the financiers. The day Crenshaw thought he would get murdered or at the very least fired had been delayed by a meteor storm.
Crenshaw reached into his desk drawer and took out a cigar; he smelled the fine aged leaves, snipped off the end, and slid it into his mouth. If you wanted to come into Boston, you needed to pay the piper. And Crenshaw was the biggest piper in the area with a taste for scotch and cigars.
The fire alarms hadn’t worked in years and there was no worry of the sprinklers going off when he lit up. He stood and walked to the corner window and looked down at the city through his brass, boutique telescope. The streets weren’t so bad, not many dead wandering about. The occasional car blew through the city, most of them chased by patrols, his patrols. But Crenshaw and his associates were snug in the office building.
There were other pockets of people through the city, he knew that. He also knew that he still had a functional IT staff and control of a couple of the firm’s old satellites. At least until the orbit decayed and they burnt up in the atmosphere or exploded in space. He knew the day would come when they lost the signal. When that happened there was no getting it back.
He poured a scotch and sat back down at his desk. There were no papers to file or sign. No contracts to negotiate. Life was perfect, well nearly. The large office sported a leather couch which doubled for a bed and 50 inch flat screen, and an array of DVDs. He picked up the remote and turned on the TV. Sometimes the background static was comforting, other times it pissed him off. The back-up generators for power outages still worked and Crenshaw kept a collection of men who knew how to repair them. With his fingers on the fuel trade, his building wouldn’t be dark anytime soon. The rest of the city could burn, starve, or freeze.
The first few stations were static. A knock sounded out against the office door. The next few stations were old news rebroadcasts, pirate stations no doubt. He sighed and flipped the power off and sipped his scotch; another round of knocks a bit harder and a bit louder, followed by heated whispers. Crenshaw stood, used the desk for support and strolled across the room to the door. He grasped the cold metal handle and opened the door a crack.
“What is it?” Crenshaw spat, a small speck of tobacco leaf on his chin.
“Our servers were hacked.” Crenshaw opened the door wider. One of his killers, Crowe, stood there; wearing one of the many sets of fatigues he owned or stole. His head was shaved down to stubble as it had been since he first hired him. Crowe’s blue eyes were a dead stare; if his chest didn’t move from time to time, Crenshaw would swear he was one of the undead. Crenshaw looked up at the man who stood an easy six inches above him.
“What was the source?” Crenshaw asked, a twinge of anger caused his nostrils to flare.
“One of the villages.” Crowe’s tone was dry and steady.
“How long were they in?”
“Less than four minutes.”
“Was it an attack?”
“No, they were searching for something.”
Crowe was emotionless and Crenshaw couldn’t decide which pissed him off more, the lack of reaction or that someone hacked him.
“Trace it back. I want to know who it was.” Crenshaw shifted his weight and grimaced. “For fuck’s sake, come in.” Crenshaw limped back to his chair and sat down. He rubbed his knees and gulped down the rest of the glass of scotch. “If it’s the same group as last time, bring them to me.” Crenshaw snapped his fingers like gunshots.
“I don’t think we could bring the lot of them, sir.” Crenshaw glared at Crowe, a gaze that would have made smaller men melt. Crowe stood firm, his hand always near his gun.
“Bring me Williams then.”
Crowe walked from the room barely making a sound. Crenshaw listened for footsteps or breaths and heard nothing. A hand reached in from the hallway and closed the door. He poured another scotch and
Crenshaw reached into his desk drawer and took out a cigar; he smelled the fine aged leaves, snipped off the end, and slid it into his mouth. If you wanted to come into Boston, you needed to pay the piper. And Crenshaw was the biggest piper in the area with a taste for scotch and cigars.
The fire alarms hadn’t worked in years and there was no worry of the sprinklers going off when he lit up. He stood and walked to the corner window and looked down at the city through his brass, boutique telescope. The streets weren’t so bad, not many dead wandering about. The occasional car blew through the city, most of them chased by patrols, his patrols. But Crenshaw and his associates were snug in the office building.
There were other pockets of people through the city, he knew that. He also knew that he still had a functional IT staff and control of a couple of the firm’s old satellites. At least until the orbit decayed and they burnt up in the atmosphere or exploded in space. He knew the day would come when they lost the signal. When that happened there was no getting it back.
He poured a scotch and sat back down at his desk. There were no papers to file or sign. No contracts to negotiate. Life was perfect, well nearly. The large office sported a leather couch which doubled for a bed and 50 inch flat screen, and an array of DVDs. He picked up the remote and turned on the TV. Sometimes the background static was comforting, other times it pissed him off. The back-up generators for power outages still worked and Crenshaw kept a collection of men who knew how to repair them. With his fingers on the fuel trade, his building wouldn’t be dark anytime soon. The rest of the city could burn, starve, or freeze.
The first few stations were static. A knock sounded out against the office door. The next few stations were old news rebroadcasts, pirate stations no doubt. He sighed and flipped the power off and sipped his scotch; another round of knocks a bit harder and a bit louder, followed by heated whispers. Crenshaw stood, used the desk for support and strolled across the room to the door. He grasped the cold metal handle and opened the door a crack.
“What is it?” Crenshaw spat, a small speck of tobacco leaf on his chin.
“Our servers were hacked.” Crenshaw opened the door wider. One of his killers, Crowe, stood there; wearing one of the many sets of fatigues he owned or stole. His head was shaved down to stubble as it had been since he first hired him. Crowe’s blue eyes were a dead stare; if his chest didn’t move from time to time, Crenshaw would swear he was one of the undead. Crenshaw looked up at the man who stood an easy six inches above him.
“What was the source?” Crenshaw asked, a twinge of anger caused his nostrils to flare.
“One of the villages.” Crowe’s tone was dry and steady.
“How long were they in?”
“Less than four minutes.”
“Was it an attack?”
“No, they were searching for something.”
Crowe was emotionless and Crenshaw couldn’t decide which pissed him off more, the lack of reaction or that someone hacked him.
“Trace it back. I want to know who it was.” Crenshaw shifted his weight and grimaced. “For fuck’s sake, come in.” Crenshaw limped back to his chair and sat down. He rubbed his knees and gulped down the rest of the glass of scotch. “If it’s the same group as last time, bring them to me.” Crenshaw snapped his fingers like gunshots.
“I don’t think we could bring the lot of them, sir.” Crenshaw glared at Crowe, a gaze that would have made smaller men melt. Crowe stood firm, his hand always near his gun.
“Bring me Williams then.”
Crowe walked from the room barely making a sound. Crenshaw listened for footsteps or breaths and heard nothing. A hand reached in from the hallway and closed the door. He poured another scotch and
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