Alpha

Chapter Nine

Gabriel Fuller ducks through a FRIENDS ONLY door on the northwest side of Town Square at six minutes past ten o’clock, out of sight and traffic and into a small, ten-by-ten-foot courtyard, walled by buildings on all sides. The sun isn’t quite high enough to beat the angle, and there’s shade here, and he puts his back to the wall to his right, to stay out of the way of the Friends moving back and forth.

He wrestles his hands free from his paws before pulling Pooch from his head. The end of his second shift already, and as the headpiece comes off and he tastes fresh air, he can feel his heart pounding and the sweat running down his back. It’s hot today, already hot, but that’s not why he’s perspiring, that’s not what’s making his heart race.

He cuts between a Royal Flashman and a Smooch the Baby Elephant emerging from the doorway opposite, makes his way down the stairs into the Gordo Tunnel. There are more Friends here, some in character, but mostly just custodial staff and service personnel. He nearly runs over a guy in a Star System Alliance maintenance uniform, mutters an apology to him, turns into one of the common areas, and then into the Gordo South changing area. Most of the characters are already out in the park, and the room is empty but for a single Betsy. She’s an Asian woman, and her unmasked head looks absurdly small as it pokes up from Betsy’s cartoon-width shoulders. He’s guessing she’s in her early twenties, and she’s just sitting there on one of the benches, holding the headpiece to her costume, staring into Betsy’s eyes.

“Fucking awful out there today,” she says, and Gabriel wonders if she’s talking to Betsy or to him.

“Tell me about it.” Gabriel drops Pooch’s head and the paws on the bench, begins to unfasten the buckles and tabs at his waist.

The woman sighs, rises with a supreme effort. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…” she says, and her head is disappearing into Betsy’s, and her last words come out muffled, but distinct. “And close up this park with the bodies of these privileged dead…”

Gabriel Fuller, half out of his Pooch costume, stares after her, feeling an absurd flare of panic. Can she know? How can she possibly know?

But she can’t know, no one knows, he tells himself. Another out-of-work actor, that’s all, every other damn person working here is an out-of-work actor, calm down.…

The clock on the wall here is reading eighteen minutes past ten, WilsonVille Standard Time. He’s still on schedule, still on the timetable. He sits, pulls off the boots, then kicks his way out of the leggings. Then it’s the chest piece, and now he’s standing there in his sneakers and a body stocking that’s drenched with sweat. Dana once told him that she’d heard someone else say that some of the characters go naked inside their costumes, but she didn’t believe it, because if that went wrong could you imagine how quickly you’d get fired? The next day, Gabriel had taken her down to this same changing area and showed her one of the Pooch costumes in all its component glory, including letting her take a whiff of it. It had been freshly laundered, too, and it still smelled ripe.

No way would I ever want to be naked in that, he’d told her.

No way would I ever want you to be, she’d said, laughing.

He moves to the locker where he’s stowed his clothes, works the combination with quick presses of the keypad, listening to the chirp as each digit is acknowledged. He peels himself out of his bodysuit, glancing around once more. He’s on duty for another three hours today, and if a manager comes by and recognizes him, he doesn’t want to explain why he’s changing clothes or, worse, why it is he’s committed the near-?capital crime of leaving Pooch in pieces on the floor.

But nobody comes by, nobody interrupts him, and the clock is now reading twenty-one minutes past ten, WilsonVille Standard Time, as he straightens from tying his boots. He gives Pooch a shove with one foot, knocking the costume further under a bench, then moves back into the hallway, turning north, along the Gordo Tunnel. Walking like he knows where he’s going and like he belongs here, both of which are true, he steps to the side of the hallway as two custodians come rushing toward him, past him, paying no mind. One wheels a mop bucket, the other a garbage can, and he knows they’re racing to clean up a “protein spill,” and from the way they’re hustling, whoever blew chunks topside chose to do it at an inopportune moment or in an inopportune place or, conceivably, both.

The tunnel hits a T intersection about thirty meters further along, where it’s bisected by the Flashman Tunnel, and Gabriel makes a right, heading east. Overhead, in the park, he’s approaching Flower Sister country, and the traffic in the tunnel reflects that. He passes two Lavenders in whispered conversation, another Friend in a navy blazer escorting a forty-something woman who is weeping openly, and since she’s too old to be lost, Gabriel figures she’s about to be arrested for something. It occurs to him that what’s going to happen in the next seventeen or so minutes may, possibly, be seen as a favor to her of sorts.

But probably not.

The Flashman Tunnel, like the Gordo Tunnel, has maintenance hallways branching off it, their designations painted on the walls at each juncture. He turns south, opens the door on his right, and steps into the Flashman E-5 compressor room. The lighting in here is even dimmer than in the tunnels, and he gives himself a couple of seconds for his eyes to adjust. Then he moves forward, skirting around the main ductwork that juts from the center of the floor and the hissing, thrumming machinery that closes in on three sides. The noise is enough that he doesn’t trust his ears to warn him, and so he takes another look over his shoulder, just to be certain he’s alone, before dropping to his belly and reaching beneath a snarl of machinery for the duffel bag. There is a moment-just a moment-with his arm extended and his fingers closing on nothing when he thinks it isn’t there, that it’s been discovered. Then his fingertips are stroking ripstop nylon, and he’s pulling the bag free, unzipping it.

He assembles the pistol, then loads and chambers his first round. Next, he takes out the radio, switches it on. He has to hold it to his ear when he keys the transmit button twice in rapid succession, saying nothing, listening for the slight squelch that tells him it’s working, even if, below ground, sending or receiving any radio transmission is hopeless. He gets to his feet, tucking the pistol into his waistband, smoothing his shirt down. The radio he leaves on, but, returning to the duffel, exchanges it for the cell phone.

He sees the knife then, closed, where he left it, and takes it out, turning it in his hand. In the light here, he can’t be sure, but he thinks he sees the dried blood from the man he had to kill. The man who made it necessary to move this cache.

The man had fought like a lion. The man had fought for his life.

He clips the knife in his pocket, zips the duffel closed, pulls the straps up his left arm, onto his shoulder. With purpose, he leaves the compressor room, turns back into the Flashman Tunnel, retracing his steps. He passes other employees, then a clock, and it’s now thirty-nine minutes past ten, WilsonVille Standard Time. He’ll be cutting it close, he knows it.

He reaches the T intersection again, turns south once more onto Gordo, walking back in the direction he came as quickly as he dares. Friends, custodians, safety officers bustle about, moving in all directions, the energy and crowd above reflected in the motion and purpose around him. Voices seem louder, though he thinks that might be adrenaline. He reaches one of the ramps up to the surface, emerges into the courtyard behind the Dawg Days Theatre, on the north side of Town Square. There’s a blue-blazer Friend here, his job to make certain nobody wanders around backstage who shouldn’t, and he gives Gabriel a nod of greeting, and Gabriel returns it. Through the walls, he can hear the sound effects of one of the Pooch cartoons playing in the theater, a ripple of delighted laughter from the audience.

He steps outside, into sunlight that’s shocking in its brightness and that renders him blind for an instant. A rush of noise accompanies it, the sound of the crowd and the clatter of cars racing along the wooden slats of Pooch Pursuit, rising up above and behind him, almost two hundred feet away. Shrieks of gleeful terror and piped music and voices jabbering and laughing.

Gabriel turns right, coming around the side of the building, looking across Town Square. This time, he checks his watch, and it is now a quarter to eleven precisely. On schedule, everything going to plan. Even with the crowds, the vendors, the Friends in costume signing autographs, he can be where he needs to be, easy.

He sees Dana.

She’s walking with a woman, and Gabriel can tell that the woman is a guest by the Celebration button on her shirt, visible even from here, big and sky-blue, with the letters in pink. The woman is maybe forty, attractive, wearing the expression of a harried mother. Dana’s wearing one of the navy blazers, and her posture shows that she’s listening hard to this woman, nodding, answering her, friendly and reassuring.

His first urge, almost uncontrollable, is to go to her, to take Dana by the hand and pull her after him toward the front gates, to get her out, to get her out now. Six minutes, now five, and even as he thinks that, he knows he can’t do it, that it’ll pull him off the schedule, that it will indict him.

She’ll be all right, he tells himself. She’ll be fine.

But his stomach is turning like flesh-eating worms in his belly, and he feels helpless and sick, and Dana and this woman are still walking together, heading north. North, away from the front gates. North, heading in his direction.

He turns parallel to their course, as if heading for the great big Wilson Restaurant, where there’s already a line formed for late brunch or early lunch. The menus are posted, and he can pretend to look at them as he watches out of his peripheral vision. Lilac’s Vegetarian Delight and Hendar’s Double-Patty Melt and Pooch’s Treat, an ice cream sundae big enough for three to share. Dana’s still talking to this woman, and he thinks he can hear her laugh above the voices all around as they come closer, closer, and then he hears the woman speaking.

“Well, they’re teenagers, so they never listen anyway. Being deaf is just a convenient excuse…”

Dana laughs just as she passes behind him.

“I’m sure it’ll be all right.”

“You’re fluent with ASL?”

“I am, yes, started learning sign in high school and continued with course work when I got to UCLA. I’ll be a senior in the fall…”

He loses the rest as someone demands to know why the hell this line isn’t moving. Steps back, watches Dana and this other woman continuing northeast now, along one of the main walkways that feed into Wild World. Then they’re swallowed by the crowds that seem to ebb and flow like tides on the way to the Euro Strasse.

He checks his watch. He’s burned three minutes, almost four.

It takes another two and a half to get across Wilson Town, to cross Town Square from the northeast to the southwest. He’s jostled and cursed at, and he can’t run, because first, there’s not enough room, and second, running would draw attention, especially running against the prevailing foot traffic. So he’s weaving, moving as quickly as he can, until he reaches the entrance to the Olde Tyme Arcade, just north of the Sheriff’s Office. Inside, he can see the place is perhaps half full, mostly young men and boys playing at pinball machines and refurbished video game cabinets. He turns, casting an eye at the front of the Sheriff’s Office, then back to the square.

He pulls out the cell phone, not his personal phone, but rather the one from the duffel, and switches it on, waits for it to find a signal. When the clock syncs, he can see that he is in the right place, at the right time. Gabriel works the keys, bringing up the first of four designated calling groups. With one press, he can send multiple calls, a feature designed, he assumes, for conference calling or mass texting, but now repurposed, albeit slightly. He has four groups, north, south, east, and west, and to do this properly, he has to know the wind.

He licks his lips, closes his eyes. Turns slowly, trying to feel the breeze, if there even is a breeze. He feels the skin on his lips tighten, the moisture evaporating. He opens his eyes once more, and finds himself facing north-northeast. Bunting and banners, WilsonVille flags sway slightly, confirming the wind, barely felt, coming in from the Pacific, entering the park from the west.

Thumb on the button, Gabriel Fuller brings the phone to his ear, pretending to listen as he calls group four. He hears the ring in his ear, then abrupt silence, as each phone answers and instantly commits suicide. Holds it for a second longer before hanging up, turning toward the arcade once more. Groups one and three will need to be next, and they’ll need to go off in quick succession for maximum effect.

It took six weeks to place each device, each carefully wrapped bundle of powder, phone, and charge. Brought into the park a little at a time, hidden on his person or in his backpack, and the phones he didn’t even bother to hide at all. So he was carrying two cell phones, big deal, and nobody even noticed, nobody ever commented.

Now he’s moving up the west side of Town Square, passing the carnival games, the ringtoss, the baseball throw. There’s a soda vendor at the corner, and he buys himself an overpriced bottle of water, doesn’t bother trying to get his employee discount. He looks southward, watching the entrance to the Sheriff’s Office. Presses the button on the phone, dialing group one, then just as quickly hangs up and dials group three.

For almost four minutes, there is no activity from those doors. Nothing at all.

Then they are opening, now a flood of navy-blue blazers emerges, radios in hands, and Gabriel can tell just by the way they’re moving that they’re scared. They scatter in all directions, some of them pushing through the crowd for the main gates, some heading in his direction, then past him, going deeper into the park. And one, a middle-aged black woman, heavyset and urgent, heading his way, and he can hear what she’s saying to the people all around him as she moves. She’s waving for attention, pointing toward the south.

The music in the square stops, followed by the crackle and shriek of hundreds of hidden speakers switching to PA. It gets attention, calls for silence, and there is just an instant, then, when WilsonVille seems to freeze, only the sound of the rides still running filling the gap. Gabriel checks the phone in his hand, bringing up group two, the last half dozen charges. Thumb poised over the SEND button.

Your attention, please.

A man’s voice, and Gabriel thinks that he’s hearing the strain in it, the stress, and he can’t stop himself from smiling.

Your attention, please. This is Eric Porter, director of park and resort safety. With regret, we announce that due to unforeseen difficulties, WilsonVille will be closing for the day, effective immediately. Friends will help you make your way to the nearest exit. Please follow their directions in a calm and orderly fashion. We apologize for the inconvenience…

Gabriel Fuller doesn’t bother looking down at the phone in his hand. He just presses the SEND button one last time. Eric Porter is still speaking, repeating the announcement, and behind him he hears another voice over the speakers, and he can’t hear the words, but he recognizes the tone, the anxiety in it, and it gives him a strange, wonderful sense of satisfaction and power.

He’s not the only one who’s heard it, either. All around him, people are beginning to react, some still listening, others already in motion, and some are trying to be calm, some are trying to be orderly. But not all of them, not the ones who are thinking that the way they came in is the quickest way to get out, and voices are starting to rise and still Eric Porter is on the PA, and Gabriel thinks that he can hear that strain in his voice even more now.

The man never uses the words “evacuation” or “emergency” or anything that might cause a panic.

He never, ever says the words, “toxin” or “gas” or anything like that.

Gabriel Fuller doesn’t say those words, either, despite the momentary, perverse pleasure the thought gives him. Like shouting “Fire!” in a crowded movie house or “Bomb!” in an airport security line. That is not the plan, however, that is not what the Uzbek is counting on him to do, and the thought of what the wrong word could now cause has him thinking of Dana again. Dana, who should be at their apartment, taking the day off, and not here because she can interpret for the deaf.

He doesn’t want anything to happen to her. It would kill him if something happened to her, he realizes. So a calm, orderly evacuation, and by the time the authorities know what’s really going on, Dana and everyone else will be outside the gates, and they’ll be safe. Then all he’ll have to do is get through the rest of this day. Get through this day and into the night and he’ll disappear for a few days after that, and then he’ll make his way back, back to her.

Now he’s being carried along in the press of people, and they’ve passed the Sheriff’s Office, coming up on the WilsonVille Store, so many people, and they’re being herded, so tightly together. He almost misses his chance, fakes stumbling, rights himself, allows himself to be turned around. Stumbles again, and then he’s through the door of the store, and just as he knew it would be, it’s already empty, already cleared. Racks and racks of official WilsonVille Wear, and he drops low, out of the sight line of the windows, but more important, out of the sight line of the cameras watching the store.

Belly-crawling his way to the main bank of registers, a broken circle of counter smack in the middle of the room, pushing his duffel ahead of him as he goes. He takes it slow. With the evacuation running, he can’t imagine that anyone who’s still watching the video monitors in the command post is paying attention to the interior of any store, let alone this one. Still, he keeps his movements deliberate and controlled, for fear of catching anyone’s eye.

The cabinets beneath the register are locked, and Gabriel has to go into his pocket, comes back with his knife. It’s a horrible thing to do to a blade, a disrespectful way to treat it, but it’s the only tool he has. He snaps it out and forces it into the gap, working it up and down until he hits the latch. It’s a tight fit, and he slams his palm into the base of the handle, and wood splinters as metal is forced into the gap. He twists, wrenches, thinking the knife is going to snap. There’s a crack as the lock gives way.

He stows the blade, opens the now-broken doors. There’s the squat tower for the computer that runs the register, still powered. A snarl of cables running from it, and then, beside it, the blinking green lights of the router. He pulls it free, turns it in his hands, and God bless WilsonVille Technical Services, because each port is clearly labeled with a small white printed sticker. There are two marked VIDEO, and he pulls the cords from each, turns the cameras watching the interior of the store blind.

He replaces the router, tries to get the doors to close again as best he can, then is into the duffel, now removing the carefully folded Tyvek suit, the gas mask. He’s breathing quickly, heart racing, hearing the voices outside as he changes, and then, just sitting there, back to the counter, gas mask in his lap.

He just wants this to be over. He just wants to get through this. Then he’ll have done what the Uzbek wanted, what the Shadow Man has required, and he can make his way back to Dana, and never leave her again.

He can make his way back to Dana, and be Gabriel Fuller for the rest of his life.

If he can just get through this day.