Greg Rucka - Alpha

He pulls out the cell phone, not his personal phone, but rather the one from the duffel, and switches it on, waits for it to find a signal. When the clock syncs, he can see that he is in the right place, at the right time. Gabriel works the keys, bringing up the first of four designated calling groups. With one press, he can send multiple calls, a feature designed, he assumes, for conference calling or mass texting, but now repurposed, albeit slightly. He has four groups, north, south, east, and west, and to do this properly, he has to know the wind.

He licks his lips, closes his eyes. Turns slowly, trying to feel the breeze, if there even is a breeze. He feels the skin on his lips tighten, the moisture evaporating. He opens his eyes once more, and finds himself facing north-northeast. Bunting and banners, WilsonVille flags sway slightly, confirming the wind, barely felt, coming in from the Pacific, entering the park from the west.

Thumb on the button, Gabriel Fuller brings the phone to his ear, pretending to listen as he calls group four. He hears the ring in his ear, then abrupt silence, as each phone answers and instantly commits suicide. Holds it for a second longer before hanging up, turning toward the arcade once more. Groups one and three will need to be next, and they’ll need to go off in quick succession for maximum effect.

It took six weeks to place each device, each carefully wrapped bundle of powder, phone, and charge. Brought into the park a little at a time, hidden on his person or in his backpack, and the phones he didn’t even bother to hide at all. So he was carrying two cell phones, big deal, and nobody even noticed, nobody ever commented.

Now he’s moving up the west side of Town Square, passing the carnival games, the ringtoss, the baseball throw. There’s a soda vendor at the corner, and he buys himself an overpriced bottle of water, doesn’t bother trying to get his employee discount. He looks southward, watching the entrance to the Sheriff’s Office. Presses the button on the phone, dialing group one, then just as quickly hangs up and dials group three.

For almost four minutes, there is no activity from those doors. Nothing at all.

Then they are opening, now a flood of navy-blue blazers emerges, radios in hands, and Gabriel can tell just by the way they’re moving that they’re scared. They scatter in all directions, some of them pushing through the crowd for the main gates, some heading in his direction, then past him, going deeper into the park. And one, a middle-aged black woman, heavyset and urgent, heading his way, and he can hear what she’s saying to the people all around him as she moves. She’s waving for attention, pointing toward the south.

The music in the square stops, followed by the crackle and shriek of hundreds of hidden speakers switching to PA. It gets attention, calls for silence, and there is just an instant, then, when WilsonVille seems to freeze, only the sound of the rides still running filling the gap. Gabriel checks the phone in his hand, bringing up group two, the last half dozen charges. Thumb poised over the SEND button.

Your attention, please.

A man’s voice, and Gabriel thinks that he’s hearing the strain in it, the stress, and he can’t stop himself from smiling.

Your attention, please. This is Eric Porter, director of park and resort safety. With regret, we announce that due to unforeseen difficulties, WilsonVille will be closing for the day, effective immediately. Friends will help you make your way to the nearest exit. Please follow their directions in a calm and orderly fashion. We apologize for the inconvenience…

Gabriel Fuller doesn’t bother looking down at the phone in his hand. He just presses the SEND button one last time. Eric Porter is still speaking, repeating the announcement, and behind him he hears another voice over the speakers, and he can’t hear the words, but he recognizes the tone, the anxiety in it, and it gives him a strange, wonderful sense of satisfaction and power.

He’s not the only one who’s heard it, either. All around him, people are beginning to react, some still listening, others already in motion, and some are trying to be calm, some are trying to be orderly. But not all of them, not the ones who are thinking that the way they came in is the quickest way to get out, and voices are starting to rise and still Eric Porter is on the PA, and Gabriel thinks that he can hear that strain in his voice even more now.

The man never uses the words “evacuation” or “emergency” or anything that might cause a panic.

He never, ever says the words, “toxin” or “gas” or anything like that.

Gabriel Fuller doesn’t say those words, either, despite the momentary, perverse pleasure the thought gives him. Like shouting “Fire!” in a crowded movie house or “Bomb!” in an airport security line. That is not the plan, however, that is not what the Uzbek is counting on him to do, and the thought of what the wrong word could now cause has him thinking of Dana again. Dana, who should be at their apartment, taking the day off, and not here because she can interpret for the deaf.

He doesn’t want anything to happen to her. It would kill him if something happened to her, he realizes. So a calm, orderly evacuation, and by the time the authorities know what’s really going on, Dana and everyone else will be outside the gates, and they’ll be safe. Then all he’ll have to do is get through the rest of this day. Get through this day and into the night and he’ll disappear for a few days after that, and then he’ll make his way back, back to her.

Now he’s being carried along in the press of people, and they’ve passed the Sheriff’s Office, coming up on the WilsonVille Store, so many people, and they’re being herded, so tightly together. He almost misses his chance, fakes stumbling, rights himself, allows himself to be turned around. Stumbles again, and then he’s through the door of the store, and just as he knew it would be, it’s already empty, already cleared. Racks and racks of official WilsonVille Wear, and he drops low, out of the sight line of the windows, but more important, out of the sight line of the cameras watching the store.

Belly-crawling his way to the main bank of registers, a broken circle of counter smack in the middle of the room, pushing his duffel ahead of him as he goes. He takes it slow. With the evacuation running, he can’t imagine that anyone who’s still watching the video monitors in the command post is paying attention to the interior of any store, let alone this one. Still, he keeps his movements deliberate and controlled, for fear of catching anyone’s eye.

The cabinets beneath the register are locked, and Gabriel has to go into his pocket, comes back with his knife. It’s a horrible thing to do to a blade, a disrespectful way to treat it, but it’s the only tool he has. He snaps it out and forces it into the gap, working it up and down until he hits the latch. It’s a tight fit, and he slams his palm into the base of the handle, and wood splinters as metal is forced into the gap. He twists, wrenches, thinking the knife is going to snap. There’s a crack as the lock gives way.

He stows the blade, opens the now-broken doors. There’s the squat tower for the computer that runs the register, still powered. A snarl of cables running from it, and then, beside it, the blinking green lights of the router. He pulls it free, turns it in his hands, and God bless WilsonVille Technical Services, because each port is clearly labeled with a small white printed sticker. There are two marked VIDEO, and he pulls the cords from each, turns the cameras watching the interior of the store blind.

He replaces the router, tries to get the doors to close again as best he can, then is into the duffel, now removing the carefully folded Tyvek suit, the gas mask. He’s breathing quickly, heart racing, hearing the voices outside as he changes, and then, just sitting there, back to the counter, gas mask in his lap.