The Final Hour

CHAPTER EIGHT

In an instant, the cafeteria was gone. The prison was gone. The present was gone and I was in the past again.

I was in the woods. I was running. Trees rushed by me on every side. It was night. It was pitch-black, but somehow I could see. The trees and vines and bushes- all the tangled shapes of the forest-appeared a ghostly green against the darkness. I understood: I was wearing military-style night-vision goggles.

I looked down for a second as I ran. I saw I was holding a machine gun. An AK-47, compact and deadly. I kept running. I knew I had to run even though I didn’t know why. What was I running away from? What was I running toward? I didn’t know.

Slowly I began to comprehend. The idea just seemed to form in my mind. I was outside the secret Homelander compound in the woods. I was being hunted, hunted like a deer by Orton and some of the others. I had that double sense again of being in two times at once: I felt as if I knew what was going to happen next. I couldn’t know because it hadn’t happened yet, and yet I did.

What I knew was this: Someone was about to shoot me.

Almost the same second the knowledge came to me, it happened.

As if out of nowhere, Orton stepped from the trees. He lifted his AK, pointed it straight at my chest. For a second, I saw his face through the night-vision goggles, bizarre and green. I saw his goggles bugging out of his face like an insect’s eyes. I saw his mouth gaping in a savage smile of pleasure and triumph.

Questions flashed through my mind: How had he gotten around in front of me? Why was he trying to kill me? Weren’t we on the same side?

There was no time to figure out the answers. I had to move. Now.

Just as Orton stepped into view, I came down on my right foot. I pushed off hard to the side at the same moment he opened fire.

I heard the cough of the AK. I felt the bullets pepper my side. The impact spun me around in midair. I tumbled downward and smacked into the earth with a bone-jarring thud. As I landed on my shoulder, I somehow managed to keep rolling, twisting-somersaulting, finally, off the forest path and into the low bushes. I heard the AK rattle death yet again. I felt the bullets whistling above my head off to the right.

Then, before Orton could pull the trigger one more time, I sprang up fast onto my knees and fired back.

He wasn’t ready for me. He’d obviously lost me in the low brush when I fell and rolled. His second round of gunfire had been aimed in the wrong direction and now he was turned to face the empty woods to my right.

But I knew where he was. I’d heard his gun. I popped up out of my cover with my gun leveled at his center. I didn’t hesitate. I opened fire.

Even in the strange green light of the goggles, I saw the dark stain spread over the front of his fatigues. The smile vanished from his face in a look of shock. He staggered backward, his arms flailing. He sat down on the hard dirt of the forest path.

At that, a whistle blew.

A man stepped out of the surrounding forest, stripping his goggles off his face as he came. I knew him. Waylon. One of the cruelest and most murderous of the Home-landers band. One day soon, Detective Rose was going to shoot him dead. But now here he was, large and very much alive.

I stood up slowly. I stretched, trying to ease the pain in my side where the bullets had smacked into me. I stripped off my goggles, too, as I came forward. I glanced down and there was enough moonlight for me to see the dark red-brown stain that had spread from beneath my arm all the way down to my beltline. It was blood-colored paint, of course. This was a training exercise. The bullets were paint pellets that exploded on impact. They hurt something wicked when they hit you, and I knew I’d be bruised all over tomorrow. But they didn’t break the skin. There were no wounds, no blood.

Waylon reached out and pushed my arm away so he could get a good look at where the pellets had landed. I flinched at the pain.

“Not so bad. Not fatal,” he said gruffly. He had a deep voice with a heavy Middle Eastern accent. He was big and thickly built. He had a large face with sagging folds behind his scruffy black beard. “You live to fight another day,” he said. Then he turned to Orton. “But you,” he said roughly. “You are dead.”

Orton was slowly getting to his feet. I could see his face contorted in pain. He looked down at the stains covering the front of his shirt. The grimace of pain became a grimace of anger.

“This is stupid,” he protested to Waylon. He gestured at me. “Look at him. With those wounds, he would never have been able to jump up that way. I’d have finished him off while he was lying there.”

Waylon took a long stride and stood in front of Orton, looking down at him. “You’re forgetting one thing,” he said. “You cannot possibly say such a thing to me. Do you know why?”

“Why?” said Orton angrily.

“Because you’re dead,” said Waylon.

With that, Waylon hit Orton in the face, shockingly fast, shockingly hard, his open palm smacking loudly against Orton’s cheek. ..

And with that smack, the scene was gone-and the blow seemed to hit me in the face instead of Orton. Confused- and taken completely by surprise-I was sent reeling backward by the impact.

I tried to steady myself, to get my bearings, look around. Everything had suddenly changed. I wasn’t in the woods anymore. I was standing on hard-packed dirt. There were faces on every side of me. Faces twisted, mouths open. People were screaming roughly.

Orton was there. Orton’s furious face was bobbing around in front of me.

We were fighting, he and I. It was another training exercise: self-defense. But it wasn’t like sparring back home in the dojo. In the dojo, Sensei Mike taught his students that even when we sparred against one another, we were teammates. We weren’t trying to hurt one another. We were trying to make each other better. Here, now, in the Homelanders’ training compound, I could tell by the way my face throbbed that Orton was not holding back. He was a trained fighter, just like I was. And he’d hit me full force in the face. He wasn’t trying to make me better at all. He was just trying to bring me down.

The full situation started to come back to me, in that weird double way things did during these memory attacks. Orton hated me. He was used to being the top dog among the Homelander recruits and he was jealous of my success. He meant to punish me for it. He meant to prove he was still the best, even if I got hurt in the process. Even if I got killed in the process.

He closed in on me again. His stare was intense, focused. His features were taut with purpose, his mouth twisted with fury for revenge. I could hear the crowd of men around us cheering for him fiercely. I could see their bared teeth, their gleaming eyes on every side of me.

With no windup, no warning, Orton launched a high crescent kick. The edge of his foot came looping toward the side of my head. I was still dazed from his last punch. I only just managed to duck the blow. His sneaker swung past above me, but he was already using the velocity of the kick to bring himself spinning full around like a top, his hand snapping out in order to send a chop at my neck.

I managed to get an elbow up, fending off the worst of the strike. But I was off-balance. The movement sent me stumbling to the side, tumbling to the ground as the crowd cheered with bloodlust. I rolled onto my back and Orton, still moving, flung himself at me. I lifted my feet and caught him in the belly and somersaulted backward. The throw sent him flying through the air.

I got up as he hit the ground. I saw dust puff up all around him. I heard the breath come out of him with a loud grunt. I rushed to attack him before he could stand, but he was too quick. He rolled to the side and was on his feet before I could reach him.

The crowd moved with us, leaving us just enough space to fight as they pumped their fists at us and cheered.

Orton and I circled each other. He was good, tough, fast. And I could see by that angry gleam in his eye that he didn’t mean to lose to me ever again.

As for me, I was out of breath, dazed from the blow to my face; aching all over. I wasn’t sure I could handle another solid attack.

Fortunately, before Orton could make his next move, Waylon stepped in between us.

He was even more frightening by daylight. Big and ruthless with nothing but meanness in those baggy eyes.

“All right,” he said in his guttural accent. “That’s enough.”

I put my guard down. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was pretty sure I’d gotten out of a very bad situation there. If Orton had attacked again, he probably would’ve finished me off.

Waylon turned to Orton. “Good job,” he said.

Then he kicked me in the chest.

It was a back kick, perfectly planted. It hit me right above the heart. I went flying backward and then dropped down to the ground, coughing.

Waylon turned and stood over me. “You,” he said in his thick accent. “You need to fight like you mean it. You are not in the dojo at the mall now. If you lose here, you die. You need to fight to kill.”

I started to get off the ground, but then…

It was as if someone poured a giant glass of Liquid Night down over us. Darkness ran down on top of us and the training ground vanished…

I was suddenly in a silent hallway. It was dark, very dark. Even before I fully understood where I was, I knew I was in terrible danger. If anyone found me here, I’d be killed on the spot.

I pressed close to the wall. There was an opening up ahead. A doorway. I could make out the rectangle of moonlit night, lighter than the inner dark. I edged closer to the door. I peeked out.

From here, I could see the buildings of the training compound, hulking barracks and watchtowers surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence and the deep black expanse of the forest beyond. The structures of the compound were sunk in the night shadows-with one exception. One building, just across the way, over by the fence, had a yellow light burning in its window. A jeep was parked outside.

It all came back to me now. I’d been in bed in the barracks. The other trainees were in bunks all around me. I’d heard the jeep come into the compound. I’d heard voices calling to the guards to open the gates. Tires on dirt. The car engine coming to a stop. Then there had been low voices. Greetings and conversation.

I had looked around me to make sure the other trainees were asleep. Then I had gotten quietly out of bed to see what was happening.

That’s why I was out in the hall wearing only sweat-pants and a T-shirt. My feet were bare. I could feel the splintery wooden floorboards under them.

Prince.

That was the next thought that came back to me. It was Prince who had been in the jeep. I’d recognized his voice out in the night. That’s why I’d gotten up to take a look. That’s why I was risking this: getting caught, getting shot.

Getting shot, I knew, was a serious possibility. Shifting my attention, I could see now that there was a guard in the watchtower to my left and another in the tower to my right. Both were holding high-powered rifles. There were two other guards standing together by the lighted building just across from me. I could hear these two guards speaking to each other in low murmurs. I had no way of knowing if there were other guards moving around in the compound’s shadows, but I guessed there probably were.

Still, this was why I was here in the first place. This was what Waterman and his people had sent me to do. Get information. Find out what the Homelanders were up to. Get the word out. Stop them before the killing started.

The guards outside the building finished their conversation. They moved away from each other and walked off in opposite directions to begin their patrols of the area. Each guard carried an AK strapped over his shoulder.

The moment I saw them walk away from the building, I started moving.

Crouching low, I took the last steps down the barracks hall to the doorway. I slipped outside, feeling the cool of the night surround me. The moon was just a sliver, but it hung above the far trees and angled in across the open space of the compound, giving it some light. In that light, I could see the watchtower guards in silhouette, see they were turned to face out of the compound, watching for intruders from the surrounding woods. The two other guards, the ones on the ground, continued moving away, one off to my left, the other to my right.

I kept my head down and moved as quickly as I could across the open space. I took long, swift strides, careful my bare feet made no noise as they landed on the dirt. I headed for the lighted building.

That crossing-from my barracks to the building opposite-I guess it took maybe five seconds all told, five terrible seconds when I was completely exposed. If one of the patrolling guards had heard me-if one of the watchtower guards had looked down and seen me- they’d have opened fire and shot me where I stood.

Then-thankfully-I was there. Panting, I came up against the building. I pressed hard against the outer wall, trying to stay hidden in the shadows. The light within shone out through the window, falling on the dirt below, just inches from my feet. But the moon was still low enough to leave a line of darkness at the base of the building. I tried to stay inside that narrow line, out of sight.

From where I was, I could hear the burr of voices inside. It sounded as if there were two or three people in there. I strained my ears, listening. It was no good. I couldn’t make out their words. I had to get closer.

I took a breath. I took a glance over my shoulder. I could see one of the compound guards. He was still walking away, but he was getting close to the farthest buildings over by the barbed-wire fence, under the watchtower. I figured when he got there, he’d probably turn around and come back, heading straight toward me.

I turned to look for the other guard. He was gone. I scanned the night desperately. No sign of him. Where was he? Had he gone inside? Was he moving around to surprise me? I just didn’t know-and there was no time to find out.

Just then, I heard the murmur of voices inside the building rise in volume.

“We don’t have any choice,” someone said forcefully. I recognized the voice. It was Prince. “We have to strike when we can, as we can.”

I stopped searching for the second guard. Time was short and I had to find out what was going on inside that room. I sidled closer to the window, my bare feet edging into that yellow glow of lamplight that fell on the dirt from inside.

I pressed hard to the wall and listened.

A voice spoke. It was Waylon, but he was talking in a quick guttural language I couldn’t understand. Arabic, I guess. He spoke for several seconds.

Then a new voice interrupted: “Speak English, will you? I can’t understand.”

I almost gasped out loud. I recognized that voice too. It was Mr. Sherman, my history teacher. Even though I knew he was one of the Homelanders, I was shocked to find out he was here at the compound.

Waylon spoke again, in English this time. “I’m telling you, it’s too soon. He just isn’t ready.”

Prince responded. It was the same calm, intelligent voice I remembered from the weird mansion. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The simple fact is: We won’t get another chance like this. Yarrow is the key to President Spender’s new policy on terrorism. He’s the one who’s convinced the president to stand up to Congress and declare a real Homeland Security war against us. Killing him will throw their entire new security plan into disarray. After that, we’ll be able to operate with a much freer hand.”

“I understand,” Waylon answered. I could hear him controlling his anger, afraid to challenge Prince. “But the risk is too great. Charlie West is the most valuable asset we’ve ever acquired…”

At that, Mr. Sherman broke in, giving a short laugh. “There you go. I told you, Prince. I told you he was…”

“Quiet,” said Prince curtly.

That shut Sherman up. It was the only good thing Prince ever did. Made me wish I could have brought him to history class.

“No one ever doubted West was a fighter,” Prince went on quietly. “It was his trustworthiness that was at issue. That is at issue still. Go on,” he finished-talking to Waylon, I guessed.

And Waylon did go on. “I’m not a hundred percent sure yet that we can trust West,” he said. I could imagine him staring pointedly at Sherman there. “But I am a hundred percent sure of this: The boy is a natural fighter. He’s fearless. And more than that, I have the sense you could put a hundred bullets in him and he would still get up, still try to bring you down. Assuming he can be trusted, that makes him one of our most important assets. It isn’t worth risking him on a mission that hasn’t been fully prepared.”

There was a pause. Once again, I took a quick glance at the guard behind me. He had reached the end of the compound now. He had paused by the far buildings under the watchtower. He stood there, scanning the darkness. He would turn and start back my way any minute.

I looked in the other direction. I still couldn’t find that second guard.

“It’s prepared enough,” I heard Prince say then. “We knew this was a possibility. Both West and Orton have been taught about that area just in case this contingency arose. They both know the bridge well.”

“As a training exercise. They don’t…”

“And another thing: Once West pulls off the assassination, we’ll know we can trust him. Once he’s killed for us, he’s ours for good.”

“But he isn’t fully-”

“No.” Prince cut Waylon off with finality. “It doesn’t matter. They’re all expendable anyway. All of them. That’s why we use them first. Because it doesn’t matter if they die. If we use them properly, without fear, we can show our enemies that we can do anything, get in anywhere, hit them in any way we want while they can’t even begin to find our center. West will assassinate Yarrow, and if he’s killed, he’s killed. I appreciate your maternal concern for your trainees,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “But they’ll all die eventually, Waylon. That’s what they’re for.”

Man! I thought. I guess this is why they call him Prince. He’s such a prince of a guy!

Then Prince said: “In the end, their purpose is simply to prepare the way for the Great Death.”

I heard a footstep behind me. I turned to see that the guard had started walking back across the compound, back my way. It would only be a few seconds before he would be close enough to see me pressed there against the wall, my figure outlined by the glow from the light inside.

But I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t leave. The Great Death. I had to find out what it was. It didn’t sound good, that’s for sure.

I pressed against the building again, listening.

“West and Orton-they’re part of that plan, too, though,” Waylon answered. “That’s their ultimate purpose.”

“Yes,” said Prince. “But even if we lose them, even if we lose all of them, even if I have to do it on my own, the Great Death will not be stopped. The basic elements are already in place. Come what may, it will ring in the devil’s New Year. I will make sure of it personally if I have to.”

I glanced over my shoulder. The guard kept coming toward me.

“What do you mean, everything is in place?” Sherman asked.

“It will be.”

“What about the C.O. device?”

“It’s being acquired from the Russians. The arrangements are progressing.”

“When? When will we have it?”

“Soon.”

“How much?”

“Six canisters.”

“Six…”

“It’s more than enough. Six canisters can be carried by a single man. So nothing will stop it, even if it comes down to me alone.”

I heard Waylon let out what must have been a curse in a foreign language.

I wanted to hear more-needed to hear more. But I was out of time. I had to get back to my barracks. Even now, the guard might see me sprinting across the open space.

I turned to move away from the building.

But before I could, a hand grabbed me by the shoulder.