Chapter 44
Hollis
Hollis Longro pulled the Rivian into the parking lot of a modest office building in Greenwood and found a place two slots down from the blue minivan.
He glanced at his watch, gauging the time.
Unless they’d already slipped out the back, he had about forty-five minutes to wait. Nickels was due any minute.
Hollis didn’t want to do what he had to do next.
It was never easy, being the right hand of a visionary.
He reminded himself that he’d done worse things for the Movement.
A leader needed to be capable of doing whatever was necessary.
The Messenger had taught him that long ago.
Actually, what the Messenger had said was that if Hollis couldn’t kill a man, he didn’t belong in the Movement.
So he’d done what the Messenger had asked, again and again.
No matter how he felt about it. Now he couldn’t imagine leaving, where he might go, what he would do.
He hadn’t liked ordering Enderby to kill the girl. She’d done nothing to them. She was just a girl. But the Messenger had insisted. And the cause was just. Otherwise, humanity would be lost to the Industrial Machine forever.
Besides, this wasn’t on him. It was the Marine’s fault.
Peter Ash. At least now Hollis had a name for that relentless fuck, thanks to his old friend on the cops, one of the Movement’s Hardcore Originals.
They’d met when the Messenger and Hollis and a few others were sleeping in the old Resilient Systems storefront, living rough and dreaming about the end of the world.
Rather than roust them, Tom Durant had joined them.
He’d already owned a copy of the Unabomber’s Manifesto and carried it with him everywhere.
At the Messenger’s direction, he’d moved to the Seattle PD, where he’d moved up through the ranks to captain, where his duties included supervising the department’s domestic terrorism unit.
That position allowed him to steer any attention away from the Movement.
The Messenger had kept the storefront because certain things still required a physical address, like vehicle registration. Using a vacant building was a good way to discourage questions, not to mention providing a private place to meet.
And now the Dark Time was almost here, months earlier than planned.
Hollis was still getting used to the idea.
He thought he’d have more time to prepare himself.
Part of him had always wondered if they would actually go through with it.
Had hoped that, perhaps, the Industrial Machine would relent and the plan would become unnecessary.
He lowered the car window and lit a cigarette and remembered how they had gotten to this point, right at the brink.
It started a few weeks ago, when Troy Boxall texted him, saying that the journalist, Thorsen, had called him for an interview about the company he’d sold. At the very end, though, she asked a gotcha question about Gun Club.
Boxall had said he was too smart for the journalist, had sworn he’d stonewalled her, claimed total ignorance.
Hollis was used to this very tech-bro response, many in the Movement thinking their material success translated into brilliance in all other things.
But it didn’t matter whether Boxall was overconfident.
To be successful, the Movement needed to work in darkness.
If Thorsen knew to ask about the Gun Club chat group, she already knew too much.
Even more significant, Hollis thought, was the fact that Boxall was one of the few people who actually knew the plan.
He’d helped Reed pull off the intrusion that would give them the access they needed to carry out the plan on a truly national scale.
Boxall appeared devoid of any moral compass.
If he was taken, Hollis had no doubt he would tell everything to save his skin.
They had to deal with Thorsen, that was clear.
But Nickels and his brother were busy making the armor-piercing rounds.
Vance was the Messenger’s bodyguard and couldn’t be spared.
Hollis was too valuable to the Movement to risk himself.
In the end, the Messenger had thought Geoff Reed would be perfect.
He’d already finished his computer work.
He wanted to prove himself. Enderby was the backup, useful but ultimately disposable.
Still, removing the journalist was only part of the problem. They also had to deal with the traitor to the Movement, the person who’d shared their secrets.
It wasn’t difficult to find the betrayer.
Whoever he was, Hollis assumed he had a prior relationship with Katelyn Thorsen.
He searched online for Movement members she had written about in the past, and two dozen names came up.
Sanjay Mishra was one of them. He was the only member who’d recently canceled his subscription.
Hollis had always been a little concerned about Mishra.
He had the wrong values, for one thing. He’d put technology he’d invented in the public domain rather than profiting for himself.
He’d also given away a substantial amount of money.
All of which told Hollis that Sanjay Mishra simply wasn’t self-interested enough.
He cared too much about people he’d never met. Which was not how the Movement worked.
The Movement worked because people knew what was coming and wanted to secure a protected place for themselves and their loved ones.
They knew that, in a dangerous world, safety was only possible in a small, well-prepared, and tightly knit community.
Caring about people outside the community was a waste of limited resources.
In retrospect, Mishra had always been a bad fit. And now he knew far too much.
So Hollis had reached out and asked for a meeting. He’d called it an exit interview. He’d never made it past high school, but he was smart enough to talk to the tech people in their own language.
Mishra had agreed to meet in a parking lot south of town. The clouds had briefly cleared and they’d stood outside and talked. After a few minutes of bullshit, Hollis had asked him point-blank if he’d talked to Katelyn Thorsen about the Movement.
Mishra said no. But something showed in his face and Hollis knew there was more. You sent her a cassette, he said. It was only a guess, but Mishra’s frozen expression told him the rest.
Right there in the parking lot, Hollis took out the Taser and got him in the neck.
Unlike some in the Movement, Hollis didn’t enjoy hurting others.
But sometimes it was necessary. The betrayer went rigid from the voltage and fell back against his car.
Hollis lifted him into the Toyota’s back seat and leaned in to tape his wrists, ankles, and mouth.
He’d thrown a blanket over the man and told him to stay still and keep quiet or he’d get zapped again.
Then he’d driven the betrayer to the camp.
The Messenger’s People would have their justice.
—
The Messenger’s People were the ones who had joined the Movement early. Unlike the techies, they were true believers, not only in the truth of the Messenger’s vision, but in the Messenger himself.
In every case, they had experienced the limitless cruelty of the Industrial Machine and were committed to the necessary action to free the world from it.
The Messenger’s People were working people, a community of sixty-three families and a dozen singletons, four hundred strong. The Messenger himself had selected them from many possible candidates, because of the knowledge and skills they brought with them, essential during the Dark Time to come.
They were men, women, children, and even a few grandchildren.
Most were skilled in multiple areas, even the kids.
They were hunters and trackers, ranchers, farmers, loggers, master gardeners.
Carpenters, masons, plumbers, electricians, mechanics, machinists, teachers.
They also had eight nurses, three doctors, even a dentist. Many had been soldiers. All were familiar with firearms.
This was not a political group. They were beyond politics.
That system had been bought and sold years ago.
Nobody was coming to help them. Everyone in the community was in agreement on that.
Instead of politics, the Movement was about belief in the Messenger and his vision for the future.
They were the cornerstones of the new world to come.
All had signed the Messenger’s Protocols, every man, woman, and child over the age of ten, using their own blood as ink.
Many of the most skilled had already relinquished their lives, sold everything they owned, and moved to the camp to prepare for the Dark Time. Others still worked in the Machine, sending money in every month.
None of them knew what would bring on the Dark Time, of course.
That was a carefully guarded secret. Only the Hardcore Originals knew about the larger plan.
Hollis, Nickels and his brother, their cousin Vance, and a few others.
Reed and Boxall had learned the secret after their recruitment.
Their knowledge and computer skills were essential to the plan.
Reed was one of the few tech people the Movement truly needed, however.
In fact, in the Messenger’s vision, the tech people were actually fueling the Industrial Machine, hollowing out America, hastening the inevitable end.
They would not be notified when the Dark Time was truly upon them. To the Messenger, they deserved to die.