Villain (Gone 8)

If I may paraphrase the brilliant Tropic Thunder . . . if I were you, I’d take a big step back and literally f-ck your own face!

That should do it.

But I weary of conflict. I am not a bad person, but I will not be disrespected. So if you want me out of Las Vegas, I’m ready to go. All I ask for is sun, a beach, and plenty of margaritas. If you leave me alone, I’ll leave you alone.

So here’s the deal:

A helicopter on the roof of the Triunfo. The pilot will not wear ear covering.

A fully gassed-up jet minimum size like an A-320. Pilot and flight attendants without ear covering.

One hundred million dollars in cash.

A guaranteed spot on Fallon, Colbert, or Kimmel. I’ll do a tight five, maybe seven minutes. And I’ll pretape it so you can check to make sure I don’t, you know . . . say anything I shouldn’t.

A one-hour Netflix special.

Give me all that, and I will happily live my life and not bother you anymore.

Respectfully,

The Charmer (Dillon Poe)

He emailed this to the three news networks. His control over the Triunfo staff was not absolute; there were still staff who had not heard his voice, but most of the employees were safely under control, and his Cheerios had orders to shoot anyone they thought was even slightly a threat.

His people, his army, his voice slaves were clustering in ever greater numbers in the circular driveway of the Triunfo. The Fashion Show Mall was across the street, Nordstrom a stone’s throw away.

He nodded approvingly. Good. The street was much narrower here, and the hotel’s entrance was relatively modest, which would make it harder for tanks to maneuver around.

Kate, the head Cheerio, arrived with the Chevron truck. It was too tall to fit beneath the hotel’s overhang, so she parked it on the street, blocking the driveway entrance.

More and more gasping, staggering zombies . . . No, wait, Dillon thought, that’s a generic term. He had his Cheerios, he needed a name for his army. Dillon’s Danger Squad? That was funny. Kind of. Dillbots? That sounded a bit too trivial. Besides, he wasn’t just Dillon Poe, he was the Charmer.

The Charmer’s Champions? That could work. Wasn’t at all funny, though. The Charmer’s Chimps? The Charmer’s Cholaborators?

“Wait . . . Chimpions! Hah! That’s good.” Using his bullhorn, he said, “You are all now honored, respected members of the Charmer’s Chimpions. With an ‘i’ instead of an ‘a.’”

The swelling mass of people did not know how to react. So they mostly just stared in a dazed way.

“Hey, come on, that was worth a laugh. Laugh!”

He had privately sworn never to use his power to get laughs, but this was different . . . in some way he couldn’t quantify. And the sound of what was now more than a thousand people trying to laugh despite panting and wheezing with exhaustion was hysterically funny.

“Okay, that’s enough. Stop laughing. Kate. Kate!” He yelled to be heard over the fading laughter. “Kate! Start . . . wait, you’ll need help. You and you.” He pointed at what he guessed were working guys, guys with muscles, anyway. “Go help Kate. Kate? Time to hose down my brave and loyal Chimpions.”

He retreated inside as Kate and the two men labored to unlimber the fuel truck’s hose.

ASO-6

AFTER MORE THAN twenty-four hours of battering and dragging, the Nebraska’s crew had been reduced by sixty-four deaths. The bodies could not be moved; they could only be tied down. Tied to pipes, to equipment that was no longer relevant. Bodies hung like effigies, like gruesome warnings.

It was very cold aboard the Nebraska. Very cold. Oxygen was not

yet a problem, in part because so many fewer people were breathing it. Crewmen did not walk, they crawled, with cushions and life jackets tied to their heads like makeshift helmets. Survivors did their best to move food and water up and down the length of the boat, tapping on pressure hatches to signal that they had bread or a piece of sausage to share.

The emergency lights were fading.

A few crewmen still clung to hope. Most had given up. And many had lost their minds entirely under the assault. One of those was a petty officer named Debbie Forte, who had been locked up in the missile bay since the start. She was the only living person in the missile bay. She had tried to tie down the six men and woman beaten to death by the shaking, but it had been impossible, so bodies would tumble past when the chimera shook the boat. Her friends. Her people. People she had trained.