The Things We Bury - Part 2: No Big Apocalypse [Completed]

Chapter 3: Surfacing (Part 2 of 7)

Although Barbara never liked getting up in the middle of the night, she found the pre-dawn drive to The Music Box soothing. Passing through the empty streets of the dark cityscape, it was easy to imagine civilization wiped out from a plague. Only the coffee reservoirs showed signs of life. The shambling remnants of humanity huddled around the cafes, all night doughnut shops, and service stations in desperate need of a fix. The flagrant display of addiction was appalling so early in the morning.

Barbara didn't believe in caffeine. It was nothing but proof that a person's faculties were deficient.

The users left their corporate crack dens clutching disposable cups like badges of failure, while Barbara sped past them, more alert and with quicker reflexes than they would ever achieve with caffeine.

When Judgement Day finally came, it would be coffee which separated the strong from the weak.

Barbara also hated that it stained their teeth. The very thought, created the urge to check her own in the vanity mirror and make sure they were still as brilliantly white as when she brushed them.

She didn't. That would be irrational. Instead, she turned her mind toward work.

Ever since getting back from Vegas, the news of the DTAA's decision filled her with conflicting thoughts and self-doubt. She should never have allowed herself to get so close to Amy. Thinking of other people confused things.

It was the same problem she had with Carlos. Often, Barbara found herself asking: what would The Major do?

Why should his course of action matter? What difference did his imaginary judgement of her make? Simply trying to figure out the ambiguity of what Carlos might think slowed her down. And the impractical nature of his morality got in the way of what she needed to do.

Barbara did not have that problem when she thought about Walt. Jorgenson was entirely single minded. Interpreting him was like interpreting a disease. There was no question to how he'd proceed. Regardless of the situation, he would move relentlessly toward his objective, heedless of the devastation in his wake.

She couldn't help admiring that, even though, there were times when Barbara wondered if she should have killed him the first time they met.

That weasel, Palmer, had given her the security codes to get into Jorgenson's vacation home in Aspen. Barbara had gotten there hours before he was scheduled to arrive. It gave her time to camouflage her tracks on the snow covered path and secure herself in the pantry, where she waited for the man who had issued the order to attack Aira the year before.

Somewhere around nine, he entered the front door making enough noise to wake her, if she had been stupid enough to doze. There was high-pitched laughter. He wasn't alone, but that had been expected. Palmer had told her that catching him during one of his many trysts was Barbara's best shot at getting him without his bodyguards around.

Barbara had expected that they would make their way into the kitchen for a snack or a drink after the long flight, but they didn't. Their voices retreated from her to the other side of the chalet. She could have waited. They were bound to come in there eventually, but something about letting this son-of-a-bitch enjoy one more minute on Earth galled her.

Creeping out of the cupboard, she followed the sounds of girlish giggles to the den. It was a large, comfortable space designed for entertaining big groups. The drapes were drawn over the floor to ceiling windows and with only two lamps on, darkness flooded the corners and made the room seem cavernous.