Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

With his stomach full and the pain in his head dulled by drugs, Miller switched on the iPhone and connected to the Internet via Wendy’s free wireless connection. He opened Safari and then did a Google search for “Milos Vesely.”

The first return was a Wikipedia page about a Czech bobsledder. He opened it, scanned the contents, saw nothing of interest, and decided he’d found the wrong man. Heading back to Google, he scrolled through the rest of the top results. There were a slew of Facebook pages and message board entries, but still nothing that would make any of them a person of interest to Nazi assassins. Nothing he could see, anyway.

He went back and searched again, this time for “Milos ‘Wayne’ Vesely.” The first hit—a book—caught his attention.

“ Nazi Wunderwaffe and Secret Societies, ” Miller read. “By Wayne Vesely.”

This is more like it.

He clicked the link and was surprised when the complete text of the book opened in Google Books. The black cover held a hand-drawn sketch of a bell surrounded by what looked like electricity, or fire. The poor skill of the artist combined with low resolution made it hard to tell. He jumped to the end of the book and found an About the Author section. A black-and-white photo of Vesely showed him wearing a cowboy hat, aviator sunglasses, and a cocky grin. A paragraph of text below the image read:

Wayne Vesely is the author of three previous books, The Nazi UFO Connection, The Zero-Point Reich, and The United States of the Fourth Reich . When not preparing for what he calls the Fourth Dawn—also the title of his next book—Vesely can be found lecturing throughout Europe. When not traveling, Vesley resides in Český Krumlov, the Czech Republic.

The guy’s a conspiracy theory nutjob, Miller thought. But if they’re after him, he must have got something right. And that meant he might have answers.

It took Miller just one minute to access the white pages for the Czech Republic, type in “Milos Vesely,” enter “Český Krumlov,” and get the man’s phone number. Being so easy to find, Miller thought for sure the man would be dead already, but when he dialed the number, a man answered on the second ring. “Ahoj?”

“Ahh, hello,” Miller said. “Is this Milos Vesely?”

There was a silence on the other end for a moment, followed by a tentative, “You are American?”

Miller noticed that the man’s accent sounded like Chekov from Star Trek and said, “Yes.” For a moment he considered posing as a publisher interested in his books, but there wasn’t time to play games. Vesely might have answers and his life was certainly in danger. “Am I speaking to Wayne?”

The tone of the man’s voice changed again, this time to a hush. “How do you know that name?”

“It’s on your books.”

“But Milos is not.”

Miller looked at the book. He was right. The hit list revealed his full name.

“Listen closely, you now have thirty seconds to explain who you are and how you obtained my name,” Vesely said. “I’m counting.”

It took Miller ten of those seconds to decide on the one and only explanation he felt wouldn’t result in the man hanging up. “I found your name on a hit list I took off the body of a Nazi assassin.”

Miller waited for some kind of explosive reaction, but heard only silence. Then breathing. Vesely hadn’t hung up.

“And who, my American friend, are you?”

“Lincoln Miller. My name is two spots above yours on the list.”

“Miller? The Survivor?”

“Why is everyone calling me that?” Miller asked.

“It is the news,” Vesely said. “They have deemed you The Survivor. Capital T, capital S. It is a good code name, no? Survivor. You may call me Cowboy if you like.”

“Listen, Milos—”

“Cowboy.”

Miller sighed. “These guys are going to come for you.”

“I am ready for them.”

“Ready for them?”

“I am Cowboy. Gunslinger.”

The nickname “Wayne” suddenly made sense. The man fancied himself an honest-to-goodness cowboy. A UFO-hunting, conspiracy-junky cowboy. Great, Miller thought, wondering how difficult it would be to separate fact from fiction. Then he wondered aloud, “How did you know they’re after you?”

A red Mustang pulled up next to the truck. Its loud engine and pounding bass made Vesely’s next words hard to hear.

“I knew when I saw the red sky,” Vesely said. “I predicted it.”

“Bullshit,” Miller said. If someone like Vesely knew about the attack, someone in power would have figured it out, too. The Mustang’s engine cut off. The music fell silent. The driver got out of his car and said something, but Miller wasn’t paying attention.

“And yet you say they are ‘after’ me. Probudit se. Let me ask you a question. Why should I bother speaking to you? Hmm? I have been publishing everything I have uncovered about the Nazi secret programs for years. The Wunderwaffe. The Bell. The experiments. I have written letters. No one listens.”

“Hey! Who are you?” an angry voice interrupted. Miller glanced up and saw a burly man with a long beard approaching.

“Why should I believe you will be any different, Survivor?” Vesely asked.

“I know you stole Steve’s truck,” the bearded man said as he stopped just shy of the driver’s side door. His clenched fists and body language said he was ready for a fight. “Heard you even left the nuts behind. Now get the fuck out before I knock—”

Miller’s already worn patience snapped. He pulled the door handle and kicked the door open as hard as he could. The hard metal doorframe connected a solid blow with the man’s forehead. He sprawled back, rolling over the hood of his Mustang, and collapsed onto the parking lot.

Miller didn’t give the man another second of his time and seethed his anger into the phone. “You will listen to me because I just came from the home of Aldric Huber, who helped recruit the science team behind these attacks. Because I’ve killed more than fifteen of these Nazi assholes already. Because I have a direct line to the president of the United States. And because I’m the goddamn fucking Survivor.”

A moment of silence. “You met Huber?”

“Yes.”

“And he was forthcoming?”

“Until a sniper put two bullets in him.”

“ Hovno. What did you learn?”

“That United States scientific superiority has Nazis to thank.”

Vesely responded with a sniff of a laugh that said, “Duh,” and followed it with, “Anything else?”

“Just your name from the sniper’s dead body.”

“Huber could have told you everything.…”

Miller would have strangled the man had he been present. “I know. ”

“But,” Vesely said, “now you have the Cowboy.”

Miller heard three dull thuds in the background. “What was that?”

“Hold on,” Vesely said.

The banging came again. Miller recognized the sound as someone pounding on a door. “Vesely! Damnit!” With no reply, all he could do was listen.

He could hear the tinny voice of the drive-through attendant, the squeaky brakes of a car stopping at the road, and the sound of a baby crying from one of the other parked cars, but not a sound through the phone. A stream of curses ran through Miller’s mind. If they lost Vesely, he and Adler would just be two names on a hit list who posed no threat. Five days later, they’d be corpses along with most of the Earth’s oxygen-dependant life.

Miller pressed the phone hard against his ear when he heard footsteps and heavy breathing.

“Survivor,” Vesely said. “Are you there?”