Silo

by Jay J Falconer

  Allison turned and walked forward, while Watson held his position and said, “Whatever you say, boss. But just in case you didn’t know, the video room is just ahead. Someone might want to start reviewing what’s on the feeds, while the others finish searching the rest of this level. We can cover more ground if we split up.”

  Nomad grabbed the man with his free hand and squeezed his neck with force. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Watson’s hands came up and latched onto Nomad’s, tearing into the fingers squeezing the air out of his throat.

  Nomad leaned in close as Watson’s eyes went wide. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear. The three of us are joined at the hip until this is over. Nobody, and I mean nobody, leaves my field of vision. Not unless they want to catch a bullet in the back of the head. Understood?”

  Watson tried to answer but his words came out a jumbled mess of guttural sounds, most of them devoid of air. His mouth may not have been working, but his head was, bobbing up and down like a machine gun.

  “I’ll take that as your full agreement,” Nomad said, letting go of the man.

  Watson bent over and took in a series of rapid-fire breaths, mixed in with a few coughs.

  Nomad nudged the man with his free hand, turning Watson a full one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees toward Allison. Then he brought his foot up and kicked Watson in the rear end, sending him forward in a lurch.

  He hadn’t planned to take his anger out on these men, but he had to let it out somehow, before it consumed him, morphing into something else.

  Something akin to revenge.

  Nomad’s Revenge.

  A side of him nobody wanted to see.

  * * *

  “Easy boy,” Summer said to Sergeant Barkley, stroking his fur. The dog had become agitated in the last mile or so, ever since they’d entered a new section of the forest.

  “I’m not sure whose bright idea it was to bring that mutt along, but now you know why you never take a fleabag on an extended road trip, especially one with its background,” Lipton said from his seat in the back.

  “I thought I told you to shut the hell up,” Krista said from the driver’s seat.

  “You want me to gag him?” Nick Simms asked Krista. “Only take a second.”

  “What do you think, Lipton?” Krista asked. “Should we gag your obnoxious ass?”

  “Wouldn’t be my first choice, no.”

  “Then keep your comments to yourself or so help me God, I’ll pull over right now and dump you on the side of the road.”

  “Here? In the middle of wherever the hell we are?”

  “It’s called Bitter Springs,” Simms added. “Seriously, boss. Let me do it.”

  Lipton laughed, though it sounded forced. “Just remember, I’m the reason why this little exchange of yours is taking place with this Blackstone outfit. You need me. Never forget that.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Krista said. “My vote was to leave you behind.”

  “Of course it was. React first. Think second. Why should I be surprised?”

  “Just keep that trap of yours shut or so help me God, I will—”

  “—I think he gets the point,” Summer said, holding onto Barkley, who couldn’t seem to sit still on the floor in front of her.

  “What’s wrong with that dog, anyway?” Krista asked.

  “Not sure,” Summer said.

  “Something’s got him spooked,” Krista said with both hands gripping the steering wheel. “Or maybe he needs to use a bush nearby. I know I do.”

  “Am I the only one paying attention?” Lipton said in that condescending tone of his. “Don’t you people get it? It’s his nose. German Shepherds have the fourth-most sensitive nose of all canines—225 million scent receptors, to be exact. That means he smells something. As in a threat.”

  “Inside a moving car?” Krista asked in a sarcastic tone.

  “Yes. Inside. Not that I would call this gasifier of yours moving. Who built this contraption anyway? Certainly wasn’t me; otherwise, we’d be moving at three times the pace.”

  “Edison built it,” Summer said.

  Lipton scoffed. “Well, there you go. That explains it. I think a broken-down Winnebago with four flat tires would beat this sled to the finish line.”

  “Sounds like somebody is in a hurry to meet his new friends,” Krista said. “Or old ones, assuming I’m right about this whole thing.”

  “Actually no, I just don’t like wasting time and that’s exactly what we’re doing. Why don’t you stop and let me take a look at the design? I’m sure I’m can ramp up fuel production.”

  “That’s never going to happen, Lipton.”

  “Maybe we should?” Summer asked.

  “Don’t let him manipulate you, Summer. That’s what he’s trying to do. He doesn’t do anything that doesn’t benefit him in some way.”

  “Exactly,” Lipton said. “Which, of course, would benefit you by getting all of us to this rendezvous sooner. You do realize that the longer we spend on the road, the greater the chances of—”

  “Hang on,” Krista said in a sharp tone before the man could finish.

  Summer peered over at her after feeling the vehicle slow down. “What’s wrong?”

  “Team Two has stopped,” Krista said with her eyes focused on the rearview mirror.

  “Probably out of firewood,” Simms said.

  “Or they just need to pee,” Summer added.

  “Maybe,” Krista said, swinging the truck to the right.

  Sergeant Barkley shot into Summer’s lap and stuck his nose over Krista’s right arm while she was in the process of turning the steering wheel hard left and flipping the truck around. His growling started next, then the drooling, leaking all over Krista’s sleeve.

  “Hey, keep him under control,” Krista said.

  “Sorry, working on it,” Summer said, grabbing the animal’s collar and yanking him back. She had to use extra force to get him off her and back to his spot on the floor. “Sit boy, sit.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Lipton said.

  CHAPTER 34

  “Pan right and pull back,” Nomad told Watson while standing in the video surveillance room of the silo. The wall in front of them had several screens attached to it and all but one display had a video recording playing on it.

  Watson fiddled with the controls, mishandling them at first before getting the focus and direction right. “There, that’s better. These controls are super sensitive.”

  “What is that?” Nomad asked, pointing a finger at the bottom-left corner of the screen on the right.

  “Let’s see,” Watson said, working the joystick controls and then pushing a levered switch forward about an inch. The feed swung left, then the camera zoomed in to show an eye and a severed foot lying together on the cement floor. Blood covered the area, as did several sneakers, some large and some small.

  “Ugh, now that’s disgusting,” Allison said before turning his head.

  “Where is that?” Nomad asked, spotting the feed number at the bottom of the screen. It said: IC-2.

  Watson opened a three-ring binder sitting next to the control console and fanned through several pages, stopping on number four. His finger traced down the paper until he reported, “Infirmary Corridor. Camera 2. West-facing.”

  “Show me inside medical.”

  “Hang on—” Watson said, backing up a page in the binder. “Looks like we need Interior Medical 3 or 4.” He pressed two raised buttons on the console, then flipped a toggle switch on the right.

  The feeds on two of the screens changed in a flicker of static. The screen labeled IM-3 showed a modest desk and an office chair. The other monitor was centered on an examination room with a stainless-steel table.

  “There. That one,” Nomad said, aiming his finger at the bloody surface in the middle of IM-4. “Bring it around to the left. I want to see the rest.”

  When Nomad’s eyes followed the camera’s angle to the floor, he saw what he never
wanted to see: a female’s body—naked—without a nose or a foot. Plus, she was missing one of her eyes. “No. No. No. Not Four,” he cried out with clenched teeth.

  “I’m sorry,” Watson said, adjusting the joysticks to move the camera off the corpse.

  Nomad spun and stormed to the rear of the video room, where the rage in his chest took over. All he saw was red in his vision, making his knees run weak.

  He put the pistol on a cement ledge, then grabbed onto a galvanized pipe protruding from the wall and running horizontally. The conduit was a good inch and a half thick, but it was no match for the fury building inside.

  Nomad let out a guttural scream, pulling on the pipe with all his force until it snapped free from the elbow connections on each end.

  He raised the metal bar and beat golfball-sized chunks of cement free from the wall until his forehead was covered in sweat and his arms ran weak.

  That’s when the pipe fell from his hands in a clang, then he dropped the ground, not wanting to continue his search of the facility.

  If Four was gone, so were the others. She would have protected them with her last breath. Probably no other choice. It was in her nature to step up in defense of her sisters, even if she wasn’t quite human. Not all the way. Fight or flight. It’s in every living creature, genetically modified or not.

  Her death meant only one thing.

  They were all dead.

  Every last one of them.

  Butchered.

  Tortured.

  Murdered.

  All because of him.

  Because of one decision.

  Because he brought them here.

  Nomad craned his neck and peered up at the gun sitting on the ledge above. A smarter, more resolute man would press to his feet, grab the weapon, and get a grip on the situation. Then go see if someone might have survived. Someone like Seven, even though the odds were zero.

  Yet he couldn’t convince his legs to move.

  Or his arms.

  His entire body ached as if someone had just run him over with a Zamboni, then backed up to make sure every inch of him had been crushed.

  Nomad took off his mask and tossed it into the corner, fighting a swell of emotions inside.

  There was no reason to hide who he was or what he had become. The ruse was over. There was no point.

  Whether consciously or not, he’d made sure his world had imploded by leaving his women here—in the hands of amateurs. Idiots. Careless people who didn’t give a shit about him or his friends.

  He thought he’d made the only choice he could by bringing them to this complex, but now it was clear he’d made the biggest mistake of all.

  Maybe the two men in the room with him would storm the weapon on the ledge above him, then aim it at his head. He didn’t care anymore. He wanted them to do it. Pull the trigger. End the misery.

  He closed his eyes and slumped forward, just wanting it all to end.

  * * *

  Nomad wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting on his knees, wallowing inside his own emotions. Might have been only minutes or an hour. Not that he cared. When you invite the Reaper in, time doesn’t matter. It’s about inevitability.

  Just then a pair of hands swept under his armpits and leveraged his weight up.

  The sudden touch of another person snapped him out of his funk.

  “Come on. We’ve got work to do,” Watson said, grunting as he pulled Nomad to his feet. “This isn’t the end.”

  Nomad found his balance, then turned to the man who’d just come to his aid.

  Allison was there, too. On the right, with the cloth mask in his hand. “Here. This belongs to you.”

  Watson stepped forward and snatched the pistol from the cement ledge, then turned it around and held it out, grip first. “So does this.”

  Nomad took both items and held them still, hovering only an inch from the hands that had returned the items.

  He wasn’t sure what to think anymore. He’d treated these men with nothing but disdain, and yet they’d just passed up the one chance they had to take him out and regain control, securing their freedom.

  “There’s something I want to show you,” Watson said, leading Nomad back to the control station.

  Nomad slung the mask on as Watson pointed at the left-most monitor, which showed a video stream labeled SC-4.

  There were four naked women being led down a hallway at gunpoint by two men, though the gunman were almost off screen.

  “Those are yours, right?” Watson asked.

  The energy in Nomad’s body returned, swelling like a tsunami. He straightened his back and tightened his shoulders. “Yes. They are.”

  “Wait, there’s more,” Watson said, playing with the controls again.

  Another screen flickered as the video changed, this time showing a stairwell leading to what Nomad believed to be the entrance to the surface.

  A second later, the four women walked into frame, followed by a pair of men without sleeves. Nomad assumed it was the same two guards as seen on the other recording.

  “It was Fletcher,” Allison said, pointing at a neck tattoo on one of the men—a burly black man with no hair. “He’s still alive.”

  Allison then directed everyone’s attention to the other guard walking with Fletcher, who had long red hair. “That’s got to be Dice. Met him once at a monthly meet.”

  “They took your women with them,” Watson said. “That means they’re still alive.”

  Nomad found his voice. “When was this?”

  “Few hours ago, if you want to believe the timestamps.”

  Nomad’s mind flashed an image of Seven. “There was a younger one, too.”

  “I checked the other recordings and didn’t see her. But I did find this,” Watson said, bringing up a new feed. He pointed a finger at the people it showed walking inside the barn and getting into an old truck. “That’s Summer, Krista, and the dog they call Sergeant Barkley. Plus that asshole Lipton that everyone hates.”

  Allison joined in. “Those other guys, they’re from my security force. What’s left of it, anyway.”

  Nomad watched the vehicle move forward, then another vehicle rolled in behind it and followed. “Was that before or after Fletcher?”

  “Before,” Allison said. “Wasn’t long after we went back to your cave.”

  “She might be with them,” Watson said. “The younger one.”

  Allison nodded. “Assuming they decided to take her.”

  Nomad blew out an extended breath and reclaimed his focus. “Then it’s time to go after them. Now.”

  “What about your clothes and swords?” Watson asked. “I know where they’re at.”

  “Take me.”

  CHAPTER 35

  “How much?” Watson asked Nomad, holding a box wrench in his hand.

  “Everything but the bare essentials,” Nomad answered before ripping a door panel off the inside of the truck using only his bare hands. The man then stood upright and flung it across the barn, spinning around like a master shotput champion in the process.

  “Easy there, cowboy,” Watson said from the driver’s side as the panel smashed into the wooden slats of the closest wall. He held up the wrench in his hand. “That’s what these are for.”

  “Too slow,” Nomad said, stopping what he was doing and peering across the truck’s interior, his face covered in its original mask. He was also back to wearing his leather and armor—the same outfit that had given the man his Frozen World legend.

  Watson let out a fake laugh. Well, more of a snort. The kind that’s full of air. Short and noticeable, almost too fake. “I still can’t believe your stuff was right where I left it. I guess nobody decided to check the lockers.”

  Watson swung his head around and looked at Allison, who was peering back at him, each of them holding their stare for a few beats before exchanging shrugs.

  Watson continued, directing his words at Nomad. “I’m thinking that maybe the old refueling suits scared them off?
I know those things gave me the creeps when I first signed on here.”

  Nomad said nothing in response as his hands worked with fury, cutting a seatbelt free with the blade of a sword.

  Watson understood the reason for the man’s whole silent type thing, but it still didn’t change the fact that it would’ve been nice to have been given a quick thank you, or a slap on the back for finding the man’s clothes and weapons.

  Before the next thought came to Watson’s mind, Nomad brought his focus up and flung the seatbelt strap away. Then he gave Watson a brushing-off motion. “You can lose the seats, too.”

  Watson heard the words but wasn’t sure if he should respond or not. Not after finally getting Nomad to see him as something other than some Nirvana leftover. Or a marginal threat.

  The last thing he wanted to do was open his mouth and say something that would backstep their new alliance. But right then, without warning, the words came out of his trap anyway, before he could stop them. “Okay, but where are we going to sit?”

  “Find me a crate, or a box, or a pile of pillows for all I care. But we’re shedding every last pound. It’s the only way to catch up. That means I need to get light and fast.”

  Watson sucked in a sudden breath as a pressure squeezed his chest. “Shit. You’re not taking us with you, are you?”

  “No. That’s three hundred pounds I can’t afford.”

  “More like four hundred,” Allison said from the rear of the truck, removing the tailgate and putting it on the ground.

  “But you’re going to need backup,” Watson replied in a firm tone, wondering how one man was going to take on Fletcher and his band of ruthless killers.

  Nomad kept working, not missing a beat. “Never stopped me before.”

  “I know I’m just a cook, but please, let me help. I’m sure Allison wants to join the fight, too. We’re both more than capable.”

  Allison cleared his throat, flaring his eyes back at Watson. “Ah, well, maybe it’s best if we just hang back. Let the man do his thing. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Watson couldn’t believe what he’d just heard from Allison. “Here? By ourselves? With all the bodies?”

  Allison threw up his hands but said nothing.