Lobo Malo

Epilogue - The Blind Sages

The White House
2120 EST

It was a little late for the Fourth of July, but the mood across the city was one of jubilation. The war for the cultural and political heart of the nation had been won. And on the grounds of the White House, the victory party was in full swing.

Musicians from the Campus and the Theater took turns, belting out everything from alt rock covers to folk music standards. At one point, Ricky Tarvey jumped up on the improvised stage, snagging a fiddle, and smiling as he drew the bow across the strings slowly. Annika Bundmeister joined him as she heard the opening bars of an American classic, her mezzosoprano voice rich in the summer night's air as she sang melodiously.

Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh! Hard times come again no more.

It's the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard times, hard times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh! Hard times come again no more.

Lowell Ryckmen stood apart from the bulk of the crowd, a beer stein sitting on the corner of a small container as he fiddled with his watch. With the defeat of the True Sons, and his own personal removal of Antwon Ridgeway, it was time he dealt with some old business. "Establishing connection," chimed ISAC in his earbud.

A moment later, a familiar voice exploded in his ear. "Lobo?!"

"Howdy, Lena," he said, his voice faintly husky.

"Jesus, it's good to hear your voice! You back from the dead or just out on parole?"

"Awww, you know me. Heaven wouldn't have me and Hell's terrified I'd take over," he chuckled. "How's farm life suiting you?"

"Wouldn't know. I'm back at the Post Office," Urquidez said smugly.

"Since when?"

"About April. You know they lifted the quarantine around the start of spring, right? Wanderley came and picked me up. He told the Mennonites he was from the IRS and I was wanted for tax evasion."

Ryckmen shook his head. "Putz," he said roundly.

"Actually, I think he's had a lot of the snot knocked out of him since we left. He's almost pleasant company most days. I only have to cut him down to size about once a month now. And Rhodes, he built me a prosthetic arm. It's very cool, but he didn't think I was serious when I told him I wanted a derringer built into the index finger. He says he'll have to do some more design work first. I think he's dragging his feet.  Well, maybe not.  He and Faye aren't really talking much anymore, and except for a couple of us, he's gotten real hostile to the Division.  They opened up Lower Manhattan and Hell's Kitchen.  It got ugly." There was a noticeable pause. "Heard things got pretty wild down in D.C."

"Oh, yeah. Made New York look like a pillow fight, but not nearly so bad as Philly. Or Richmond, from what I understand. Not even the ghosts are left around there."

"And Keener?" Urquidez asked quietly.

"The trail went cold," admitted Ryckmen. "A few scattered 'catch me if you can' messages left here and there, his usual antics, but nothing concrete. Now that things have settled down here, I'm going to see if I can get a team together and head north to Fort Detrick. If Keener wants or needs viral samples, that's about the only place he could really get anything useful. Best case scenario, there's still enough cohesion and firepower at AMRIID to keep him out or put him down. I won't begrudge them if they bag him." He didn't speculate on what the worst case scenario would be, and Urquidez didn't press him. Both of them knew how bad it would get if Aaron Keener plundered the viral sample collection at the Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases.