The Apocalypse Club by Craig McLay Read Free Book Online Page A

(with the aim to get it right this time). Or believing that his security access card makes him invisible and that if he takes all his clothes off, he will be able to sneak into the women’s washroom without being seen. This is exactly what happened to one of the Project Analysts last week, and that was not my only experience with what HR calls “an unexpected workplace intervention scenario” – it’s just the most recent.
    “What happened?” I ask.
    “Afraid I can’t get into all the details, Simms,” Hudson says. “Suffice it to say, Mister Hernandez has absconded with proprietary company material of a sensitive nature and we would like very much to get it back.”
    I still can’t quite get over the fact that Max was, until recently, working for the same company as me – and I had no idea.
    “What did he steal?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t get into that, Simms.”
    “But what on earth makes you think I would be able to find him?” I ask. “I haven’t seen the guy for eight years. I didn’t even know that he worked here!”
    Hudson smiles. “Let’s just say that we have a great deal of faith in you, Simms. You know things about Mister Hernandez that the rest of us don’t. I’m sure you’ll find him in no time.”
    I am, however, sure of no such thing. “What about my regular job?”
    “Oh, don’t worry about that, Simms. Just route all of your calls to voice mail. I want you to consider this your only priority as of now. I want you working on this for as long as it takes.”
    “But why don’t you just hire the GDI to track him down?” I suggest. “Wouldn’t that be faster?”
    This is risky because, in making this suggestion, I am alluding to the connection between HIG and GDI, which are not officially connected. This is the reason that I use the word “hire” and not the word “order”. No job is too small or fee too big for GDI. They will find missing people. They just might not guarantee that the people will still be alive when they are found. Unless you are willing to pay extra.
    “I would rather not get them involved in this,” he says.
    “Has Max done anything wrong?” I ask. “Anything…illegal?”
    “No, no, no, Simms. We are merely…concerned…for his personal well-being.”
    I nod. This man is lying through his teeth.
    I wonder why.

-4-
    I last saw Max Hernandez only a couple of days after he shot me.
    It was part of a military exercise we were both participating in as members of the Junior Defenders, the under-18 division of GDI. We were there in lieu of serving prison time for a massive act of revolutionary sabotage, about which more later.
    As it was not my first venture into the legal system, I was given two options: I could either spend the next six months in a Behavioural Modification Centre, where I would be subjected to what the classified program mandate referred to cryptically as “enhanced educational techniques”, or I could sign a two-month contract with the JD. Neither one really appealed to me, but since option #2 would give me the opportunity to handle high-powered weapons and live explosives, that was the one I picked.
    My father had completed two years in the JD before going on to work as an explosives ordinance disposal technician for the GDI, so he thought it was an excellent idea. He was away a lot when I was young. We were never usually allowed to know where he’d gone. When he was at home, there was a strict embargo on any kind of electronic or mechanical device that might make any sudden or unexpected noise or movement, so we had to do without toasters, phones, alarm clocks and even a doorbell, which he expertly disconnected.
    My mother, however, wasn’t crazy about it. As a teacher, she thought I needed a more structured learning environment. As far as she was concerned, the JD was just a glorified gladiator academy for future felons. If I went down that road, I was probably just going to turn into another meathead piece of artillery fodder