Ghost of the Gods - 02 (18 page)

“Leave everything and go for the Humvee,” she said.

“You stole my exact thoughts.”

Sarah pushed a pair of night vision goggles into his hands. As soon as they were on, he spotted about a dozen iceboats coming at them across the partially frozen lake. They were traveling fast and in complete silence. The stealth was shocking.

Mark and Sarah crept out a side kitchen door, keeping as low a profile as possible. Ralph was heeling at her side. Mark suddenly knew he’d been spotted. Sarah sensed it too. At the same instant they both ran. Mark had a razor sharp Ka-Bar knife in his hand. He slashed the ropes holding down the camouflage tarp on the side of the Humvee facing away from the lake. Sarah was already inside the Humvee with Ralph. Her task was to ready the MK19 grenade machine gun. Suddenly he heard the pings of bullets hitting armor, followed by delayed heavy machine gun reports in the distance. Mark crawled through the passenger door and into the driver’s seat. He started the Humvee as bullets began striking like a hailstorm. The puncture proof tires kicked up mud and snow as the Humvee jounced over rocks and uneven ground. Pockmarks blossomed on the bullet resistant glass next to his ear. He turned into a fast, tight circle around the back of the cabin. He wanted to put the thick logs walls between him and their attackers before heading for the road. In seconds the cabin was shielding them and the hail stopped. An explosion behind them hit the Humvee with a shockwave but thankfully nothing worse. Mark saw what was left of the cabin in the side view mirror. The entire lakeside of the building had to be gone, but the front was still intact. He reached the road and swerved onto it, clipping a tree in the process. He was praying that whoever was attacking did not have air support. If they were gangs, then the worst was over. If they were USAG, then Apaches and Warthogs could descend on them any second. He replayed the fleeting night vision images he had of the boats coming across the ice. They were not the same boats Karla had arrived in. These had been smaller, faster, and silent. Who had that kind of stealthy war machines other than the military?

Mark took a quick right. As he completed the turn, the rear slid out from under him in the shallow snow. They were on ice. He corrected as they fishtailed. His heart was pounding and his nerves were on fire. He steered them out of the skid on instinct alone and was not sure he could repeat it or explain what he’d done.

“That was fun,” said Sarah. “Mind if I drive?”

“I got it.”

“I’ve had police training behind the wheel.”

“I got it!”

Navigating from escape plans in memory, Mark headed down a road that led to a rural two lane highway instead of heading back to the interstate. He wanted as much tree and hill cover as possible in case hell started to rain down from the sky.

They were an hour down the two lane highway and remarkably still alive. Mark was driving using night vision goggles. His hands had stopped sweating about a half hour ago. He was weighing the pros and cons of holing up somewhere until daybreak.

“We’ll never know if they were USAG or gangs or what,” he said.

“No air support,” said Sarah.

“Yeah, but maybe they had nothing standing by or were slow to call it in.”

“I just don’t think Karla had anything to do with it.”

“We lost a lot of gear back there,” said Mark. “I don’t believe for a minute Karla planned this, but I suspect her division deserves the bill.”

Sarah Mayfair – Carthage, New York – February 11, 0002 A.P.

Sarah walked across the historic footbridge that led back to where the Humvee was parked. Ralph was keeping pace with her. It was twilight. The river below was frozen into a solid sheet of ice. At this higher latitude it was a blustery winter. Snow was blowing across the ice, forming drifts at the river’s edge. Sarah had an aunt and uncle that lived not too far from Carthage. She had memories of spending a wonderful Christmas at their home. It was how Christmas was supposed to be with a roaring fire, stockings, and a huge tree rising above a mountain of gifts. She wondered if Aunt Helen and Uncle Johnnie still lived in Cranberry Lake. Carthage was now a ghost town or very near one. She sensed the emotional presence of a few people who were little more than ghosts in their own way. Her trek had been a waste of time. She had hoped to find food and water but was returning empty handed. She knew Mark had already returned to the Humvee and was waiting. A memory capsule from him had shown he too had failed at his scavenger hunt.

Since Lake Erie they had been following their sense of direction toward the singularity. Unlike the Chicago singularity, this one in Montreal was also releasing flashes of remote perceptions like accidental memory capsules from people close by. Sarah received another brief immersion into the perceptions of someone near the singularity. She stopped walking. For an instant she was inside a person in Montreal experiencing all their senses, thoughts, and feelings. She saw a pop art neon sign for a nightspot that was a cyber café. The sign read
Peter, Paul, & Mary
in
psychedelic swirls
.
Through a plate glass window she could see the café was filled with artist types. This person, her host, was an organic with friends inside the café. These flashes were something new, but reminiscent of what she’d experienced during kill-zones. Both she and Mark were experiencing these flashes. They had talked about the possible mechanics behind the remote perceptions but had come up with nothing that fit all the evidence. In her gut these flashes felt like bait for a trap.

After opening the Humvee’s rear door for Ralph, Sarah climbed up into the passenger seat. Mark had the engine idling to keep some heat in the cab. The radio was tuned to AM 1100, the new temporary home for Air Truth. Mark was heating a small buffet of Army field rations using flameless ration heaters.

“There’s no freeze dried camping food left,” said Mark. “We’re stuck with these MREs. You’ve got a choice of spicy penne pasta with vegetarian sausage or ratatouille.”

“Wrong,” said Sarah. “I choose hunger.”

“More for me.”

“You’re my hero.”

Mark Freedman – Montreal – February 12, 0002 A.P.

The drive had been long and uneventful. Mark felt conflicted, standing at the threshold of their second chance. He had been to Montreal so many times, both as an academic and a visitor. He loved the city and had considered living there more than once. Montreal, like Chicago, had a population of about 25 percent of its pre-plague census. The city was a mix of looted and burned out buildings interspersed with livable accommodations. The subway was fully working and apparently free. Their Humvee, with Ralph sleeping inside, was parallel parked along with an assortment of every kind of vehicle imaginable. Apparently Montreal’s free rail could not compete with personal transportation.

Mark and Sarah were across the street from an historical site that looked like it could have been almost as old as Montreal itself. It was unusual to see such a structure this far from the old district. The inner buildings surrounded by a fifteen foot courtyard wall took up most of a city block and looked like a fortress. Both buildings and walls were constructed from rough hewn granite. The entire site looked fossilized. Scars from centuries of aging could be seen everywhere. The air was still. Mark could feel the mental winds of the vortex buffeting him. Sarah turned and stared into his eyes. They both knew the singularity was inside. They were close enough that they should have been feeling urges to surrender to it. The effects of this singularity were much less than the one in Chicago. Still, Mark had no doubt the same kind of heart was beating inside it. Maybe it was at an earlier stage of development.

“Let’s walk the area and see what we find,” said Sarah.

Hours later, the sun had fled from the urban streets. Their walk had turned up nothing and they were back where they’d started. The sidewalk was irregularly puddled with light from windows and streetlights. The historical site was lit from within the courtyard. Foot traffic on the sidewalks had increased after dinner time. No hybrids had been spotted on the streets or in the courtyard. Mark was growing impatient. They had no plan other than to wait and see what developed. The hybrids inside might already have sensed something. There was no way to know what kind of danger they might be in.

Mark slipped his tablet into a small backpack and slung it over one shoulder. Unlike in the USAG, the Canadians had not nationalized their phone companies and poured billions of dollars into infrastructure. As a result, their wireless Internet was much slower. Mark had been frustrated by spotty Internet access but had still managed to discover from a little Googling that this historical compound had been originally called the Abbey
.
Despite its name, it had never been owned by a church and had no religious affiliation. Wikipedia listed the age of the structure at a little over a hundred years, which just couldn’t be right. The place looked positively medieval. The same article listed the current owner as a private research foundation called the Montreal Bioethics Institute, MBI for short.

It had taken far less time and effort to locate this singularity than the one in Chicago. They had used mostly the same methods as before. Mark was edgy. The ease with which they’d found this singularity was now making him feel like they’d walked into an ambush.

The historical site looked decrepit, but when he studied it he found unmistakable signs that this place was a fortress as high tech as the destroyed Chicago townhouse. A concealed pop-up
vehicle barricade
was located inside an arched entranceway through the courtyard wall. The glass on the windows looked oddly thick and was likely blast resistant. Also just like the Chicago townhouse, this compound was off the grid. Their source of power was all but invisible from the front. While wandering down an alley behind the compound, Mark and Sarah had discovered a small forest of tracking solar panels mounted on poles planted in the rear courtyard.

“Hungry?” asked Sarah.

“Not hungry… Remember how the hybrids in the townhouse sensed our presence. Maybe standing here making perfect targets is how we introduce ourselves or get ourselves killed?”

“Look at that coffee shop right across from this old pile of stones,” said Sarah. “Driving in here I didn’t see another place to eat for at least six blocks. I wonder where the people who work at MBI eat?”

“Funny thing,” said Mark. “Suddenly I
am
starving.”

“I thought you’d be. Take me on a date…”

The coffee shop was named the Blue Dog Café. It was obvious to Mark in a hundred different ways how the people here had changed with the changing conditions brought on by the plague, while the streets and surviving building had largely remained unchanged. The Blue Dog Café had excellent Wi-Fi access, and a lot of tablets and notebooks were on the tables. Paying for their meal before they ate, using silver coins and paper money, felt good compared to Chicago and its RFID bracelets. The owner of the Blue Dog was a small, older man with a gray crew cut and large nose. Mark and Sarah soon learned his name was Martin. He was dressed in jeans and a heavy knit sweater. Like most people they had seen in the city, he was armed. A satin finish Colt .45 hung in a shoulder holster like a deadly fashion statement. Martin was very friendly and had pulled up a chair and soon paid for half of their food and drink. He seemed smitten with Sarah. He had not stopped talking for the past hour, which was fine with Mark. He was learning about Montreal politics, the neighborhood, and most importantly the MBI.

“The same cult has occupied the Abbey for as long as I can remember,” said Martin. “They’re a likeable bunch but odd … cultish, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t,” said Mark. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t want to talk out of school or anything, but there are rumors. Some of the folks there are the descendants of an old artists’ commune that was founded almost a hundred years ago. They’re not doing any biomedical ethics research, that’s for sure. In the 1920s in Montreal there was a consciousness raising movement like what we had with the hippies in the 1960s. Some of the locals say they have been to parties at the Institute where LSD was being handed out. My short order cook, Hank, says they have orgies. Me, I think they’re new age hippies or something and probably enjoy a little mind alerting libation, but I’ve never seen anything that makes me think they’re throwing drug parties or orgies.”

“Why do you think they’re hippies?”

“They certainly eat like hippies. I think every one of them is vegan. Also, the institute is on what was Indian holy ground when Montreal was settled in the 1600s. It’s the perfect place for practicing earth religions and new age stuff. A friend of mine who’s a professor told me Indians had lived for eight thousand years in a village right where that old building sits. Some of the nuttier folks here even think it’s some kind of energy vortex like crop circles or the Bermuda Triangle.” Martin lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Personally, I think the only vortexes around here are from the room spinning when some of my regulars have had a little too much to drink.”

Mark Freedman – Montreal – February 12, 0002 A.P.

Mark was gazing out the window in their fourth floor hotel room. The glass had frost forming around the edges. Ralph was eating leftovers from the Blue Dog while Sarah was luxuriating in a working jetted tub. Their room was about 300 feet from the institute. At this modest distance the mental effects had been reduced to a mild disorientation that came and went. From his vantage point he could look down over the wall into the institute. The courtyard was lit by floodlights. An aging black Chevy Suburban was parked by the entrance to the main building. On the other side of the courtyard were two 1950s era vehicles, a station wagon and a flat nosed Volkswagen delivery van. None of these vehicles looked like they were in good shape, but Mark suspected they were just like the institute: decrepit on the outside with modern enhancements hidden under the skin.

Like an impossible apparition, a heavily armored main battle tank slowly crept around the corner of an intersection into full view. The sound of its engine and metal tread echoed faintly through the glass. Mark now understood why the roadbeds had been so damaged. War machines were literally grinding them underfoot. An assist identified the intimidating sight as a German made tank called a Leopard. Montreal was not yet a protectorate but on its way to becoming one. Traffic pulled over and stopped for the war machine. Martin had told them the city was very dangerous in spots, but military forces were in the process of clamping down and a massive wall encircling the heart of Montreal was under construction. Life was improving. The military presence was a mix of Canadian armed forces and private sector mercenaries—the same force structure as in the States and the same rules. There was a pattern here that was hard to miss. In both the lower forty-eight and Canada, some cabal with a lot of power had taken the reins of state. The scope of what was going on might even be worldwide. The plague had been very good for surviving multinationals.