Fallout Chapter 13 (final chapter)

Jason sat huddled in blankets in the huge easy chair at his dad's house, the grandfather clock ticking into the silence. For the first time since returning to consciousness, he felt at ease. After two weeks in the hospital, they'd brought him home yesterday. It had been hard, settling in through all the pain, and it still hurt to move; he tried not to, if at all possible.

There had been so much commotion yesterday, with all the people coming over to visit. He was glad beyond words to see all those familiar faces, but it had exhausted him.

Part of him longed to be up and moving again, hated to be trapped in this pain-wracked body. Sometimes, though, it was good to just sit, in the still of the silence, and relax. Breathe.

Especially now, when the painkillers were working, and he had a book to read. It was even quieter in the house than normal, since his father was out running errands. Though Jason would have liked his dad to be around all the time, he was glad he was getting out of the house; Whit had been almost constantly at his side all through his stay at the hospital. Connie had been there a lot too, and she had, he'd learned, given him some of her own blood.

Once he was awake, he'd had many other visitors from around town. He was glad to see them, but part of him was afraid that they'd ask him questions. He wasn't even sure how much they knew; he hadn't told anyone anything, beyond giving the police his statement. Of course they knew of his injuries. It was a miracle he'd escaped with his life. Besides the gunshot wound, he'd had a broken nose, a deep cut in his shoulder, the same shoulder dislocated, a collapsed lung, two broken ribs, multiple burns, bruises, lacerations, cuts; infection, dehydration, a fingernail torn off, and two puncture wounds that went straight through his left hand.

It's amazing I was able to get out of the hospital so soon, he thought. He didn't anticipate the long recovery…and he knew there were other wounds he was avoiding that went much deeper.

He didn't want to think about what had happened, so at the hospital, when he didn't have visitors, he'd watched TV shows all day, even soap operas, in order to shut off the voices clamoring in his head.

There was no TV at his dad's house; he could have watched a video on his computer, but he thought that it would be better to read, in order to sharpen his mind.

He settled in to read his dad's copy of Till We Have Faces by CS Lewis. For some reason, though he'd read most of Lewis's books, he hadn't read this one yet. By the time his father walked through the door, he had reached the middle of chapter five.

"Dad!" said Jason, relieved to see him. For some reason—he hadn't even realized this—but he was afraid to be alone. To be trapped. Someone could easily creep in and take him down without a fight--

"Are you all right, son?" Whit walked inside, set a package down on the counter.

"I'm fine. Just reading the book you gave me."

"How is it?"

"Good, so far."

Whit nodded. He sat down in the chair beside Jason, holding an envelope in his hands.

"I stopped by the police station to tie up some loose ends. They had something for you there."

He handed Jason the envelope. Jason set the book facedown in his lap, and took it with his good hand.

Jason Whittaker was written across it in careful cursive.

"Before the NSA took Nadira into custody," said Whit, "she wrote that and left it at the police station for you."

Jason ripped open the envelope with his thumb.

Covering a single sheet of note paper ran the same careful script as on the outside. Now that he'd opened it, he wasn't sure he wanted to read it. It was too soon to face the memories that he knew would rush in on him, overwhelm him.

Despite his misgivings, he read:

Dear Jason,

I can't begin to say how sorry I am for what I have done to you. If I hadn't been bent on revenge, none of this would have happened. I didn't even see how the mysterious man I partnered with was manipulating me, and I didn't think to ask what his motives were—I only wanted to hurt you for what you'd done to Noor.

I was wrong. After I saw you and got to know you, I knew you were no ruthless killer. You made mistakes, like everyone does, but you are good at heart. That makes it all the harder to face what I did to you.

All I know is that you have given me a second chance at life. I will try with all my heart to make the most of it.

Right now, I'm not sure about what my future will be; the NSA is going to take me for questioning about the man who calls himself Will. I know next to nothing about him. Maybe they will torture me. That would be a fitting punishment.

If they let me go, I will ask them to let me take Akim's body back with me. He deserves more than an unmarked grave. All he did, he did out of loyalty for me. I hope you can forgive him for that.

Jason, most of all, I keep thinking about the conversation we had. You said you would sacrifice yourself for me, and I didn't believe you. But when it came down to it, you stepped in front of Gray, and got shot in my place. I know what I would have done; I would never have traded my life for yours. I'm not even sure if I'd have traded my life for my own father's, as Noor did, Allah forgive me.

It makes me think of what was going through Noor's mind when it happened. She let go of her own life—she counted it as nothing—for someone she loved.

I may have to take a look at the Christian Bible, and see what else it says. If it gives you the strength to love your enemies, well--I used to think all Christians were hypocrites, but after my sister, and now you—

Her Bible is still at home, hidden somewhere in the house. If I ever get home, I will read it. And remember your sacrifice.

I don't think we will ever speak again. I just wanted to let you know I could never thank you enough for what you've done. And I wish for you a wonderful life to the end of your days.

Love,

Nadira Jaheem

Jason sat back and set the letter down on the book. Tears slipped from his eyes.

"Are you okay?" said his father.

"No," he said, more tears spilling onto his shirt, not caring because his dad was the one person in the world who would not hold his weakness against him.

His father pulled his chair close to his, laid his hand gently on his shoulder—as close as a hug as he could get without hurting him.

"I—don't know what to do, Dad," he said. His breath hitched; a sharp pain jabbed his chest. I'll tear myself apart if I cry much, he thought, trying to shut his mind off from what had happened. He'd thought his death would be the end of it. But he was still on Earth, wrestling with continuous stabs of pain and ever-present aches, struggling to keep the memories from overwhelming his mind with darkness.

Nadira—he harbored no hard feelings toward her. But Gray—horror stabbed him whenever he so much as thought of his name.

"I wish I could just hold you in my arms," said his father, "like when you were a kid, and tell you everything would be all right. But I'm having a hard time with this, Jason. Whenever I see your injuries, I think of them hurting you. I hate that the son that I love had to go through this at all. And how it's my fault that it happened in the first place."

"How could it be your fault?"

"If I hadn't made the computer program that Will wanted, he would have never come after you."

"You can't blame yourself, Dad. You couldn't have known."

"I should have known better than to create a program that was basically a virus. It went beyond ethical and moral limits."

"At least…it didn't kill anyone."

"But it could have."

"I'd have deserved it. I didn't tell you this before, and then I wasn't up to it, but now--

"I…implied what had happened; after all, you warned me of getting lost in the labyrinth. But I didn't want anyone to know how far I went. The worst part was, it wasn't just out of necessity. I began to enjoy it." Disgust gripped him as it began to come back to him—creating the web of deception, immersing himself in it. And he told his father about everything, all its sordid details—from its inception in Australia, to the finale in Singapore, when he knew, under different circumstances, he would have taken revenge on Grote, and reveled in its taste as much as the agent he'd been working with.

It was in that moment, he'd realized he'd gone too far. He knew he had to step back, recover, remember the visage of truth—and that meant returning to Odyssey.

But he could not just step out of it and recover. No, he had to pay for a compromise that had worked in practice, until its consequences had caught up with him and nearly destroyed him.

"Even though I don't ever know how I can forgive Gray," said Jason, "part of me thinks that I deserved what happened to me. Part of me thinks that I should have died, after what happened to Noor. A life for a life." Pain twisted in his heart that had nothing to do with the shrapnel embedded in the tissue near it, which he'd probably bear for the rest of his life.

"Don't talk like that."

"I'm sorry. It's selfish of me to think that way. You've already lost one son…but I'm a poor substitute." He made an attempt at a smile.

"No, you aren't, Jason. If Jerry could see you today, I know he'd be proud of you. Like I am."

Jason shook his head, unable to speak for fear of more tears.

They sat there in silence for a few minutes. Then Jason picked up the letter. He handed it to his father, who read it.

Tears fell from his father's eyes. "I didn't know that's how you were shot."

"Well, I wasn't about to advertise it or anything."

"You saved her life."

"I couldn't have done it without God's help. I couldn't have even…I gave into him, to Gray." He nearly choked, thinking of it. "I would have given him more…God is the only way I didn't."

"And he spared your life for a reason. Nadira's too. Even Gray's."

"I can't even think of him without…panicking."

Whit nodded, brow furrowed. "It's not going to be easy for you to get through this."

"I still think it would have been easier just to…well, much nicer to be in Heaven now."

"I've been thinking that of myself lately. But if there's still some good I can do, someone I can help, someone I can lead to God, then I will make that sacrifice. It's not all the darkness of evil, either—God made the world good, and that still shines through. It's just hard to see sometimes."

"Right now, I'm not sure if I can see much good at all."

Whit pursed his lips, then rose from his chair. He picked up the package from the counter that he'd brought in, and sat back down.

"I'll open it for you," he said. Jason nodded gratefully. "I was going to give this to you later, when you moved back to your apartment, but here. I found it in the attic last week."

Jason took it in his right hand. It was a faded print from the 70's, everyone in their family wearing bellbottoms, the splendor of the Grand Canyon in the background. Jana, arms crossed, glaring down at Jason, who scowled back at her. Jerry holding Jason's shoulders, grinning like a superstar. Jenny beside him, smiling rather coquettishly into the camera, her eyes so like Jerry's.

"Remember that day?" said his dad.

Jason nodded. "We'd just hiked all the way back up the Grand Canyon in the 100 degree heat. We were miserable." He smiled; laughing would have hurt.

"Even though it was miserable, I hold onto that memory. That trip was the last time we were all together as a family."

"The last time, before…the war changed everything."

"What happened…wasn't easy for any of us. But just like back then, we have to remember that someday, all this will be swept away, and we'll be reunited with the ones we love, and there will be no more sorrow, or pain, or tears."

Whit touched his shoulder, their understanding of a hug which they'd developed in the days following the surgery.

Jason knew he would have a long road to recovery. But his dad was right; there was light in the world, as well as darkness. He just had to cling to the truth that something beautiful that he couldn't yet comprehend could be born out of the darkness and ugliness that he'd been immersed in for what seemed like so long.

He set the picture on the lampstand beside him, and sat back to read his book, while his dad went into the kitchen to fix them both some supper.

Fallout Chapter 12

Connie stirred from her awkward position against the chair in the hospital waiting room. Sunlight filtered in through the blinds; a baby cried. Its mother bounced it in her arms, walking back and forth by the window.

The baby must've woken me up, she thought. Then it all rushed back to her. Discovering where Jason was. Telling the police as discreetly as possible. Renting a helicopter and pilot to fly to the former site of Zebulon's cabin, following the police helicopter as close as they dared.

They landed in the aftermath. There had been a gun battle, one woman shot in the leg, a man who'd been shot by the police leaving a trail of blood into the forest, another man, dead, some sort of blade in his throat.

And Jason, horribly wounded, blood spreading over his chest. The police were applying pressure to the gunshot wound and radioing in the ambulance. A policewoman ordered her to press a piece of cloth to it, but blood soaked it almost as soon as they tore a new piece.

It wasn't long before the hospital helicopter landed. After paramedics had rushed Jason off on a stretcher and the helicopter rose into the sky, Whit and Connie had left for the hospital in the rental helicopter.

She'd been there all night. For most of that time, she'd been pacing the halls while the surgeons worked to save Jason's life. A few hours ago, they'd come in and said he was stabilized; they'd gotten most of the internal bleeding under control. He was fortunate the bullet had missed his heart and hadn't done more damage at such close range.

After that, she must've nodded off. Now it was 7 a.m., and Whit was nowhere in sight. She got up and took a drink from the water fountain.

As soon as she sat back down, Whit reappeared. His hair was in disarray, showing his old war wound. He looked thinner, infinitely weary.

"They said we can go and see him now. But…he's not conscious. And he's not in good shape."

"I want to see him anyway."

"They think he'll pull through. It's still just a seventy percent chance—but that's a lot more than it was last night." He shook his head, tears gleaming in his eyes. Her own breath caught in her throat as they walked down the hall. She wished she could speak, comfort him, but if she did, she knew she'd start crying again.

When they reached the room, she couldn't hold back the tears any more. Jason's whole face looked swollen. Bandages covered his chest and most of his visible skin. A breathing tube was taped to his mouth, and a respirator went up and down, in concert with the beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor. She made her way through all the equipment, and knelt beside the IV stand.

It was hard to believe this was the Jason she knew, the man who was so strong, so full of life. She touched his hair, the only way to be sure to touch him without hurting him, and carefully smoothed it back from his brow.

"How could anyone do this to him?" she said, looking up at Whit.

Anger blazed across his eyes. "What we saw was pure evil, Connie. I have no doubt about that." He touched his son's right hand, the only part of him that looked relatively undamaged. His other hand was bound in bandages; when they'd found him, it had been wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth.

"Have they found the man that shot him yet?"

He shook his head. "The police have been searching, but they haven't found him, even though the he's wounded. The FBI will be here soon, though. They're going to question the girl."

"What do you think she has to do with it?"

"I wish I knew."

"Maybe she'll tell who Will really is."

"I doubt it. But who knows what he'll do now. He's still out there, somewhere."

"What if he comes after us again? What if he tries to hurt Jason?"

Whit looked down at his son. "As much as in my power, I'm never going to let anyone take him away from me again."

A nurse walked in, a clipboard at her side. "He is going to need another blood transfusion."

Whit started rolling up his sleeve, as if preparing it for the needle.

"They don't recommend someone your age giving any more so soon."

"I'll take the risk."

"What's your blood type, Whit?" said Connie, her heart pounding.

"AB negative. The same as Jason's."

"Mine's O negative. That would work, wouldn't it?" She turned to the nurse, who nodded.

"Connie, you don't have to—" Whit said.

She looked at Whit. "This is the least I can do. If there's any way I can help save Jason's life, I'll do it."

"Thank you, Connie." The gratefulness in his eyes pierced her heart. She turned away so he couldn't see her tears, and followed the nurse to get prepped for the transfusion.

-

Will sat at his desk, waiting for Gray to call. It had been too long; something must've gone wrong. Neither Nadira nor Akim had contacted him either, and he couldn't get ahold of them. He hated feeling like events were spinning out of his control.

He twirled his pencil, resisting the urge to slam it lead-first into his antique desk. He had set up his plan up so well. While researching leverage to make John Whittaker give him the almost too-good-to-be-true computer program, a bonus had fallen into his lap—he'd discovered a woman who wanted revenge against the man who happened to be Whittaker's son. And this man also held a valuable secret in his mind. It had been such an elegant solution. He had the people who were all too willing to get their hands dirty for him. He had the leverage. He would soon have both secrets, and then—he could take the next step.

But suddenly, in his public life, things had become precarious. If he didn't get these secrets now, he wouldn't have the resources later. Time was running out.

It must be taking longer than expected to extract the intel from the younger Whittaker, he thought. Doesn't surprise me. Both father and son's profiles are pretty substantial.

His phone rang. He'd only used this phone to contact Nadira or Gray during the mission, and he would incinerate it soon as it was over.

"Yes?"

"This is Gray." The agent sounded out of breath—uncharacteristic for him.

"What happened?"

"The girl turned against me. I took her guard out of the picture, and I was about to take her out too, but-–the target stepped in the way."

"What?"

"His mind must've been compromised by the drugs still in his system. He stepped in front of her, took the bullet, and that gave the cavalry enough time to arrive."

"You mean—"

"We've lost the target. He could not have survived the wounds he sustained."

"That is…unfortunate."

"As this mission has been terminated, do you have any further orders?"

"You'll have to stand by."

"Copy. And sir, in the future, you know who to contact if you want the job done."

"You didn't accomplish much this time."

"I obtained the identity of the weapon. It was only the civilians who—"

"If you allow two civilians to beat you, perhaps you're not as good as the image you sell."

He shut off the phone before Gray could say another word. He'd probably regret it later on; contrary to what he'd said, Gray was the best freelance operative he'd ever employed. It was best not to alienate him, especially since Gray was a dangerous man to have as an enemy.

There has to be a way to get what I want, he thought. I'm going to prevail in this and every venture I set out to do. I have to. I deserve the world. And the world needs my guidance.

There was a knock at his door.

"Come in," he said, after shoving the phone in the wastebasket. He'd burn it as soon as possible.

It was his aide. "I have some…news for you, Senator."

"You don't look like it's good news."

"No, sir. Here." He handed him some papers with bell curves scrawled across them, percentages—He knew what they added up to.

"I'm not going to be reelected, am I."

"The polls are down by another two percentage points. I'm sorry, but only by a miracle would you win this race."

He sighed. He'd seen this coming, but he'd let himself become distracted by the other section of the game. "Thank you, Parker. Thanks for all your hard work in this campaign. I suppose I'll have to make a concession speech now."

"I'll help you with that."

Will fought the need to snap back at him. "No, I want to do this thing on my own." And he dismissed Parker, and sat down at his desk, trying to figure out what had happened. How everything had fallen apart so quickly.

And how he could recover…

Someday, he thought. All great men have had setbacks. With this comforting thought, he stepped to the window and looked out at the Capitol, its dome gleaming golden in the early morning sunlight.

Fallout Chapter 10

Nadira held the video camera, her hand shaking. She tried to steady it, but then thought, I didn't want to be filming this in the first place.

She didn't even want to look at what was going on in front of the camera, but she had to in order to make sure there were no faces in it other than that of the victim, as Gray had instructed.

She thought of him as the victim now. She could never forgive him for what he had done, but he had become human to her in the past two days. Against her will, she had come to see him, not as a ruthless killer, but as a man who had his own ideas, reasons, and feelings. In any case, she would never have gone this far, even in the midst of her worst hatred.

Jason hung by his injured arm, his skin sheened with sweat, brown hair plastered over his forehead. Across of the scars from the day before, large bruises had formed on his chest and back. Gray had taken over the whipping from Akim, who had taken a break outside, and was now sauntering around him, taunting him with the possibility of the next blow. Into the end of the short rope, he had embedded shards of glass and nails that had been lying around the shed.

So far, Jason had not given Gray the satisfaction of a single word. Only his eyes were eloquent, following Gray wherever he moved, burning with defiance.

Gray swung the whip forward. It raked across Jason's chest, ripping a bloody path across his skin.

Sickened, Nadira fought the urge to turn away. I have to keep filming, she thought, though she wasn't sure why. Why did they need to document this? She would have thought the less evidence of their presence, the better. But Gray seemed to have his own agenda, as dictated by their mysterious, nameless contact, who had helped Nadira find "Kohl's" true identity after the trail ran cold.

It still baffled her as to how her contact had found her, and found out what she was after; he seemed to have unlimited resources, except when it came to finding the agent himself. His motives were simple: he'd wanted to partner with her in order to gain his share of the weapon. The only stipulation was that she would never know his identity, contacting him only through his anonymous cell phone number. But now he'd sent this man, Gray, apparently dissatisfied with her inability to get any information from Jason.

Not that Gray was faring any better.

Blood now streaked Jason's chest, welling up from numerous slashes. The whip thwacked down once more, catching against his skin. Gray yanked it off and stood, blood dripping from the whip to pool at his feet.

Gray stepped behind Jason's back.

"Nadira, I want to get some footage from this side now."

"Hasn't he had enough?"

"I will be the judge of that. Besides, he has said nothing yet."

"He needs a break, or he won't be able to speak."

"We will stop after this. Then you can upload the file to my computer."

"I still don't see why we need to record this."

"My employer has his reasons. If you want his continued assistance, you will comply with his orders."

"His orders? I work with him, not for him."

"Of course. But without his assistance, how far do you think you would have gotten?"

Not far, she thought. But that doesn't mean he can treat me like an employee. Does he believe that I am the lesser partner? If so, does he think he's entitled to the larger share? I started this. He should be grateful for that.

And now, this is getting out of hand…and there isn't much I can do about it.

The whip cracked across Jason's back, drawing more blood. Part of her longed to grab the whip away and stop this. Or order Akim to make Gray stop—

If he stops, though, will I get the information that I need? she wondered.

But how much am I really willing to sacrifice for this unknown commodity? Should I just stand by and watch as this man is tortured half to death? It's not like I'm doing it myself. But I am benefiting from it. Isn't that almost the same as if I were the one wielding the whip?

For the first time, she contemplated just leaving. Giving up on this, letting her contact have the weapon.

But if she left, she would have gotten this far for nothing. All her work, all her searching, would be in vain.

And so she stayed, and uploaded the video to the computer. Even as she did, though, she thought, There has to be a way to do this without ripping into a man and taking his humanity from him, piece by piece…and, by my complicity, shredding my own humanity in the process.

-
The clock on the wall chimed one-thirty. About this time yesterday, Whit had discovered that his son had been kidnapped. And in all those hours, he had slept for maybe three.

After studying the photo for about two hours after Might had called, there was nothing else he could do, so he came to his son's house. He hadn't touched anything because it was a crime scene, except that he'd lay down in his son's bed, exhausted. But he still hadn't been able to go to sleep, so he'd sat in front of the computer, waiting for the file that Might had said he was going to send.

It had never come. Whit had fallen asleep in front of the computer at about 5 a.m. and slept till 8. He'd jumped awake, and thought all that had happened was just a nightmare.

Until he saw the mess the room was in, and reality had slammed back into him.

My son has been kidnapped. He is being tortured. For my sake.

He hadn't even gone to church this morning; he wouldn't have been able to pretend that everything was all right when it wasn't, since he couldn't tell anyone what was going on. Plus, he was exhausted. Besides not sleeping much, barely eating except for picking some things out of his son's cupboard, all this had taken its toll on him.

I'm not as young as I used to be, he thought. But as I heard someone say once, when you start thinking you're old, real old age starts overtaking you …

That's another reason to exchange myself. My son still has so much life ahead of him.

The phone rang into the silence. He jumped. Then pressed the phone to his ear.

"Yes?"

"Whit!" It was Connie. Relief washed over him. "Are you okay? I haven't heard from you today."

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound very good."

"Thanks."

"I mean—"

He smiled. "It's okay, Connie. I just…didn't sleep much last night."

"Me either. I couldn't stop thinking about Jason.

"I...was glad I had a headache, so I could just lie in bed, and not have to pretend everything's okay. But I'm feeling better now. Do you want some company?"

"I suppose I would. If you wouldn't mind."

"I'll be right over. Are you at your house?"

"I'm at Jason's. Do you know where it is?"

"Yeah."

There was a beep. Call waiting. "Connie—I have a call. I think it might be Might."

"Oh—I'll call back. Wait, I have a call too."

He answered the call; it was Might, or whatever he called himself now.

"Good afternoon. I've sent you a file with some riveting new footage."

"Listen, Might—"

"It's Will."

"Will?"

"You may call me Will now."

"Might—and Will. I see. Both have double meanings."

"You're quick for an old man."

"Yes, well, I'm the same 'old man' you tried to go up against last time."

"I know. You were good. But this time, I have you at a distinct disadvantage. And you and your son are just two small pawns in the middle of a grand master's strategy."

"So this isn't about revenge?"

"Revenge? Maybe, just a little. But mainly, I know you. I've read up on your file. You have something I want, and I know how to hit you where it hurts."

"Who are you, really?"

"That, my dear Whit, you will never find out. No one will, until I have the world in my hands."

"It's the world you're after? That game's been played before."

"Not like this. I am snatching up piece after piece, before anyone else even realizes they're in the game."

"I see why you'd want Zephyr. That's also why I can't give it to you."

"Maybe you'll change your mind once you see what has been done to your son. The pain he is in." Whit hated how casually Will talked about what he was doing to Jason.

"I will exchange myself for my son."

"Noble gesture. But I won't be able to take you up on that."

"Why not?"

"Because that's not how this game is played.

"Open the file, Whit. The next time I call, I expect you to have made the right decision."

After he hung up, Whit leaned his head in his hand, feeling faint. He had been counting on giving himself up for lost, but Might, or Will, had dismissed his offer without consideration.

But it made more sense now. Will wasn't just a hacker. Getting Zephyr was part of a larger plot for world domination. If not for the program, Whit might have dismissed Will as all bluster. But with Zephyr in his possession, even a moderately resourceful person would be able to make a large step toward his goals. It was that powerful a program.

I shouldn't have been involved with it in the first place, he thought. But I didn't know of its capabilities when I started. And then, I was so invested in its completion, I was blinded to the fact it had little real world application, beyond its parasitic nature.

Dreading what he'd find, he checked his inbox. Sure enough, there was a new email with an attachment.

He opened it.

At first the shaky video aimed down at the floor. Then, it swung upwards, revealing Jason, hanging by his wrist—

Pain shot through Whit's heart. He knew there was more to come.

Two men took turns beating him with a knotted rope. The camera never showed their faces. After a cut in the film, something must've been added to the rope, for when the makeshift whip dragged across his skin, it left more than bruises. By the end, Jason's arms, back, chest, even face were torn and bleeding.

Whit couldn't imagine the pain he was in. Still, something gave him hope. His eyes. They were not listless, broken; they blazed with defiance, showing that it was still the Jason he knew. The one who would never give up.

No matter what, he didn't want his son to have to go through this. Alone.

No, he was not alone.

Heavenly Father, protect my son. Make your presence known to him in that place. Show him—somehow, in all that darkness—show him the depths of your love.

When Connie called back, he found out she had gotten a call from Will too, along with a shorter version of the video file on her phone. She was so upset she could barely drive, though she was already on her way over.

After letting her in, he sat with her on Jason's couch in the middle of the destroyed living room.

"It's my fault," she said, tears streaking her face over her freckles. "I mean, he said it was my fault. He told me—it was because I found out, that they did that to him. And he said if I told anyone, he'd kill Jason. I should've just left it alone, but I had to see what you were doing in that room and now—" She shook her head, eyes closed.

Whit squeezed her shoulder. "Connie, it's not your fault. Will is the one doing this.

"If anything, it's my fault. I should've been more careful, and closed the door to the secret room. I didn't think anyone was there…But it goes further than that. I created Zephyr. If I'd've known this would happen, I'd've destroyed it completely, even though it wasn't mine to destroy.

"It's too powerful. What it does is…enslaves other programs. In theory, it could spread throughout the world like a virus, taking over every computer that's connected to the Internet.

"The only thing that matters now—is that I can't give him the program. But I can't let my son bear the consequences for something I did."

Connie sniffed. "We…could look at the video some more. I don't want to ever see it again, but maybe it'll give us some clues."

"We didn't get any clues from the picture, but you're right. There's a lot more to work with in the video. No matter how careful Will might have been, there might be something that gives him away."

Over the next hour, they played the video over and over. Connie had to get up several times, unable to face Jason's torture again and again. Whit tried to focus as much as possible on the background; it pained him to see his son being whipped before his eyes. But if there was a chance they could save him…

There was nothing about the place he was held in that looked familiar to either of them. It was built out of some dark boards, and there was a shelf with some rusty tools on it. A board behind him had a knothole that looked like a star, but that was the only thing distinctive about it.

Connie suggested they take a break, and Whit agreed. He needed some fresh air. They walked about a mile down to McCalister Park. Whit thought it was interesting that, without even intending to, he naturally gravitated toward Whit's End. As if it was more of a home than his own.

They sat down on a bench to rest. Birds flitted through the trees, singing. Beyond the frame of maples branches, Odyssey was bathed in golden sunlight, the people inside its buildings and homes innocent of the horror that three of its citizens were facing.

Whit wished there was some way to know where Jason was, some way to rescue him. He didn't want his little boy to have to go through another night away from home, in a strange place, enemies surrounding him and hurting him.

This was the worst nightmare for a parent. It didn't matter that Jason was grown up. He was still his son, his and Jenny's youngest. Their baby boy. He remembered Jenny, holding him after he was born, glowing with happy exhaustion, her red hair tumbling down over her shoulders, and that tiny little bundle with dark brown hair…

"He has your eyes," Jenny had said. And Whit had held him, kissed him, and wanted nothing more than to protect him from everything evil in the world—

I'm sorry Jenny, he thought. I couldn't keep him safe….In fact, in more ways than one, I'm responsible for his fate…

Perhaps it is best that I give Will the program. We can always try to get it back—trace it to its source. Catch this criminal, make him pay for what he's done.

Connie nudged Whit's shoulder. "It's Emily," she said.

Emily pedaled up on her bike. "Hi, Mr. Whittaker! Hi Connie!" She slid to a stop and jumped off. "Even though it's Sunday, I thought you might be at Whit's End. I'm glad I found you!" She held a package in her hand.

"Hey—you guys okay?"

"Neither of us slept very much last night," said Connie.

"Oh." She sat down beside Connie, and looked at Whit. "You know how I was on a case and you told me not to get carried away? Me and Matthew spied on my neighbors, and we heard that grinding noise again last night. We….kind of trespassed, but we thought it was okay because we thought they were counterfeiting money.

"Then, just as we were looking in the window of the basement, somebody came around behind us. It was a woman. She told us her name was Mrs. Steward, and she invited us in to eat cookies and milk. It turns out, her son was home for the first time in ages, and he was using the tools in the basement to finish something his grandfather had been making. Here. Here's a picture." She showed them a picture of a wood carving. It was a galloping horse that looked almost like it was in motion. Something about it was familiar… "Her son's learning how to make them like her grandfather did. His name was Zebulon."

Something clicked. "I remember a Zebulon...who used to make carvings like that. Something happened to him…"

"That's the other part of the story. He made all these wood carvings for the kids around town. But one day there was a huge storm, and his house fell down the mountain in a rockslide. He kind of went crazy after that, and Mrs. Steward's mother had to take care of him. Only recently she found some old pictures of what the house used to look like, and Zebulon's workshop. She's trying to understand him, in order to forgive him for how he acted when she was growing up.

"Here's some of the pictures."

She handed them to Whit, and he flipped through them. One caught his eye. The tool shed, decked out with toys and shiny new tools. Next to a half-finished running horse was a knothole in the shape of a star.

The exact same shape as the one in the shed where Jason was being held.

The cabin had been near Odyssey. Forrest Mountain.

Whit breathed a prayer of thanks.

"Thank you, Emily."

"For what?" she said.

"For being an excellent detective."

She laughed, as if she didn't quite believe him. Then she dashed off into the bright sunlight in the west.

Whit turned to Connie. "I think I know where Jason is."

"I saw it too," she said, her eyes sparkling with the same hope that filled his heart.

Fallout Chapter 6

Connie swept the counter with the rag, using the swift rhythm of years of practice. If anyone's a professional at working here, it's me, she thought. After she'd come from California, it was the first place she felt like she belonged, and whenever things went wrong somewhere else, this place was like a second home. Right now, there was nowhere else she'd rather be than here in Odyssey, at Whit's End, wiping the counter after a long day.

Things were settling down. Most of the kids had gone home for supper; right now, there was only Emily and Matthew upstairs in the Imagination Station, and…there was someone else, wasn't there? Oh, that man in the corner booth, sitting as still as a shadow.

Strange. She had never seen him in here before. She wondered if he was new in town. It had been so busy most of the afternoon, she hadn't even thought to ask his name or where he was from. Come to think of it, she hadn't seen him come in….Had he been here all afternoon? Wasn't he the guy who she'd given the root beer float to when she'd first come in at 1:00?

That was odd. And kind of creepy.

Great. I'm just jumping to conclusions. He probably just likes the place and wants to hang out for a while, that's all.

Well, if he's up to no good, I'll chase him out of here. And if he's a secret agent or something…we've had so many of those around here I've lost count.

Well, not that many. None in the past…year. Except for one. The only one that really matters. Because he's Whit's son of course, not for any other reason. Not that there'd be any other reason…

Oh, cut it out, she told herself. It's been a long day. Time to go home and relax. I'll wait a little while until Emily and Matthew get done with their adventure.

She strode over to the man. "Do you need anything?"

He looked up from beneath his hat. He squinted up at her, gray eyes glinting. He had smile lines around his tanned face, but he wasn't smiling.

"No, I'm fine. I suppose you're closing soon?" His voice was low yet pleasant, but something about it was…fake. As if he was trying too hard to be polite, and would rather not be if he didn't have to.

"We will be in a few minutes. You don't have to hurry, though. Take your time."

"That's fine. I need to get going anyway."

"Can…I ask where you're headed?"

He smiled. "You can ask."

"Just curious, that's all."

"I'll just be going for a walk, then to a hotel."

"Oh? Do you have business in Odyssey?" She noted his pristine gray suit.

"Something like that. Thanks for your excellent service." And he rose, showing he was much taller than he looked when he was sitting down. He tipped his hat, and strode out the door.

Connie grabbed her purse and went upstairs to get Emily and Matthew. It was strange, now that the man had gone, the place made her feel jumpy, its silent, unused rooms shrouded in shadow.

In the Bible Room sat the imagination Station. Emily and Matthew were just stumbling out of it, reeling as if dazed.

"What an adventure!" said Emily. "Let's do it again!"

Matthew clutched his stomach. "I don't know if I could handle another one. I don't think I'll eat for a week."

"It's time to be done anyway," said Connie. "I have to close up shop."

"Oh, okay," said Emily. "I didn't know it was that late."

"You two go downstairs. I'll look around and make sure everything's shut down."

She set down her purse and went across the room to shut down the Noah's Ark display, which was stuck in a sound loop, "And it rained for forty days—" over and over. She made a mental note to tell Whit about it.

She hurried downstairs. Whit was by the doorway, talking to Matthew and Emily, something about Emily's neighbor. Right before Connie got there, the two kids dashed out the door into the waning sunlight.

"Hi, Whit," said Connie. "Here to catch up on a project?"

"Something like that." He smiled, but his eyes were sad. Come to think of it, he was pale, his face drawn, as if he were ten years older.

"Whit—is there something wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothing you need to worry about. I'm just not feeling myself, that's all."

"Are you sure you should be working late? I mean, if you're not feeling well—"

"I'll be fine. There's nothing wrong with me…physically."

"Spiritually?"

He gave a sad smile. "Maybe."

"But it's not something you can tell me."

"If I could, I would."

"There isn't anything I can do?"

He shook his head. "Not at the moment, no. Except—pray, Connie."

"I will, Whit." She walked out the door, wishing she knew what was going on so she could help.

It's none of my business, she thought, as she walked out to her car. If he wanted me to know, he'd tell me.

She stopped by her car, reached for her keys in her purse—and realized her purse wasn't there.
Great. Where did I leave it last? It was in the kitchen—and then I took it up the Bible Room...

Back inside, all the lights on the main floor were off. Whit was nowhere to be seen.

As she reached the Bible Room, she saw the door to Whit's office was open. He wasn't at his desk though. He was in secret computer room, and had left the bookcase open.

I should really let him know that I'm here, she thought. But what if he doesn't want me to know? Maybe I should just leave my purse and come back tomorrow.

She was about to announce her presence, when she saw what was on the computer screen.
It was a man, horribly beaten—but there was something about his face that was familiar—and the blue of his eyes, so like his father's—

Jason! Her hear tore to see him like that. Why would anyone want to hurt him? she wondered. Could it be some of his old enemies? That's probably why Whit doesn't want me to know. But there has to be something I can do!

Just then, Whit got up from his chair—and froze. "Connie? Is that you?"

"What's going on, Whit?"

"You'd better get inside. If any place is secure, it's this room."

She came in, and he shut the bookshelf behind her. Then she pulled up a second chair and sat down beside him.

On the large screen, everything was magnified. Every bruise, every cut, every drop of blood. She had to turn away after a moment and look at Whit to avoid seeing Jason's terribly injured face.

"Who did this?"

"I have my suspicions, but no proof. All I have is this picture, and the texts I've been getting all day, threatening to do more harm to my son if I don't hand over…a certain computer program."

"Applesauce?"

"No, Zephyr."

"Zephyr?"

"No reason we called it that, except that it was the last letter of the alphabet, and Applesauce was the first."

"You've worked on that many programs?"

"Well, some I've had more of a hand in than others. This one, like Applesauce, was developed with the Department of Defense. It's been in 'cold storage', partly because of a security breach. He never got it, but he government feared his access, and so they locked it up, believing that the risks of using it outweighed its benefits."

"Who was the person who tried to get it?" Memories of Blackgaard flitted across her mind, but she knew it couldn't possibly be him.

"We never found out who he was—just an exceptionally brilliant hacker who called himself Might. We never knew anything beyond the communications he sent us."

"Do you think it's the same guy?"

"I'm not ruling out any possibilities, but if it's someone else—our security breach was bigger than we thought. It makes sense why he'd want it, and he knew of my involvement. What I don't know is why he waited to try to get it after all these years."

"But do you even have the program? I mean, they had it in storage."

"That's the strange part. There was only one other person beside me that knew I had a copy of the program, and the other person died several years ago."

"What if he's been spying on you? Saw you had the program somehow….Whit—I saw someone in here tonight. He was here since before you left. Do you think he could have something to do with this?"

Whit hesitated. "Was it the same man that was here earlier today?"

"Well, he had a hat and a gray business suit."

"Sounds like him. Did you talk to him?"

"He just said he was going to a hotel. He didn't say which one."

"Hm. There's no way to find out anything without more information, unless he comes in here again. Right now, I'm studying this picture to see if it'll give me a clue about where Jason is. I've got some software that'll help me analyze the picture. It's the best lead we've got right now."

"If there's any way I can help, Whit…"

"You're helping already." He smiled at her; the first genuine smile she'd seen from him since he'd come back to the shop.

She sat with him the next few hours. It was true, there wasn't much she could do; computer programming was all Greek to her. But she could talk with him and, most importantly, pray with him.
It was about 10:00. Connie was getting tired; she was long overdue back at her apartment, and Penny was probably wondering where she was. She didn't even have her cell phone; it was still in her purse.

"Whit, I think I'd better—"

"Go ahead, Connie. I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"I'll just stay a little longer myself."

"Make sure to get some rest. You can't help Jason if you're all worn out."

"That's true. Thank you, Connie, for everything."

"I'll keep praying."

"And make sure you don't tell anyone about this. Jason's life may depend on it."

She gave Whit a hug, looking at Jason's picture and wishing she could hug him too—though it'd probably hurt him too much if she did.

Walking down the dark hallway, she wondered whether it would do any good to go home; she probably wouldn't get any sleep tonight anyway. She'd be up all night, worried about Jason.
-

Whit sat back at the computer. It had been good to have someone to talk to, to not be alone in dealing with this. He just hoped that Jason's kidnapper hadn't found out Connie knew; no one could be that omniscient. Unless the security breach went further than anyone had suspected…

He leaned his head in his hands, suddenly feeling exhausted. Ever since he'd found out what had happened, he'd been in a state of heightened tension. Now, it was all catching up with him. He didn't want to stop looking for a lead…but maybe Connie was right. Maybe he'd have to get some rest in order to be fresh enough to start again.

He was just about to get up, head home, when his cell phone vibrated.

It wasn't a text this time. It was an unknown number. He picked it up.

"You did something bad, didn't you?" said a gravelly voice. Something about it sounded automated, as if it were computer-fabricated.

"Who is this?"

"You know perfectly well who I am."

"Is it Might?"

"Might? I haven't gone by that name in years. But yes, if you must know, I'm the man behind the might. Or I could be a woman as far as you know." He laughed. "But we're not here to talk about me. You told someone else, didn't you?"

"I didn't—she found out on her own."

"Did she now?" the voice sneered.

"Don't hurt my son!"

"I'm not the one hurting him. But don't worry, I won't kill him. Yet. I can allow it was a mistake—this time. The girl is harmless. But in the future, if either of you so much as slip one word of this to anyone—he dies."

"What leverage will you have then?" he asked, though he knew the answer before he said it.

"I'm sure I can think of someone you care about to choose from."

"I'm not about to tell anyone."

"Good. But you're not going to be let off scot-free. No, I'm going to have to punish you, and according to my rules, that means punishing Jason.

"Stick by Jason's computer; the next file I send will be to his address. Oh, and even if he lives, there's no guarantee that your precious son will come out of this without permanent damage."

The man hung up. Silence fell.

Time is running out, thought Whit. I'm no closer to a solution—if there is one. The only way may be to somehow convince him to exchange myself for my son.

Fallout Chapter 4

Whit walked over to the table carrying two dishes of ice cream. It had been a busy morning, but finally it was slowing down a bit.

"Here you go- one Raspberry Ripple and one Rocky Road," he said, setting the dishes down in front of Matthew and Emily.

"Nice alliteration, Mr. Whittaker," said Emily, not looking up from furiously jotting in her notebook.

"What?"

"Alliteration. You know, when the first letters of a word…well, match." She gave a flourish of her pencil.

"It sounds like you've been talking to Eugene."

"No, just something I learned in school yesterday."

"And she's been obsessed with it ever since," said Matthew. "She's been saying things like, lima beans and licorice look like llamas."

"No, silly, the things I've been saying make a lot more sense. Like this: When we waved at the window-washer, he whistled wildly."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "That makes a lot more sense."

"Well, they're hard to come up with on the spot. You try it."

"Maybe later. Right now, I want to eat some ice cream. Thanks, by the way, Mr. Whittaker."

"Yeah, thanks," said Emily. She set down her pencil and dug into the ice cream. "Wait, I ordered the Rocky Road."

"Oh, sorry!" said Whit.

"No problem." She switched dishes with Matthew. "I can tell it's been busy today."

Whit laughed. "I've been swamped. In the old days, kids used to sleep in on Saturday."

"Dunno about everyone else, but we have more important things to do, don't we, Matthew?"

"We're on a case."

"Really? What's it about?"

"It's—"

"Shh!" said Emily. "It's a secret."

"We can tell Mr. Whittaker, can't we?"

"Of course, but not so loud."

"Oh, sorry." Matthew lowered his voice to a whisper. "Um, yesterday when Emily and I rode our bikes back to her house, we were going past the house across the street, and we heard a grinding sound."

"Like really creepy. It was in the basement."

"That's odd," said Whit.

"Yeah. So we got to thinking, and we figured they might be criminals, like counterfeiters, like we had here last summer."

"You never know," said Whit. "But more than likely, it has a perfectly normal explanation. Try not to leap to too many conclusions."

"We're not. That's why we're gathering evidence. We don't want to do something before we know what's going on."

"I hope you aren't being too conspicuous. Your neighbors might not like that you're spying on them."

"Spying? We're not…Well, I guess we are. But we've got some good notes. Want to take a look at them? We're trying to find a pattern in their behavior. So far, we've found out that…they don't do too much. But last night, I saw their light on in the basement again and—"

"Hey," said the guy at the next table. "Can I get my root beer float?"

"Oh, yes, of course," said Whit. "Sorry about that. Coming right up." And Whit went back into the kitchen, thinking he wasn't surprised he'd forgotten someone in all the commotion.

Just then, the bell above the door rang. Whit turned to greet them—and saw that it was Connie.

"Hi, Whit," she said. "Ready for me to take over?"

"Take over?"

"Yeah, it's my shift."

"I haven't had time to check what time it was."

"That busy, huh?"

"It's settling down some. Just one more root beer float." He scooped some vanilla ice cream into a glass of root beer, and Connie took it out to the rather disgruntled customer.

Whit looked at his watch. It was already 12:45; it was time to meet Jason at Hal's Diner for lunch. He said a quick goodbye to Connie, Matthew and Emily, and walked out to his car.

At the diner, he waited for about fifteen minutes, then asked if someone matching Jason's description had come in. He didn't see him at any of the tables.

He got a table anyway and sat down. Looked at the menu, which all blurred together. Something nagged in his mind. What if something happened? he thought.

No, just because he's late doesn't mean anything. Maybe he forgot, or got caught up in something…
Whit took out his cell phone to see if there were any messages. There was one from Connie saying she was going to be a little late, but none from his son.

His call redirected to voicemail. Maybe Jason's phone isn't charged, thought Whit. That isn't like him though….

There's no reason to believe anything's wrong. Worrying won't help. But I can't shake this feeling…He is my son, and I've felt things before, when my kids were in trouble. Like Jerry…

He got up, left a tip for his waiter, and headed over to Jason's apartment.

He knocked, and waited in the hall for about ten minutes. Then he dug in his pocket for his keys, and opened the door with the key to Jason's apartment.

The door creaked open.

Inside, a bookshelf lay on its face, books scattered across the floor. The dining room chairs had tipped over, one of the chairs' legs broken. Whit stepped inside, and walked through a labyrinth of broken vases, torn books, crushed plants. It was like someone had gone through and ripped the place apart without rhyme or reason. Like during the outbursts of anger back during Novacom's tests.
In Jason's bed room, it was the same. The lamp beside the bed was smashed. And on the floor, there were several spots of dark red.

Blood.

He knelt beside the blood, as if he could determine whose it was by looking closer. It was most likely his son's, though Whit couldn't help wishing it was the blood of whoever had attacked him…
Please let Jason be all right, he prayed, as he walked into the office. It was the same there; the only difference was, the laptop computer on the desk was in its normal place, as if a tornado had whipped around it, but left it untouched.

Whit pulled the desk chair upright, and sat down in it. He pulled out the middle left drawer, and felt for the secret compartment. That, too, was untouched, but the only things inside were some of Jason's old agency documents. No clue as to what the intruders had been looking for.

I learned to live with the risks of Jason being an agent, he thought. It wasn't easy, but I was familiar with that life—I practically introduced him to it—and he knew the risks. I had to let go. But after he quit this time, I …let my guard down. He was here, safe; I didn't think anything could happen. He wasn't himself, but I didn't think he'd be in physical danger again.

Now—

Now, he thought, I need to figure out what happened here. If it was a normal robbery, why didn't they take the computer? But if they wanted his secrets, it also doesn't make sense they had left the computer. Most likely, they either kidnapped him, or killed him and took him somewhere else…

No, not killed. I can't consider that possibility.

His phone buzzed into the deathly silence. He jumped. Across the screen, there was a text.
You will give me Zephyr, it said. The longer you wait, the more your son will suffer.

A photo accompanied the text. A man, half in shadow, sitting in a chair.

At first, Whit couldn't tell who he was. Then, he saw the clean lines of his face, the stubborn Whittaker chin.

Jason. His eye swollen, his face and chest covered in blood and numerous cuts. Someone held up his head by his hair; he looked barely conscious.

Whit's heart ached. He could barely stand to look at the picture, but couldn't look away, knowing this was the most recent image of his son that he had.

Who has done this? he wondered, anger taking hold of him. Who could possibly know about Zephyr, a computer program I've never told anyone about, outside of my DoD colleagues?

There is one possibility, he told himself. If so, I need to call someone in the Agency-

As if on cue, his phone buzzed again.

The text:

Oh, and if you tell anyone about this, I will kill your son.

In the meantime, Jason will be enjoying the hospitality of someone who wants nothing better than to hurt him in every way possible.

Have a nice day.