Page 15 of Deadly Attraction
Mitch logged into the various blogs and forums used by The Reckoners. While there was plenty of banter about the fires and the government’s inability to contain them, no one in the group claimed responsibility. Not that he’d expected them to, but it would have made his job easier.
The Deep Web held more information. He trolled a few forums under his fake accounts, found lots of discussion about fire raining down from Heaven, the Second Coming, and biblical quotes. Apparently, it was the end of times. Folks argued about the true identity of the antichrist: the president or the Pope? Vitriol spewed from commenters hiding in the anonymity of false usernames and imaginative avatars.
For his job with National Intelligence, Mitch regularly monitored forums and blogs, looking for the vigilantes, the crazies who were motivated enough to take action. He’d seen it all, but the depravity and hate that one human being could have for another still shocked him at times.
His gaze stopped on a username. One he’d seen pop up in multiple end-of-the-world forums. Mary Monahan. She believed she was the mother of a boy who would save the world.
Her belief wasn’t based in any kind of reality. It was based on a sci-fi movie franchise where future cyborgs traveled through time to kill a man who would lead the human resistance in The Last War between humans and computers.
The movies had spawned the popular cable show Chris Goodsman had starred in for ten years,Resistance:The Mary Monahan Chronicles.
Mitch shook his head as he read the username TheRealMary’s post:
For it is written, the true believers will not be touched by fire from the machines.
Fate will not guide them; truth will.
Their destiny is resistance.
The dish on Emma’s roof lost its connection to the satellite. Mitch’s screen locked up.
Chris Goodsman isn’t the only psycho out there.
Sighing, he clicked out of his browser and went back to the zip file Dupé had sent. One folder contained a map of the national park, including topographical and satellite versions. Mitch studied the landmarks outside of the park area, the various entry and exit points.
Gordon could have left from multiple spots, or someone could have driven him out. With his survivalist training, he could be camping inside the park, but that was risky with so many firefighters and first responders combing through it.
Mitch began looking for motorcyclists leaving the park that day, especially those with two people on them.
The satellite made a connection, his laptop signaling him that service was once more available. He opened up his browser and started to go back to the forums to look for chatter amongst the homegrown terrorists’ groups when he decided to type inResistance: The Mary Monahan Chroniclesinstead.
The search engine brought back ninety thousand results. Mitch went to the Wiki page about the show.
A list of cast and characters appeared along with an in-depth description of the plot backstory and summary about the main characters, Mary and Tom. The show had won dozens of awards, spawned thousands of fan fiction stories, and catapulted the originally unknown cast into super stardom during its ten year run.
Several of the reference notations at the bottom of the page listed links to Goodsman’s trial and conviction. Mitch clicked on the first one and started reading.
Two hours later, he caught himself drifting off, the swirl of information overload turning his brain to mush. Moving to the sofa near the window, he set his watch alarm for a nap and fell asleep with the laptop on his belly.
Mitch woke with a suddenoh, shitjerk, the smell of bacon and eggs assaulting his nose.
He sat up, dumping the laptop off his chest and finding his face inches from a plate with soft blue flowers and his favorite breakfast on it.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Emma said. Salt and Pepper sat on either side of her, tails wagging and tongues hanging out, gazes locked on the food. “I thought this might wake you. Never known a man who could resist bacon.”
She was freshly showered, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her smirking lips once more the color of strawberries.
Mitch ran a hand over his face. “What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty. Your watch alarm went off at five, but you didn’t wake up, so I finally shut it off.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You apparently needed the sleep.”
She set the plate in his lap, picked his laptop up off the floor and placed it on her desk. “There are clean clothes in the bathroom if you’d like to shower. No underwear, I’m afraid.” The glee in her tone told him she was enjoying the fact he’d have to go commando. “Coffee’s on downstairs.”
“Did Dupé arrive?”
