The Plan
“Two. Two guys,” Westlake muttered, “That’s what they sent.”
“Two more than we had before,” Ramirez said, as she shut the door behind them, wondering how the day had slipped by into evening so quickly. Westlake was clearly disappointed. She wondered what he’d expected. It wasn’t like there was an army around here going spare or a set of specialized criminals at his service. “And you’ve got to admit that Calavera counts for at least three by himself.”
“At least,” Westlake said, looking over at the masked man. Ramirez followed his gaze. Calavera had gotten a towel somewhere and was cleaning his hands of the gore that stained them. “Where did you find him?”
“He found us. Came wandering into the camp over near North Elba one day, escorting a group of survivors, claiming a saint had told him they needed help.”
Westlake glanced at her. “And you – they – bought that?”
“He kills zombies with his bare hands,” Ramirez pointed out. “What are they going to say? ‘No thank you, please move along?’”
Westlake frowned. “Got a point, I guess. What about the other one? What’s his name – Ptolemy?” He indicated the second of the newcomers. Calvin Ptolemy was a narrow, dark-skinned man of indeterminate age. He stood away from the others, looking ill at ease.
His hair was chopped square and buzzed tight, and a set of cheap black-framed glasses rested on his nose, making his eyes look bigger than they were. He wore secondhand tactical fatigues beneath a heavy barn coat, and carried a variety of weapons, both obvious and otherwise. “He’s a quiet guy,” Westlake went on. “Hasn’t said two words to anyone.”
Ramirez snorted. “You don’t know the half of it. He had his own podcast, back before all this. Real Art Bell type. He went on these two-hour screeds about secret Masonic conspiracies and nanites in fluoride.”
“And someone thought it was a good idea to send him?”
Ramirez had been wondering about that herself. She recalled that Ptolemy didn’t like to leave his bunker without good reason. Even then, he did so only for as long as necessary. That he’d volunteered was something of a surprise – or a sign of how bad things were getting. Before she could reply, Ptolemy wandered over.
“Agent Ramirez,” he said, nodding politely to Ramirez. He didn’t offer to shake hands. He never did. Something about germs. “We thought it best to come together. Safety in numbers.” He nudged his glasses back up onto his face as he looked at Westlake. “And you would be Mr Westlake, was it?”
“It was and is,” Westlake said. He held out his hand. Ptolemy inclined his head but ignored the outstretched hand. Westlake lowered it awkwardly.
“Dunnigan implied you are the bearer of glad tidings.”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“How you feel about climbing a mountain.”
Ptolemy blinked, and a look of mild surprise crossed his face. “Ah.” He paused. “Is that why Elizabeth – Sayers, I mean – is here?”
Ramirez turned. Sayers leaned against the wall near the windows, ignoring everyone as was her wont. “Yeah.” She’d been surprised when Sayers had answered the radio. She had been even more surprised when the former park ranger actually showed up.
“A warning would have been appreciated,” Ptolemy said, watching the former park ranger with an inscrutable expression. His gaze flicked back to Ramirez. “Area 51.”
“What about it?”
“I have come to the conclusion that it is where all this started. We should investigate.”
Ramirez blinked, thrown. “And how would we do that?”
“The airport has planes available. I suggest–”
“Maybe after we handle this?” Ramirez said, quickly. Ptolemy peered at her for a moment, as if trying to determine whether she was serious, or merely humoring him. Apparently satisfied that it was the former, he nodded.
“Very well. The airport, Agent Ramirez.”
“Afterwards,” Ramirez said, with a brief smile. Ptolemy nodded again, turned and, after a moment of hesitation, made his way towards the window and Sayers. Westlake watched him go, a frown on his face.
“He seems… intense.”
Ramirez glanced at him. “You’re right, he is intense. But also smart. And a good shot. Two things we need.”
Westlake grunted, but didn’t reply. He and Ramirez joined Frieda and the others. Dunnigan had already broken out the beer. Helpfully, a table had been set up, covered in all the maps they’d been able to scrounge from the visitors’ center.
Hahm sat at the table, along with Labrand and Hutch. Kahwihta sat nearby on a stool, scratching Attila’s head. Ramirez had spoken with all four of them individually on what they were looking for over the course of the day, and all four had quickly volunteered. They all had something to contribute, or could be counted on to keep their heads. With the addition of Calavera and Ptolemy, that gave them a team of eight. Sayers would make nine, if she agreed.
Ramirez cleared her throat. All eyes turned towards her. “We all know why we’re here, I trust?” she said, for the benefit of the others.
“We do, and it’s bullshit,” Sayers said, bluntly. “Utter bullshit. Places like the one you’re describing don’t exist.”
“I assure you, it does,” Westlake jumped in.
Sayers glanced at him with obvious suspicion. “And who are you, exactly? I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’m the guy who’s telling you that this place exists.”
“And it’s here? You’re certain?” Sayers shook her head. “Can’t be.”
“It is. Mount Marcy, to be exact.”
“Impossible.” Sayers glared at him. “There’s nothing there. I know these mountains.”
“I’m sure you do, but hear me out,” Westlake said. He went to the table and paged through an old guidebook for the area. “See, here’s the issue – the guidebook says it should take about eleven hours to walk the trail to the southwest slope from here. But the guidebook assumes there’s an infrastructure in place to keep said trails clear.” Westlake looked back at her. “Have you still been keeping the brush cut, this whole time?”
Sayers frowned. “I don’t use the trails.”
Westlake nodded. “Which means everything is likely to be overgrown, washed out or otherwise untraversable.” He smiled. “Hey, at least it’s not snowing, right?”
Ramirez waved him to silence and hoped Sayers understood what Westlake was driving at. “What he’s saying is that we need a guide, and that’s you.” She paused, coming to terms with attempting to make peace. “I know we’ve had our issues, but you could help a whole lot of people here, Sayers. We need this place. We need it bad. The lodge won’t last another month. Not at this rate. You might not have realized it, hiding out up in the tall timber, but things are getting bad. Lots more walkers, a lot less to salvage. This place could be the answer to our prayers.”
“I’m not hiding,” Sayers growled. She matched Ramirez’ glare with one of her own. “I’m just not a fan of making things easy for the zombies.”
“Then why are you here?”
Sayers’ eyes flicked towards Ptolemy. It was so quick that Ramirez almost missed it. “You called, I came. You want me to go, I’ll go.” But she didn’t sound as if she meant it. She took a deep breath and stepped back. “For the sake of argument, what’s your plan?”
“Simple,” Ramirez said. “I take a crew up into the mountains, find this place and check it out. Ensure that its safe for us. Then we can make plans from there.”
“What sort of crew?” Sayers asked.
“Volunteers.” Ramirez looked around the room. “The people in this room are the only ones who know about this, and I’d like to keep it that way until we know what’s what, so–”
“There are zombies in the mountains,” Sayers interrupted. “Lots of them. Any group going into the mountains runs the risk of encountering significant opposition. Worse, they might draw zombies down on the lodge, and the other camps as well.” She looked around. “I’ve been warning you all about this for months. The minute you set up shop here, you might as well have started ringing a dinner bell.”
“There was nowhere else to go,” Frieda said.
“You could have gone anywhere else,” Sayers said, rounding on the other woman. “You could still go. Dunnigan’s rig alone–”
Dunnigan spoke up. “My rig’s got enough fuel to get as far as Plattsburgh, but I can only carry twenty, maybe thirty people. Less if I got to haul supplies.”
Ramirez jumped in. “Anywhere we go – supposing we can move everyone – is likely to be swarming with zombies and picked clean to boot. No, we need a place to make a stand. To plant crops, to build walls, to live.”
Frieda looked at Westlake. “And how about it, Westlake? Is it that sort of place?” Her eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you expecting to find up there?”
“A glorified hotel. Sal would have brought a few dozen guys with him, maybe some friends. Maybe family. There’ll be employees too. Cooks, custodians, that sort of thing.”
“A few dozen guys, he says,” Frieda said. She looked at Ramirez. “That sounds like you need more than a few volunteers. How were you planning to get in?”
Westlake paused. “It depends on how the place is set up. I was going to scout it out first, get the lay of the land. See what the viable points of entry were.”
“If there were any, you mean,” Frieda said.
“There are always points of entry. You just have to identify them. The real problem is how to get close to the place without being spotted.”
“You are assuming someone is on the other end of any security system that might be active,” Ptolemy said.
Westlake nodded. “A good rule of thumb is to assume that someone is always watching.”
“Of course, there’s no guarantee that anyone is even alive up there,” Ramirez said. “Otherwise, I think we’d have seen some sign of them by now.”
“The other reason you might not have seen any sign of them is because the place doesn’t exist,” Sayers interjected.
“But if it does… if the Villa is real, and I think that it is, then it’ll be the answer to our problems. We just need to find it.” Ramirez looked at Sayers. “Which is where you come in.”
“And what if I say no?”
“Then we continue without you,” Ptolemy said. Ramirez thought she saw Sayers flinch, though Ptolemy’s voice had been nothing but mild.
Sayers ran her hand through her shaggy hair and looked around. “You’re all agreed on this?” she asked, in evident resignation.
Calavera slapped his big hands down on the table. “Indeed! This is a noble quest, and I would not miss it for the world.”
Sayers looked at Ptolemy. “Calvin…” she began.
Ptolemy wouldn’t meet her eyes. “If there is a chance, we must take it,” he said, simply. Sayers sighed and turned to Ramirez.
“Fine. Where am I taking you?”
“We told you,” Westlake said. “Mount Marcy.”
Sayers rolled her eyes. “Yes, but Mount Marcy is one of the highest peaks in the Adirondacks, and heavily forested to boot. I need a bit more to go on.” She paused. “You said the southwest slope.” She pushed Westlake aside and leaned over the maps on the table. “The problem with most maps is that they’re based on older cartographic records. So if something is removed, due to lack of importance or – well…”
“Because someone didn’t want it on the map,” Westlake supplied. “It’s not even on any satellite imagery and that takes lots of money or influence or both.”
“But some things cannot be entirely hidden, no matter how many bribes you pay. It would need to be a sizeable area for the type of facility you are talking about.” Ptolemy bent over the map as well, running his finger along the grid lines. “Southwest slope, you said?”
Westlake nodded. “Yeah, near an old iron mine.”
Ptolemy looked at Sayers. “Ring any bells?”
Labrand coughed politely. “Lake Cutter,” he said. Ramirez and the others looked at him. He leaned back in his chair. “Quarry lake on the southwestern slope. Nothing else there but trees, as far as I know.”
Ramirez looked at Sayers. “What about it?”
Sayers licked her lips. “Maybe.”
Something in her voice made Ramirez pause. She studied the other woman, but Sayers’ face gave nothing away. Maybe it was just Sayers’ obvious reluctance she was hearing. She resolved to talk to the other woman about it at the first convenient opportunity. She clapped her hands together, drawing the eyes of the others. “The important thing is, can we get there from here?”
Sayers shrugged. “We can take the Van Hoevenberg Trail, towards the peak. It used to be that you could hike the trail in a few hours, but given how many zombies are wandering around up there, we should at least double that time.” She hesitated. “Of course, there are worse things than walkers in these mountains.”
“Like what?” Westlake asked.
“Bears for one. Coyotes. Cougars. All of which have gotten very used to eating human beings in the last few months, thanks to the walkers. Plus, trail collapses – flooding… There are a hundred ways to die up here, if you’re not prepared.”
“Which is why we need you,” Ptolemy said, softly. He reached out and took Sayers’ hand. She looked at it for a moment, and then pulled away.
“Yeah. So you said.” Sayers stepped back from the table. “We’ll leave at first light.”
“So you’ll do it?” Ramirez asked, surprised despite herself.
Sayers didn’t look at her. “I’ll do it.” She took a deep breath. “I need some air.” She headed for the door.
Westlake sat down. “Well, glad that’s settled.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Ramirez looked down at the map. There was no telling what they’d find up there. Maybe salvation.
Maybe something else.