The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 13: The Long Way Home (Part 6 of 8)

Grierson had always expected this day to be one giant headache, but he never imagined what a brain-tumor-the-size-of-a-grapefruit migraine it would turn into. 

He massaged his temples as Wesley drove him away from Aira.  When they cleared the last checkpoint, he turned both his phones back on.  There was a brief moment of peace—a cosmic reprieve—while they connected back into the network and showed no activity.  Then six texts from his employer popped up in rapid succession.

Damn it!

He shouldn't have been so shocked that they wanted an immediate report on the situation, but he had been hoping for the opportunity to do it on his timetable.  They usually granted him that.  Grierson really wasn't ready to be called in on the mat for this colossal fuck-up, but they'd been trying to reach him for over two hours and he didn't dare keep them waiting any longer.

He smoothed his hair back and loosened his tie, trying to build some composure. 

"Grierson here," he said when the line connected.

"We need to meet right now."

"Look, I know things haven't gone as planned but I'm on top of it."

"Don't worry about that—we have complete confidence in you.  But there's been a new development.  We need a face-to-face and it can't wait."  He gave Grierson the coordinates.

"Christ.  That's in the middle of nowhere.  I'm supposed to be on a plane at eight o'clock."

"You'll miss it.  Be there in thirty minutes."

Grierson fumed at the deadline and pressed the hang-up button with extra force.  There were somethings that old technology was just better at.  This was a call that deserved a good slam of the receiver.

"Wesley, it looks like I won't be catching that flight after all.  Take the 10 south to Tucson.  I'll let you know when to turn off."

It was probably all very routine, but the years had taught him that paranoia was a virtue.  He pulled the Berretta out of his briefcase and checked the chamber.  Assured of its functionality, he slipped it under the center armrest, so it was hidden but easy to reach. 

Tell me not to worry and ask me to meet you in the middle of the goddamn desert...my mother didn't raise any fools.

Dawn was starting to filter light back into the world.  Flashes of sunlight burst between the buildings, and when the city was left behind, it hid in childish spurts behind the boulders and mountains.

Grierson debated sacrificing Wiley.  It would be so simple to lay all the responsibility at his feet.  The idiot was still MIA.  It was almost as though he was daring Grierson to blame this mess on him.  On the other hand, The Music Box was desperately short-staffed.  Removing one more person would only add work to Grierson's problems.

Now that the site was secure, LARS's care staff would need to go back and maintain the facility.  Was there enough left to do it?  Like Wiley, there had been no word on Kendell, Benning, and Gracie.  That was a quarter of the personnel, which may or may not be returning.  Then there was Blass.

He'd been airlifted back to the hospital at Davis-Monthan.  Grierson had seen other men survive worse injuries but Blass was past his prime.  The baseline medical they ran on him when he started would have seen him fail entrance into every military or police force in the country.  Grierson had known men who could have practically walked off that gutshot, but a mealy office worker like Blass...  Even if he did live, it would be weeks or months before he was fit for service. 

And even if everyone was found and brought back, if Blass made a miraculous recovery, there were still four dead that needed to be replaced.

Grierson would love to have known what happened down in that bunker.  But with security cameras shut down and no conscious or human witnesses, the chain of events that led to the massacre might always be a mystery.