The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: J. Steven Butler
different.
I shut the blinds against the glare, careful to tuck them under to maximize the darkness. Without turning on the lights, I walk to my room, quickly strip, and take a steaming shower, allowing the heat to ease the tension from my tight muscles. In ten minutes, I climb into my unmade bed. Within another minute, I’m asleep.
Chapter 4
Last night’s patrol was long and cold, made all the more so by an incessant rain storm, and I spent it miserable and distracted wondering what this morning rendezvous with Archer is going to be about.
I walk down a hallway of the Soho to the seldom-used conference room, grab a cup of black coffee from the maker in the corner that someone was kind enough to brew, and ease into a high-backed office chair in front of the behemoth mahogany table that takes up most of the space. The lighting is low here, a few table lamps throwing pools of light onto the table’s surface in front of me. Fashionable paintings adorn the walls along with a few pieces of ornate cabinetry that punctuate the high-end luxury of the room.
I toss back a hot swig of coffee and try to imagine the warmth flowing from my throat to my stomach and subsequently to my freezing fingers and toes. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes in weariness from the long night and wait for Archer.
I don’t have to wait long. I look up at the sound of footsteps as he strides into the room followed by a small entourage of people I’ve never met. As head of The Organization, Cedric Archer looks every bit the part. He sports the same black uniform all the Sweepers wear, weapons cached and stashed all over it, steel-toed boots scuffed and well-worn. His face is craggy and both it and the parts of his arms that are exposed show the scars of many nights hunting Festers. There is an austere, authoritative glint in his eyes that's always present. The man exudes confidence and power.
He nods at me and moves to the head of the table on my left.
I'm a little thrown off by the group with him. He's never brought guests before.
Behind him are two men in dark business suits. I stifle a chuckle. Really guys? Business suits at 6:00 am? Who are we trying to impress? Both men are middle-aged. The first is tall and lanky with smallish brown eyes that dart back and forth. The other man is about 5'10, stocky, and looks like someone just peed in his Cheerios. But it’s the person that trails a few feet behind them that really captures my attention.
She’s young, no more than her early twenties, with long, dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail. She’s of average height, in good shape, but not overly muscular. She’s dressed in faded jeans, a dark gray thermal, and sneakers. Her clothes aren't tight, but neither do they hide a fantastic figure. She’s beautiful in an exotic sort of way, and the most captivating thing about her is her eyes, which are a brilliant emerald hue. In fact, they’re so brilliant, I wonder if she’s wearing contact lenses.
She moves confidently into the room, those intoxicating eyes locking onto mine, sizing me up before taking the chair right across the table from me as everyone else sits. She’s still looking at me, and I feel trapped in her gaze. I realize my mouth is hanging open and I smile a little sheepishly, already starting to feel the painfully familiar awkwardness of being near an attractive girl.
“How’s life in the trenches, Cray?” Archer's question jars me from my distraction. I notice now that everyone else is staring at me too.
I clear my throat and try to sound cool. “What trenches?” I say, feigning nonchalance. “Haven’t you heard? New York’s all clean now. I just hang around here for the heck of it.” God, I'm such a moron.
He chuckles. It's an obvious courtesy laugh. “It’s been too long.” He turns to address the others. “This is Cray, my best Sweeper. He’s in possession of some…formidable talents. Heck, he’s practically a superhero to all of the other Sweepers,
I shut the blinds against the glare, careful to tuck them under to maximize the darkness. Without turning on the lights, I walk to my room, quickly strip, and take a steaming shower, allowing the heat to ease the tension from my tight muscles. In ten minutes, I climb into my unmade bed. Within another minute, I’m asleep.
Chapter 4
Last night’s patrol was long and cold, made all the more so by an incessant rain storm, and I spent it miserable and distracted wondering what this morning rendezvous with Archer is going to be about.
I walk down a hallway of the Soho to the seldom-used conference room, grab a cup of black coffee from the maker in the corner that someone was kind enough to brew, and ease into a high-backed office chair in front of the behemoth mahogany table that takes up most of the space. The lighting is low here, a few table lamps throwing pools of light onto the table’s surface in front of me. Fashionable paintings adorn the walls along with a few pieces of ornate cabinetry that punctuate the high-end luxury of the room.
I toss back a hot swig of coffee and try to imagine the warmth flowing from my throat to my stomach and subsequently to my freezing fingers and toes. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes in weariness from the long night and wait for Archer.
I don’t have to wait long. I look up at the sound of footsteps as he strides into the room followed by a small entourage of people I’ve never met. As head of The Organization, Cedric Archer looks every bit the part. He sports the same black uniform all the Sweepers wear, weapons cached and stashed all over it, steel-toed boots scuffed and well-worn. His face is craggy and both it and the parts of his arms that are exposed show the scars of many nights hunting Festers. There is an austere, authoritative glint in his eyes that's always present. The man exudes confidence and power.
He nods at me and moves to the head of the table on my left.
I'm a little thrown off by the group with him. He's never brought guests before.
Behind him are two men in dark business suits. I stifle a chuckle. Really guys? Business suits at 6:00 am? Who are we trying to impress? Both men are middle-aged. The first is tall and lanky with smallish brown eyes that dart back and forth. The other man is about 5'10, stocky, and looks like someone just peed in his Cheerios. But it’s the person that trails a few feet behind them that really captures my attention.
She’s young, no more than her early twenties, with long, dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail. She’s of average height, in good shape, but not overly muscular. She’s dressed in faded jeans, a dark gray thermal, and sneakers. Her clothes aren't tight, but neither do they hide a fantastic figure. She’s beautiful in an exotic sort of way, and the most captivating thing about her is her eyes, which are a brilliant emerald hue. In fact, they’re so brilliant, I wonder if she’s wearing contact lenses.
She moves confidently into the room, those intoxicating eyes locking onto mine, sizing me up before taking the chair right across the table from me as everyone else sits. She’s still looking at me, and I feel trapped in her gaze. I realize my mouth is hanging open and I smile a little sheepishly, already starting to feel the painfully familiar awkwardness of being near an attractive girl.
“How’s life in the trenches, Cray?” Archer's question jars me from my distraction. I notice now that everyone else is staring at me too.
I clear my throat and try to sound cool. “What trenches?” I say, feigning nonchalance. “Haven’t you heard? New York’s all clean now. I just hang around here for the heck of it.” God, I'm such a moron.
He chuckles. It's an obvious courtesy laugh. “It’s been too long.” He turns to address the others. “This is Cray, my best Sweeper. He’s in possession of some…formidable talents. Heck, he’s practically a superhero to all of the other Sweepers,
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