Jacob's Odyssey (The Berne Project Book 1) (10 page)

The early morning sun quietly baked my face as I waited. It was unrelentingly bright and I could feel its intense warmth penetrate the layers of my skin. I was crouched down ready to sprint across the street, every muscle in my body tensed and coiled. It was a windless day and would have been remarkably quiet if it hadn't been for the sounds of the infected. Their incessant moans and the scraping of their shoes on the asphalt breached the air. And then I heard a sound that was strikingly out of place. A sound that caused the hairs on my arms to stand straight up as a ghostly chill passed through me. I ran without thought or hesitation. And just before I reached the street, I glanced to my left and saw the last stragglers in the group clear the intersection. I headed for the nearest fence across the street, running faster than I ever thought possible. And then I heard the creaking of the fence behind me and heard him land on the grass.

The fence had a gate, but I ignored it out of habit and climbed over the adjacent part of the fence. I raced past a backyard swing set to the back fence and quickly pulled myself over a white vinyl fence. The thought struck me that I might have an advantage over the Swimmer. Climbing fences had become second nature for me, and I knew the easiest and most efficient ways to climb over any kind of fence. Other than running track in high school, I had never been much of an athlete, but I did have some agility. And I believed the increased strength in my arms and shoulders from the pushups and from climbing countless fences the past week would help give me an edge. At least that's what I told myself. All I thought about was putting as much distance between myself and the Swimmer as was possible. I was halfway through the next yard when I heard him clamber over the gated fence to the previous yard. I planned to head east two more blocks to create a little distance, and then I'd head north a few more blocks. The key would be to create enough distance that he wouldn't notice when I turned north.

After I cleared the fence at the side of the house, I ran with utter abandonment across the street. I didn't check the street for any infected. I simply headed to the nearest fence across the street. I focused on the fence and nothing else, an oak-stained wood fence that had been kept up. It looked solid. A six-footer like most of them. Before I reached it, the Swimmer had jumped down from the fence back across the street. It was easy to hear him climbing the fences and running. He made no effort to be quiet or stealthy.

He wasn't gaining on me, but he wasn't losing ground either. When I got to the fence, I jumped up, grabbed the planks at the top, and pulled myself up and over. Several trees lined the fence in the backyard. A large oak tree in one corner and three silver dollar eucalyptus trees spread evenly along the remainder of the back fence. The morning air was motionless. Not a single leaf stirred with movement. I cut through the stillness as fast as I could and headed to an opening between the oak tree and the first eucalyptus tree. I reached it in no time and moved smoothly over the fence. My energy was jacked up and I felt as if I could run all day. But before I reached the fence at the side of the house, I heard the Swimmer again and realized he was easily keeping pace with me. And for the first time, doubt crept into my mind and it pushed me to move even faster.

After I cleared the front yard fence, I ran out into the street and nearly came to a stop. Two things came into my field of vision at the same time. Three houses down across the street, four infected men sat in the yellowing grass of a front yard, picking the bones of what was left of a small animal. I could also see the wall to the I-215 freeway no more than two blocks away. The four infected men raised their heads at the same time to look at me. One of them, a slender man with straggly brown hair, got up first. But in his haste to get to me, he lost his balance and crashed to the ground. The other three rose clumsily to their feet, moaning excitedly. They staggered eagerly toward me, but I was already closing in on the fence. No way they could get to me. Then I heard the Swimmer clamber over the fence behind me. And in the few seconds it took for me to reach the fence, I knew I needed a different plan.

With the freeway so close, there was no way I could put enough distance between myself and the Swimmer to change direction without him noticing. He was too close and the freeway was about to box me in. Whether I headed north or south, the Swimmer would know.

And while the four infected might not be able to follow me, their desperate moans could draw more infected to the area. There was one other thing that concerned me. The moment I spotted the infected and the wall to the freeway, my energy seemed to dissipate all at once. I could still run and could still climb fences, but the rush of adrenalin that had given me the extra edge was gone.

I spotted the soccer ball on my way over the fence. It lay in the grass in the side yard. And I knew exactly what I would do before my feet hit the ground. I quickly released the front buckle of the support strap on my backpack before picking up the ball. I went around the corner of the house and quietly slid my backpack off and set it noiselessly onto the grass. I could hear the slapping of the Swimmer's tennis shoes on the asphalt as he ran across the street. I slipped the bat from the pack and set it gently against the back wall of the house and got into position to throw the soccer ball. My timing would have to be perfect. I needed to throw it over the backyard fence right before the Swimmer reached the fence at the side of the house. If he heard it, he would likely think I was over the fence running through the next yard. I had to make sure I got the ball over the fence but without too much clearance. I didn't want there to be any chance he might catch a glimpse of the ball.

I turned my attention on the Swimmer's footsteps. I could hear him running in the grass now. And I did my best to filter out the rising sounds of the moans as the four infected men drew nearer. They were still at least a house away.

The Swimmer was about halfway to the fence. He would be at the fence in another second. I reared back and let the ball go with everything I had. It sailed a few feet over the fence and landed with a soft thump on the grass. I could hear it bounce twice more before it rolled to a stop. The Swimmer attacked the fence and was over it quickly. I had already grabbed the bat and was holding it upright in a striking position, my hands tightly clenching the neck. I felt an incredible tension in the muscles of my arms and chest and upper back. I heard him running and knew it would only be a fraction of a second now. I jumped out from the back wall of the house and let out a maniacal scream as I wildly swung the bat at him with malignant force. I held nothing back. He tried to slow his momentum but he ran right into the wheelhouse of my bat. He started to raise his right arm defensively, but it was too late. The fat of the bat struck him flush in the chest just above his nipples. I felt a vibration from the impact ride down the bat into my hands. His legs whipped up in the air and he landed heavily on the back of his head and his neck. His body and legs were nearly vertical when his head struck the ground. I took a step back as the rest of his body came crashing down. I was still all tensed up, ready to strike him again if necessary. And I could feel a visceral intensity welled up within me that I'd never felt before. I felt powerful and irrevocably resolved to protect myself no matter what.

The Swimmer lay on his back making a muted croaking sound, gasping for air. After several seconds, he gingerly rolled onto his side, his ash-white face contorted in pain. He was still struggling to catch his breath. Other than a subtle tracing of arteries and veins just below the surface of his skin, he looked nothing like the other infected. He almost looked human. He may have looked strange with the ash-white skin, but he didn't look anything like one of the walking corpses. He looked physically intimidating and scary, and he was infinitely more dangerous than the other infected. He suddenly seemed to be catching his breath a bit and he began to measure me with seething hazel eyes. Intelligent eyes. I took a step toward him and raised my bat as if I would strike him again and he shrank back and raised his hand in front of his face in a defensive gesture. It wasn't a fearful gesture at all, just defensive. It was as if he were doing the most sensible thing given the circumstance. Anger and hatred filled his eyes. I moved cautiously over to my backpack and put it on, keeping a wary eye on him and keeping my bat handy.

The other infected were at the fence now, pounding at the fence with their fists and heads. Their wailing moans filled the air. The Swimmer's chest was raspberry red where the bat had struck him and the shape of the wound was identical to the fat end of the bat. He had begun inspecting his wound and was gently testing the area with his fingers. The Swimmer was different from the other infected in another aspect. He could feel pain. The others didn't seem to feel a thing.

With my backpack secured, I headed for the back fence. I thought about debilitating the Swimmer further with my bat so he couldn't follow me, but the feeling of power I'd felt earlier had vanished, replaced by my usual extreme cautiousness. I didn't believe with his injury the Swimmer would continue his pursuit, and I knew I needed to get going. The moans would draw more infected.

The Swimmer watched me go but made no attempt to get up as I tossed the bat over the fence and lifted myself up and over. After maneuvering over the front fence, I checked the street and it was clear. I gazed at the imposing ten-foot freeway wall just past the next row of homes. And then I realized something. There was a frontage road on the other side of these homes. And if the frontage road were clear, I could just run down that road. The freeway wall made for a natural barrier to the east and the row of homes bordering the frontage road would create a barrier to the west. As long as the frontage road itself were clear, I'd be relatively safe. And I could make great time. All I'd have to do is check the roads that t-boned into the frontage road. And then I realized something else—without intending to do so, I'd created a diversion. All the infected in the area would be drawn to the yard where the four infected were still frenziedly pounding at the fence trying to get to me.

When I arrived at the frontage road, I retrieved my binoculars from the backpack. I took my sunglasses off and spent several minutes meticulously checking the road in both directions. But I saw no infected. Then I started off down the road walking at a fast pace. Being able to walk out in the open gave me a feeling of freedom I hadn't felt since the virus hit. And then I began to jog. If I could just go four or five blocks north, I decided that would be a safe enough distance from the Swimmer and the other infected. But I also needed to get away from the freeway. I didn't want to feel boxed in. I wanted to be able to head in any direction if the need arose. I figured three blocks west of the freeway would be sufficient. Every once in a while I'd look back, half expecting the Swimmer to appear on the road chasing after me. But I never saw him.

For the past two days I'd taken refuge in the home of Jordan and Angela Josephson. It was a lovely home. And judging from the photo layout on the console table in the Josephsons' living room, they had quite the sprawling family. In one photo there must have been about thirty-five family members queued up in rows according to height, at least four generations worth, probably five. The Josephsons were an elderly couple and their home had been beautifully updated with wood floors throughout the main level except for the kitchen and bathrooms which were tiled. There were also matching granite counter tops in the bathrooms and kitchen along with some elegantly designed maple cabinets. Not that any of that mattered anymore. It was a brick ranch style home in the Holladay area, likely built back in the sixties. Holladay was located on the east side of the valley in the shadows of the Wasatch Mountains. It was an upper middle-class neighborhood with beautiful backyard views. But more importantly, it placed me perhaps two days from my target area.

I settled in at the Josephsons' home because of my close call with the Swimmer. And while I'd never spent more than a single day in anyone's home, this was my second day at the Josephsons'. Before my encounter with the Swimmer, I'd never felt comfortable enough to stay longer than a single night in anyone's home. While I may have felt a connection with the people in whose homes I'd stayed, I'd also felt an undercurrent of uneasiness. I could feel it now. Call it the Goldilocks syndrome. Ever since I'd left my condo apartment, I'd been paranoid of homeowners coming home to discover me napping on their couch or raiding their refrigerator. I knew it was a ridiculous idea considering the circumstances, but it played around in my mind nonetheless. And then there was my scavenging. I could never quite get comfortable traipsing around the homes of strangers as if I were some kind of thief or voyeur, rummaging through their things. I sometimes imagined the shadowy presence of anguished ghosts silently watching me as I skulked through their dusty rooms. And while I knew my imagination was getting the better of me, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling I had. And I kept telling myself that the feelings of discomfort I experienced explained my preference for being outside each day. There was no question I felt more at home trespassing through neighborhood backyards and clambering over fences than I did lounging around someone else's home.

Despite my uneasiness, I talked myself into staying a second night at the Josephsons'. Better than being out there and running into the Swimmer again. Despite my success in my encounter with the Swimmer, I was nobody's fool. I knew I'd been lucky. If not for the serendipity of finding a random soccer ball lying about, things may not have ended so well for me. I might have been killed and consumed, or worse yet, infected. And then there was the savage intensity I'd felt when I attacked the Swimmer. Just thinking about it unnerved me. I had no idea where it came from. The feeling seemed to be so much more than mere adrenalin. I'd never felt that powerful or determined. And then the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had shown up. I had absolutely no control over it, and that's what was bothering me. Like most people, I liked being in control.

Then again, there was always the flip side to consider. And while I did so begrudgingly, I had to admit to myself that the savage, out-of-control intensity I'd experienced that day had very likely saved my life.

The truth is, I've never considered myself a physically courageous man. I'm one of those people who navigate their way through life using their analytical wiles. I'm intellectually curious and painstakingly logical. I probably should have been a scientist. Certainly, no one has ever mistaken me for a Viking and I've always been okay with that. Alex was the lone Viking in our family, blessed with an imposing physical stature and natural strength.

The closest I ever came to feeling like a Viking was running track at Murray High. The 800 meters. Alex talked me into it, told me I'd be less of a dweeb if I ran track. He said it affectionately of course, and I bought into it. And maybe he was right. At least I felt that way. Turns out I had something of a knack for running track. My best finish was third at a region meet. Not bad at all. I had good stamina but not much of a finishing kick. Alex joked that my running ability stemmed from my experiences evading bullies growing up. Of course, the way I remembered it, I didn't get away all that often.

When we were kids, Alex rescued me on many an occasion from neighborhood bullies. I was an easy target. The neighborhood kids used to refer to me as toothpick. Bullies were routinely relieving me of my lunch money. But I never made it too easy for them. I had a bit of a stubborn streak and more often than not I refused to comply with their demands. My refusal was usually followed by a beating after which they simply took the money. But by the time I was ten, the bullying had stopped, although it had nothing to do with my stubbornness. It was Alex. Even at a young age, no one wanted to have to deal with Alex. And while I may have been Alex's surrogate parent, he was the one who kept me out of harm's way.

Alex and I used our individual strengths to take care of one another. We excelled in different areas. And our diverse strengths dovetailed nicely together. Brains and brawn to put it roughly. We complemented each other perfectly. But Alex was gone now, and I couldn't help but wonder how I'd managed to survive these past weeks without him. Maybe a part of Alex had rubbed off on me. How else could I have done some of the things I'd done these past few weeks? And I'd certainly done some unimaginable things. Most of them out of fear, some out of necessity. In less than a month's time, I had shot my brother, clubbed a little infected girl, burgled a locksmith shop, broken into several homes, and danced with the devil.

I couldn't stop thinking about Alex. The pain I felt had dug itself deep into my being like a thorny burr. A constant, painful reminder. I tried rationalizing to help ease the pain, but it did little good. I told myself there was nothing I could have done to help him since he'd already been infected. I reasoned with myself that if I hadn't shot him, he certainly would have killed me and feasted upon my lifeless body. And I reminded myself that Alex had already chambered a round in the Glock with the intention I shoot him before he turned into one of "those things" as he called them. But no matter what I told myself, there was no getting off the hook.

I grabbed my iPad to browse the internet. As usual, I was settled in downstairs. The Josephsons' expansive downstairs family room had been turned into a game room with two green felt pool tables, a foosball table and a couple dart boards. I assumed it was for all the kids in the family. Pinewood wainscoting on the walls gave the room a warm, casual feel. A lush coffee-brown carpet covered the basement floor. There was also a comfy couch and several armchairs scattered around on the perimeter of the room. And there were a few tables with colorful stained-glass lamps in between the armchairs. There were three windows in the family room, two adjacent to the backyard and one to the side yard. I had been camped out on the couch for the bulk of my visit. It was a long, beige microfiber affair with large tobacco-colored throw pillows. I found it quite comfortable.

I headed to Julia Courtney's blog to try to find out if anyone had information on any infected out there like the Swimmer. Since I couldn't find anything amongst the posts, I broke my silence and posted a question. I asked if there were any reports of any infected who resembled the Swimmer. I left out the nickname I'd given him, but otherwise described him in detail: the ash-white skin, the light tracing of arteries and veins, eyes without the jaundiced appearance, his ability to run full out and climb fences, along with his calm, calculating demeanor. A few posters thought I was trolling.

One poster gave me a link to a website and said there was a description of a gray that matched my description of the Swimmer. He said the gray was a female and they called her an alpha. According to the poster, the information was at the tail end of a recording on the home page of a conspiracy website. Turns out it was the same conspiracy site posters had been mentioning for nearly two weeks now. Readers cited it as proof of widespread government collusion in the attack. I had ignored the site up until now.

The site domain was TheBerneProject.com. It was a one page website with no web design whatsoever. The title was also
The Berne Project
. Below it, there was a single paragraph followed by an embedded recording. And below that, a link to the mp3 file of the recording. The author of the site suggested people download a copy so there would always be a record of it.

The person claimed to have had access to Homeland Security Department computers which is where he came across the information, though he never specified exactly how he had gained access. I suppose he could have been a hacker or a Homeland Security Department whistle blower. He said he found the file on the office computer of the Deputy Director, Francis Copeland. Copeland was well known as the architect for the CIA's various rendition and interrogation programs in the years following 911. He was eventually forced to resign from the CIA under pressure from congress. Later on, he landed the Deputy Director position with Homeland Security. His hiring was widely reported by the media, many of  whom saw it as a concession to Copeland for dutifully serving as the CIA's scapegoat during the backlash period after the programs became public. Copeland had never been popular with the media. Back in the '90s, even before the rendition and interrogation hubbub, he had been skewered in the press for his unwavering championing of a preemptive war policy.

Of course, Francis Copeland wouldn't be defending himself anytime soon. He died in a helicopter crash along with the Director of Homeland Security, Harold Mortenson, the first weekend after the attack.

According to the whistle blower the idea for the project had been conceived at a secret meeting in Berne, Switzerland back in the early nineties.

He said the main folder was encrypted and cleverly hidden deep within an obscure Windows operating system subfolder. He claimed the folder was four levels down from the Windows folder, though he never specified which subfolder
The Berne Project
folder was hidden in. He admitted he had run across the folder by accident and hadn't had the time to fully investigate its contents. But he saw enough to grasp what was going on. The main folder was titled
The Berne Project
. Inside the main folder were subfolders for Plan, Virus, Research, Background, Media, Projections, and Reorganization. He said he skimmed through the Plan, Virus, Research, and Projections folders and had a very cursory look at the Media folder but didn't have time to view the others.

I listened to him ramble away, but there was one thing that kept bothering me. I had difficulty reconciling how he was able to get by the encryption. It seemed to me that a Homeland Security Department encryption system would be as close to hacker proof as you could get. He could have been a Homeland Security employee who had access to the computer and had the requisite password to get into the folder. I didn't know. Whoever the whistle blower was, I had trouble buying into his story, so I stopped the recording and did some checking.

I went to a WHOIS site to find out what I could. The registrant was hidden. No surprise there. But what really got my attention was the registration date of the domain. The domain had been registered back in mid-January, nearly six months before the virus was released. That meant whoever registered the domain had to have known about the attack six months in advance. But did that really make sense? If he had known about the virus attack in advance, why didn't he blow the whistle in advance of the attack? Any kind of previous notice would very likely have stopped the attack in its tracks. Why wait till after the virus had been released? I couldn't help but wonder what his agenda was. Whistle blowers always had some kind of motive for leaking information. And while I realized that some whistle blowers were trying to do the right thing, some of them were obviously looking for attention or celebrity, and some for revenge or payback. I had no idea what this whistle blower's story was.

Despite my skepticism, I listened to the recording in its entirety. I wanted to hear about the alpha gray that was like the Swimmer. The whistle blower used a voice altering software program to disguise his voice. The program made his voice sound tinny with a shallow echo as if he were talking through a long metallic tube. He began the recording by claiming that the conspirators had hijacked an Al Qaeda plan that they'd intercepted. He said they decided to use the Al Qaeda plan for the delivery of the virus, though it was never made clear whether the conspirators were actually hijacking the plan for themselves or were working in conjunction with the terrorists in some way.

The original terrorist plan targeted five airports in the United States and Europe with some kind of biological weapon. And while he didn't specify what the weapon was, he said it wasn't the actual virus used in the attack. The plan called for the release of the biological weapon through triggers in various luggage compartments. The conspirators shanghaied the luggage trigger idea and used it in their plans with two goals in mind. The first would be to implicate terrorist organizations in the attack by placing men of Middle Eastern descent in the airports with the virus-triggered luggage. It was never made clear whether the scapegoats would be actual terrorists or not. The second goal would be to divert attention from the real mechanism for the virus' release. According to the whistle blower, that mechanism was the air conditioning ducts in the airports. The plan called for the airport attacks to be facilitated by security personnel that had been put in place years in advance. The scheme sounded a bit elaborate to me.