I on a school bus with all these kids and a cop telling me that some other bioweapon, Lucifer 113, had slipped its chain? How could I not have prevented this? Where was the DMS when the Devil got out of its cage? How was it possible that the apparatus of defense that Church had built could have failed on so spectacular a level?
How? The dead hammered on the bus. The children screamed.
“This isn’t real,” I told her.
“Fuck you,” she said, and punched me again. Harder. “Look around you. These kids are all that’s left of my town. Every bus is filled with kids. Kids. Look at them. Listen to them, for Christ’s sake. Not real? God, I want to kick your teeth down your throat. This is happening and it’s happening right now. You’re supposed to be a genuine goddamn American hero, Ledger. Why don’t you Velcro your nutsack back on and act like it.”
The dead began hammering on the side of the bus with renewed intensity.
I struggled to get to my feet.
And the God Wave hit me again.
* * *
I stood on the side of an overturned school bus.
Dez Fox was gone. The bus was years old, wrapped in creeper vines, rusted and dead. There was a sound behind me and a young man climbed up to stand next to me. At first I thought it was Sam, but I was wrong. He was younger, taller, slimmer. His eyes were sadder. He had a katana slung over his shoulder, angled for an overhand draw. His name was Tom, but I don’t know how I knew that.
“There’s a trail through the trees,” Tom said, nodding off to my left. “Heads up into the hills. Zoms won’t go uphill unless they’re chasing something.”
“I taught you that, kiddo,” I said. My voice sounded different. Older, filled with hard use and gravel. The kind of voice you could get if you screamed enough.
Far ahead we could see movement on the road as first one and then several emaciated figures staggered out of the tall weeds.
“Time to go, Tom,” I said.
We turned and walked the length of the school bus. He dropped lightly to the ground and then offered a hand to help me down. It was disconcerting to realize I needed it. In the distance on the other side of the bus the dead had caught our scent and they began to moan. We faded into the trees, heading uphill.
The God Wave took me away before I saw where we were going.
* * *
And then I stood on the shores of a black ocean.
Creatures roiled and twisted in the surf. Dark shapes that made no sense to a sane mind. Out on the horizon there was a mist, white as milk, rolling in. It churned, too, as if there were things moving inside it, approaching where I stood. If it reached me while I stood there they would consume me. No question about it.
“It’s beautiful here,” said a voice, and I turned to see a handsome young man standing beside me. He was whole and straight. No burns, no madness flickering like candle flame in his eyes. And he could have been Junie’s twin brother.
“I guess you’d have to know how to look at it,” I said.
Prospero nodded. “It’s not your home.”
“No.”
There were storm clouds above us and something moved inside of them, too. Not animals, not beasts. Machines. As I watched, a half dozen of them broke from the clouds and soared above us. Two groups of three. Each of the machines was triangular in shape. They were elegant and they soared above us toward a row of mountains that towered miles and miles into this impossible sky.
“Not outer space,” said Prospero. “You know that, right?”
“I guess I do.”
“That’s too far to travel.”
“Yes.”
“But here,” he gestured to the nightmare world around us, “my home is right next door to yours.”
“Prospero,” I said, “my world is dying. My people are going to burn when all the lights go out. Children are going to get sick and die. I can’t do this without you.”
He said nothing as he turned to watch the triangular craft dwindle into tiny dots.
“Your father and Harcourt Bolton have stolen your machine and they are using it to destroy everyone I love.”
He smiled. “My father is dead. He shot himself, did you know that? They broke him up and threw him away. Poor Daddy.”
“Okay … but Bolton is still trying to steal what you made. He’s turning you into a monster by exploiting what you built.”
“I am a monster. I come from a world of monsters.”
I turned to him. “Maybe that’s true, Prospero, but you’re not evil. You never were. In my world Bolton is the monster. And he is definitely evil. He keeps you in chains. You’re the monster in his basement. And he will never let you go home.” I gestured to the world. “You’re dreaming this, but you’re still a prisoner in that basement.”
Tears broke and ran down his face. “All I ever wanted was to go home.”
“Help me stop Bolton and I promise you that you can go home.”
He looked at me shrewdly. “You’re really in love with someone who comes from here? A woman like me?”
“Her name is Junie Flynn. She’s your sister, Prospero, and I love her with my whole heart and soul. That has to be worth something, Prospero. It has to mean something.”
He opened his mouth to speak but then the God Wave hit me again.
And I was gone.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FOUR
THE PIER
DMS SPECIAL PROJECTS OFFICE
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 10, 2:51 P.M.
Harcourt Bolton slept and dreamed and smiled as the seconds ran down.
He did not see the elevator doors open there on the parking garage. He did not see the woman and the man step off. Did not see her point with a knife toward the parked SUV. The windows were smoked and he was content that he could not be seen.
He had forty Closers in the building. The last of the DMS was being exterminated here, and soon, with federal marshals, FBI agents, NSA, Secret Service, and Homeland to work with, he would shut down every last field office. It was already in motion. Nothing could stop it now.
He lay on the seat he’d put back, and he floated inside the mind of the Mullah, and he was content.
Until the window beside him exploded inward.
The sound, the flying safety glass, the sheer shock of it tore him out of the Mullah’s mind and out of the dream state. Then hands reached through and tore him out of the car, dragging him through the window as teeth of glass ripped at him. Violin and Mr. Church dumped him on the hard concrete and squatted down in front of him.
“Harcourt,” said Church, “you disappoint me.”
Bolton went for his gun. Church took it away from him and handed it to Violin. She removed the magazine, ejected the round, and then threw the weapon away.
“Harcourt, you have one chance here,” said
Church. “Tell me how to stop the countdown. We have the code, but we need to know what to do with it.”
Bolton pulled himself up so that his back was against the car. His clothes were torn and he was bleeding from a dozen cuts.
“Oh really, Deacon?” he said, laughing in Church’s face. “And what will you offer me? A plea bargain? My life? What?”
“What do you want?” asked Church, his voice soft, almost gentle. “What can I offer you that would mean anything to you? Just ask. Tell me what will get this done.”
Bolton spat in Church’s face. “You’re a monster, Deacon. You know that? I even tried to crawl inside your head. Jesus Christ, that was scary as hell. But I know who you are. I know what you are.”
“Then we both know,” said Church as he wiped the spittle from his face. “How does that help us help each other?”
Bolton sneered. “Even if I told you what to do, you couldn’t do it.” He looked at his watch. “You have less than two minutes.”
“Tell me and we’ll try.”
“No, you ass, you have to be there, at the God Machine. You have to input the first ten values of pi. That code cancels out the first one and—”
“No,” said Church.
A slow smile formed on Bolton’s face.
“You’re lying to me,” said Church as he straightened. He tapped his earbud. “You heard?”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE
BOLTON HOUSE
RANCHO SANTA FE, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 10, 2:52 P.M.
01:04
“I heard,” I said.
I stood in front of the God Machine. My clothes were torn and streaked with black muck from that alien ocean. Blood leaked hot and wet from my ears and nostrils and from the corners of my eyes. My hands were shaking with palsy. It felt like I’d been away for hours or days, but it had been seconds. Even time seemed fractured.
I turned to Prospero Bell.
“There is no way to stop it. Not even Bolton can do it now.”
Prospero, burned and crooked with damage and disease, smiled at me. His clothes were filthy but his teeth were so white.
“If I do this,” he said, “you have to promise me.”
“Anything,” I said, “I swear.”
“Swear on her. On my sister. On Junie,” he said. He looked down at the broken length of chain that was still locked to his ankle, and at the pipe I’d used to smash two of the links. Then he looked up at me again. “Swear on her.”
I was about to fall down. “I swear on my love for her. I swear, Prospero. I swear on Junie Flynn.”
“Okay,” he said.
He hobbled over to the machine. We were alone there. When the God Machine swallowed us, I went one way and Esteban Santoro went somewhere else. I came back and, so far, he hadn’t.
“Hurry,” I begged.
Prospero bent and kissed the metal skin of the God Machine. The jewels were flashing faster and faster now as the thing cycled up to send the signal to all of those other machines.
00:31
His fingers were crooked from damage, the tendons shortened by the fires that had burned him. But they danced over the surface of the jewels. He touched the emerald first, and then the topaz twice, then the diamond, then the ruby five times. Moving faster. “There is an operational code,” he said, “and that’s the one I gave to Bolton. It’s the calculation of three stars that can be seen from Antarctica. To use the God Machine as a global device, you input those coordinates.”
I nodded. I knew this. My legs buckled and I dropped to my knees.
00:25
“But there is a master code. That resets the entire system. It’s the coordinates of those stars on the day my ancestors first came here,” he said. “A billion years ago.” He turned to me. “That’s how you’ll send me home, too. You understand?”
00:14
“For the love of God, Prospero…”
“And then you put in the coordinates for the stars today. That’s the secret. That completes the energetic circle.”
He smiled and tapped the last numbers in. The same numbers Dr. Kang had found, and then the other set.
00:00:07
The lights all went off and we were plunged into darkness.
Total darkness.
I seemed to swim in it.
The only thing I could see was the digital display on the inside of my goggles.
00:00:02
Steady, unblinking. Burned into the moment.
I bent my head and wept.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX
THE COMCAST BUILDING
1701 JOHN F. KENNEDY BOULEVARD
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
SEPTEMBER 10, 11:54 A.M. LOCAL TIME
Trey Willis stood on the deck, staring in blank wonder as the small quadcopters drifted back toward him. He almost ran, but he didn’t. Not because something held him in place—he was free now. But because he had to know what was going to happen.
The little machines flew back toward him, toward the control device he held.
One by one they settled back onto the deck in exactly the same place where they’d been before they’d swarmed off. It took a lot of courage for Trey to set down the device and pick up one of the drones. When he saw the plastic tanks on the bottom he recoiled, set it down, and went running for help.
The only thing he did first was to place the control device on the ground and smash it with his heel.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SEVEN
BOLTON HOUSE
RANCHO SANTA FE, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 10, 2:59 P.M.
I sat on the edge of a filthy bed, my head in my hands. Alone. All alone.
It was Ghost who found me. He led Harry Bolt down the hall and into the chamber. Harry was covered in blood and soot, and his eyes were crazed. Harry stopped in the doorway and looked around, confused. I sat against the wall of a vast and empty chamber. Prospero’s bed, chains, and a few pieces of debris were the only things in there with me.
“But … but…,” stammered Harry, confused and frightened, “I thought the machine would be in here. There’s nowhere else it could be.”
I raised my head to look at him. “It was here. So was Prospero.”
“But, where’d it go? I mean … how’d they get it out of here? And where’s Prospero?”
Ghost went over and sniffed a spot on the floor where some of Santoro’s blood was spattered. He cocked a leg and pissed all over it. Then Ghost came over and began licking my face. I wrapped my arms around my furry friend and buried my face in his ruff and left Harry to answer his own questions.
I don’t remember passing out at all.
EPILOGUE
1.
Head injury.
Yeah.
Another damn coma. Only two days this time. Lucky me? Not really. Actually, looking back on my life since joining the DMS I’m not really sure where my life falls in relation to the whole “luck” thing.
I woke up. I’m alive and my brain still works.
Hey, if you have your health you have everything, right?
Right?
2.
I woke to news and heartbreak.
Montana Parker and Brian Botley had died in the battle at the Pier. They were gone. And it was touch and go for Sam Imura and Toys. The surgeons earned their pay keeping them both on this side of the dirt. Sam lost ten inches of intestine. Toys had some kidney and lung damage. Bunny was going to be in therapy for a long time. Maybe Top, too, but he’s tougher than the rest of us.
Violin came to visit me. She brought flowers and food. Harry Bolt came to visit; he brought flowers and food. Every-damn-body else at the DMS came to visit. They brought flowers and they ate most of the food. The president did not come to visit. He sent the vice president. He brought flowers but no food.
Junie spent half of each day in my room and half in with Toys. She was going to need a lot of help getting over it. Sure, it wasn’t her doing those things, but tel
l that to her, or Top or Bunny. Tell any of the dozens of people around the country who woke up to find themselves standing on rooftops surrounded by drones filled with smallpox. Cops, lawyers, doctors, and shrinks may never sort it out. Maybe historians will.
I tried watching it all on the news. There was one international story about a vicious fight that erupted among disparate factions who had recently set aside their political and religious differences to follow what they thought was a new prophet. When a holy plague failed to sweep across America there was a bit of a backlash. Right now we’re all watching as the Taliban, al-Qaeda, and a dozen other groups gouge chunks out of the ISIL leadership. I’d like to think that they’ll gang up so hard that they’ll crush ISIL flat. I’d like to believe in Santa Claus, too.
But it’s fun to watch.
The retaliation by our own government was severe. Some say it’s too harsh, but I’ll see their outrage and raise a weaponized plagued aimed at our kids.
Church came to visit me. He brought cookies.
I said, “Please tell me that the Gateway technology’s not going to wind up going to another black budget group.”
“Aunt Sallie has assembled a team,” Church told me. “It’s being taken care of.”
“I don’t even want to hear about any of this going to FreeTech. None of it.”
Church nodded. “We’re on the same page.”
“Good.”
“Good,” he agreed. We sat for a long time in silence. He’d brought a box of Nilla wafers and a package of Oreos. We each had some.
“So,” I said, “are there still warrants out for us?”
“I’m happy to report that they’ve been withdrawn,” he said. He removed a letter from his jacket pocket. “And you might find this interesting.”
The stationery was remarkably crisp and was embossed with the presidential seal. The letter was a newly drafted and signed executive order for a revised charter for the DMS. I read it and whistled.
“What in the wide blue hell did you have to do to get POTUS to give you this?” I demanded. “It makes our old charter look like obfuscatory gibberish.”
“I didn’t even have to ask,” he said. “This was hand-delivered within twenty-four hours of the raid in Rancho Santa Fe. I had Bug share your radio and body-camera feed with the White House. They saw and heard everything.”