Catalyst (Book 1): Decay Chains (16 page)

“You’re hiding out from the cops, but they’re the dangerous ones?”

The disgust in Misty’s voice boomed over waves of judgment. Stormy wondered which laws they accused her of breaking. It didn’t really matter. She knew it wasn’t the police looking for her.

“They’re not—”

“Yeah right, Stormy. Look, I don’t like this. You’re making me lie for you. What does that tell my kids?”

“They’re in preschool.”

“Don’t call here anymore,” Misty sighed. “Mom would be so disappointed.”

“No, she wouldn’t. She’s more understanding than you.”

“Quit involving Mom too, before you get her security clearance yanked.”

Stormy resigned herself to granting her sister’s request, even though she knew it was all wrong. She said a prayer for her nephews before handing the phone back to Ian. It was clear to her now that she had to stop Cold World to protect her family. Her words alone weren’t going to convince Misty of anything. Her sister ignored her warnings and chocked them up to the lies of a wanted felon. Stormy wondered how her sister could brush her off so easily. She had never been in trouble before, what led Misty to discount her word so easily after knowing her all her life? How did one conversation with a guy with a badge nullify an entire lifetime of good behavior?

Stormy refilled her coffee and sat at the kitchen table. She doodled on her legal pad for a second. Then she gripped the edges, preparing to throw it across the room. She fought the urge to send the stacks of papers flying off the table and then maybe upturn it too. After counting twenty breaths, she set the legal pad down and ran upstairs. She needed to get out of the house, breathe and scream, be away from everyone and everything. A minute to herself out of all the other ones in a day wouldn’t hurt anything. She pretended she didn’t notice that Ian and Josh’s conversation died as she crossed the kitchen, snatched her running shoes, and headed out the back door.

A half-hour later, she slowed to a brisk walk. The house didn’t look as grim as it had when she had sprinted away from it earlier. Her hands found her hips and dug in while her eyes searched the sky above her. Aranchea had one thing over the city any day, the air was so clean that it took forty-five seconds off her run time. Whatever she had been going through, she left somewhere along her trail and she didn’t want it back. She peeked in the screen door before entering, curious to see what Ian and Josh did when she wasn’t at her perch.

She smiled at the backs of their heads, which never moved from in front of their computer screens. Crazy about the mission or not, those two were all in and neither of them was throwing a hissy fit about it either. She would keep it together from now on, even if it meant not calling home again until this was over.

She was a mere two steps inside the door when she caught the image on the television. “Is that Reamer?” It was like a stain on the carpet. When that building was in sight, it was all she saw.

Ian wasn’t interested until he saw who the newscaster was. “Turn it up.”

Robin Fiske intrigued Ian, but Stormy hadn’t discovered why just yet. She relayed the latest info about Reamer like an expert, although Stormy was positive the news anchor didn’t know shit about it.

Robin put on her grim and serious face to greet her on-location counterpart. The overzealous reporter tried to get access to Reamer, but riot police clad in gas masks weren’t having it. He reluctantly filmed from a boarded up storefront nearby.

The only live thing besides him in the shot was a mangy cat who warned them to stay away with nerve-racking cries. One look and Stormy could tell the street now belonged to the dead. She smelled burned flesh like she was standing next to the babbling reporter in the middle of the street.             

“All right, everyone gets phones. It’s too dangerous to be without them anymore,” Ian said. “I’ll work on it after I finish what I’m doing now.”

Stormy had noticed Purdy lumber into the kitchen, but he jarred her out of her television trance when he started in on Josh. Egg carton in hand, and refrigerator door left ajar, Purdy tried to make sense out of the senseless.

“Is there a particular reason you insist on leaving egg shells in the carton? I mean, is that a white person thing?”

Josh’s mouth dropped open. “Uh—”

“I mean, I get that you’re messy, that I can deal with,” Purdy said. “We’ve got messy people in the Army, but do you have to be booty nasty too?”

“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Ian said. “You got any more ground rules we should know about?”                            

“Actually, yeah I do.” Purdy closed the refrigerator door, flung the carton on the counter, and leaned his back against the ledge. “When you tuck towels under the bathroom door it sets me on edge. Makes me think you know something I don’t. And then you board up the vents and shut off the heat every night. I freeze my ass to death when I sleep. I mean, I’m sleeping in my long johns, Gore-tex and the liner, and I still need a space heater. And if I catch you letting Killer up on the couch again, I’m going to kill you myself.”             

“Okay, okay. We get it,” Josh said.

“Apparently you don’t—”

Ian’s hands jumped up in protest. “No, really we do.”

“You see, over in the sand box they do all these preparations too. But when the shit hits the fan, no amount of locking doors or covering vents is going to save your ass. That’s when God decides who lives with the memories and whose spared from them by death.” Purdy got quiet for a moment. “Honestly, I’ll fight, but there are times I’d rather die than see what’s left after the last shells hit the dirt.”

No one had any pithy comments for that one.

Purdy took the hint, pushed his glass to the edge of the sink and walked away. He stopped in the living room for a second. They heard the heat click on before his footsteps hit the stairs. His door slammed shut right before the plastic tarp flew off the kitchen vent and fluttered into the sink.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

DAYS UNTIL THE SUPERVIRUS GOES GLOBAL: 20:11:03

A new normal carved itself out of the remnants of their former lives. Stormy kept from losing her shit by going on runs twice a day. A good trek emptied her of lurking thoughts, leaving just oxygen and endorphins. She wrapped up her afternoon jaunt with a list of objectives freshly formed. Killer barked, alerting the entire world that she had returned from a lap around Aranchea’s perimeter. Josh nodded at her and went back to work.

Ian got up to get something out of the fridge, but his eyes stayed glued to the television. The set was angled on the edge of a folding table, a space shared with endless cables, computer parts, and gadgets only Ian and Josh could identify.

“Anything new?” Stormy asked.

“Someone stole our stolen credit card number,” Josh said.

“Is it Cold World hunting us down?”

“Doesn’t look like it. Just some thief that likes satellite TV.”

Ian nudged his soda can against Josh’s arm before settling in his computer chair. “See, that’s the real news.”

Josh lifted his eyes from his computer screen to glance at the television.

“A reliable source.” Ian tipped his soda back and swiveled his chair around to face his desk. “Try to pay attention.”

“Reliable my ass. They’re wrong. They’re saying it was a suicide mission.”              

“That’s right.” The computer screen drew Ian back in.

“No. They’re saying the terrorists committed suicide in the building. Stormy heard them plan their escape route.”

“It’s still better than whatever commie bat-boy crap your tabloids spun up. And that reporter, Robin Fiske or whatever her name is, she’s hot—even for a right winger.”

“I can’t believe only one station connected Reamer with the attack up north. But they’re saying it’s an outbreak and to go get your flu shot.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Ian said. “I’m getting two shots, so I’ll be doubly protected.”

“Is there something that will protect us?” Stormy asked.

Purdy banged on the screen door. “Ya’ll get out here and tell Killer what a good job he’s doing.”             

“Do we have to go watch him ruin that dog?” Josh asked.

“You do. Right now,” Stormy said. “Oh, and if you two so much as look cross-eyed at each other while we’re out there, I’ll teach Killer to attack guys who speak Vulcan.”

Purdy didn’t know anything about dog training that wasn’t in the manual Ian downloaded for him. Undeterred, he spent his afternoons training the dog to go apeshit on cue. Once he gave Killer the command to attack, the only thing stopping him was another piss-poor German command from Purdy, because no one else spoke his butchered version of the language.

“Zet-zen,” Purdy said.

Killer plopped his tongue back in his mouth and sat down in the unruly grass.

Ian looked back and forth from his translator app to the training lesson. “That doesn’t sound right.” His eyebrow raised in annoyance. “The way you’re pronouncing the word makes it mean sixteen.”

“No it don’t. It means sit, see?” Purdy pointed at Killer. “Don’t he look like he’s sitting to you?”

Killer remained stone still in the grass. Ian pulled his hand away from his chin, rubbed the back of his neck and whispered, “He’s ruining the pronunciation of a perfectly good language, but whatever.”

Josh snickered.

Stormy smiled. “Try another one.” She elbowed Josh in the ribs and whispered, “I will stab you with a kitchen knife in your sleep. Pass it on to your friend.”

Purdy pointed at the scarecrow at the end of the field. “Fahs.”

              Everyone jumped when Killer burst up and launched at his target. He was all teeth and anger as he bounded toward the scarecrow marked “Stormy’s boyfriend” in black spray paint. Birds flew away in horror. Killer sailed through the air, ripped the scarecrow’s head off, and jerked it around. Purdy crossed his arms and half smirked. He let Killer work for a moment before shouting, “Hier.” Killer stopped right in the middle of a righteous chomp and hurried to Purdy’s side. Purdy waited for him to catch his breath before petting his head and handing over a thick piece of bacon.

“You shouldn’t feed him that,” Josh said.

“We shouldn’t feed you bacon either, but we do,” Purdy said.

“Good work.” Stormy ruffled Killer’s ears.

“Yeah. Awesome, so long as no German wait staff attack us,” Ian said. “That last one sounded like beer.”             

Purdy scratched Killer’s back. He smoothed a course section that trailed down Killer’s backside and always stood on end for no apparent reason. He knew how to get things done, even when he didn’t know how to do them. Not to mention he was now on a first name basis with every gun runner within a hundred mile radius of this sleepy town. The group filed inside. Stormy trailed behind, ensconced in delicate, but high hopes.

Her thoughts flitted back to the conversation from earlier. Could there be a cure or maybe a vaccine that worked? She had never considered it before. Stan banged pots and pans around in the kitchen, effectively jarring her from her train of thought. This was another in a long line of times when she wished they could do something simple that was impossible to do. She wanted Stan to give up and just order a pizza, but that couldn’t happen.

Ian’s voice jarred her from her thoughts. “Before you hit the shower, show me which one, Stormy.”

She pointed to one of the dozen black weapons on the computer screen. “It looked like that one.”
How could she be sure when they all looked the same?

Purdy tapped his index finger on the computer screen. “That one is an AR-15.”

Ian wiped away Purdy’s fingerprint with the cuff of his long sleeve T-shirt.

“Well then, we need some of those too.” Purdy turned around and left the room. “And something better,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Like a SAW.”

A minute later he returned, all business. He dropped Stan’s handgun on Ian’s keyboard. Ian tried to catch it, but wasn’t quick enough.

“These aren’t going to match up to those,” Purdy said.

“Dinner’s ready . . . I think,” Stan said.

“And I’m going to need cash to make this happen. This guy doesn’t do the wire transfer thing,” Purdy said.

“One for everyone?” Josh asked.

“Not everyone. Just all the folks who want to see their next birthday.”

“Well, that settles it. Get me two,” Josh said. “I want to live to be forty at least.”

“Better skip dinner tonight,” Ian said. “That might get you to twenty-two.”

Dinner wasn’t that bad. It smelled funny, and looked like tepid road kill, but the consistency was palatable and it filled the tome that of late, was Stormy’s stomach. Only one creature she knew of had a larger appetite than hers. The visions that accompanied that thought are the only reason she pushed her plate away and went to bed.

The following morning, her head pounded and it felt like her eye sockets were squeezing her eyes out of place. Laden with a steady string of nightmares, it had been her worst night at Aranchea, which wasn’t an easy feat to claim. She considered going back to bed, but gave up on the idea and started fresh coffee. The guys were already up, and for that she was thankful. She couldn’t be alone with her thoughts a minute longer.

Josh’s eyes never left his computer screen. “Ian, look at this.”

“Can’t. Not now.”

Josh spun around in his computer chair, looking for anyone to share with. Stormy left the coffee pot to do its thing and stood behind his computer chair.

He scrolled a newspaper archive and clicked a link to an old article. “Check it out. Found something on the enigma that is Purdy.”

Stormy skimmed the article quickly. It was a small wedding announcement, but that wasn’t the interesting part. When Josh enlarged the black and white photo, she did a double take. Purdy’s grandmother was stunning in her day. Purdy’s grandfather was handsome too, but she had no idea that they were an interracial couple.

“You done with this one?” Josh asked.

“Is there more?”             

Josh clicked on the second tab. “Yup. I have uncovered the whole mystery.”

Now it made sense. According to the county records archive, Purdy’s grandmother changed her name back to Ms. Vernee Aranchea less than two years later. It was all there in the divorce papers. All there beneath the word adultery.

“When did she marry again?” Stormy asked.

“Doesn’t look like she ever did.”

“Answers some barking questions, huh?”

“Sure does.”

Josh clicked on several open tabs in rapid succession. “I’m not done yet.” He printed the articles and handed them to her one at a time.

“This is really good,” Josh said. “You’re missing out, Ian.”

Ian snatched his headphones off the desk, pulled them over his ears, and leaned into his computer screen.

“Whatever,” Josh said. “Check this shit out.”

He pointed to an article written years ago by a pretty Asian journalist.

“So, this chick was up and coming,” Josh said. “She’d just crossed over to mainstream papers, right after catching a huge hedge fund cover-up story. She started working on this series of articles and they found her dead in her apartment a month later.”

“That’s weird,” Stormy said.

“Guess who her new exposé was about?”

“Cold World?”

“Corporate Worldwide Realty and Investments.”

“She uncovered money trails, weird purchases like lab equipment, and all sorts of shit. But she only published two articles before being murdered. She never finished the series, but she didn’t have to, her notes were leaked.”

“So how long ago was this?”

“She died just over two years ago. And then just like that, Cold World is back under the radar.”

“Why was she looking into them?”

“It’s really weird for a realty and investment firm to buy lab equipment. My guess is a supplier tipped her off.”

“What did the notes say?”

Josh shouted over his shoulder in Ian’s direction. “All sorts of shit that Ian would be interested in if he would pay attention.”

Ian pulled his headphones off. “Look at this, you prick.”

“No, you look at this.”

“My shit is more important,” Ian said.

“No, it ain’t,” Josh said. “You’re supposed to track Cold World and I track Matt, remember? I did your homework.”

“I know where they’re hitting next,” Ian said.

Josh’s chair swirled around like a gun turret. Stan walked in from outside and all heads turned to face him.

“What?” Stan asked.

“Found the next target,” Josh said.

“No you didn’t,” Ian said. “I did.”

“Tell me everything,” Stan said.

Stormy leaned over Ian’s shoulder, but he scrolled way too fast for her to keep up.

“Manger Business Centre is owned by Manger Enterprises, but they just own the building,” Ian said. “There are twenty-three businesses inside. Banks, investment firms. Even a damn chiropractor from the look of it.”

“What do they have in common with Reamer?” Stormy asked. “Anything?”

“Doesn’t look like it.” Ian printed out some crappy blueprint of the building and put Stan to work stapling it together.

“What about the location?”

“It’s a business center again. Could be any of the corporations inside.”

“We might be looking in the wrong direction,” Stan said. “We need to learn more about Cold World. They may be the connection and not the companies or locations.”

“Let’s find out,” Stormy said.

“That’s going to take a while,” Ian said.             

“I’ve got all day,” she said.

Josh tossed back the last sips of his soda. “You’re going to need more than that.”

Stan looked over just in time to see Stormy purse her lips. Everyone knew what that look meant. He immediately went back to stapling the blueprint together.

“You’re not going to make it there in time,” Ian said.

She hooked her finger under her chin and matched his stare. “We can try.”

“No, we can’t. It wouldn’t matter,” Ian said. “We aren’t ready yet. We can’t risk exposure.”

“Well, what about all the intel we’ll lose? Isn’t that worth the risk?”

“That’s actually a good point,” Ian said.

“We won’t be able to stop them, but we might be able to learn something to keep them from ever doing it again,” Josh said.             

“Can you live with that, Stormy?”

“I don’t want to, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“Josh, you should go with her,” Ian said.

“No way, I don’t want to go.”             

“Why not?”

“Because it’s Purdy’s night to cook.”