Dinner was served an hour later. Typical military cuisine: hash browns, noodles, meatloaf, canned vegetables, but as with the beer, it tasted like gourmet cooking after three days of mystery loaf.
After dinner, Hank and I ventured out into the "yard," a large, grassy open area featuring a racquetball and basketball court and a free weight gym, ringed by a fine-gravel track. Restless energy and a heady sense of freedom, ironic as that was, propelled me out on the track, where I jogged a few laps while Hank looked on with a disbelieving smile.
"Didn't we just eat?" he asked when I ran back to him.
"I haven't eaten much the last few days. I think my stomach already incinerated most of it."
"Well, maybe you'll be an inspiration. I know I'm carrying a few extra pounds, but exercise has never been my thing."
We sat on some bleachers and watched a couple of guys playing a game of HORSE on the basketball court. A cool breeze wafted in over the three-story walls that contained us, carrying a frail hint of fall. I couldn't help thinking that Armageddon was scheduled for the first part of November, a couple of short months away. Or maybe they wouldn't seem so short hanging out in this place.
I searched along the roofline to the four tall towers rising at each corner, but didn't see guards anywhere.
"What's the deal with the guards?" I asked. "I haven't seen any in the halls or the cafeteria or even manning the towers."
"We've all wondered the same thing. Turns out they got cameras everywhere, watching 24/7. You don't see them until something goes wrong. We wouldn't know that 'cept a couple of guys got into it on my second day. Just a short shoving match and some shouting, but about ten guards showed up in thirty seconds armed to the teeth. Luckily, the two guys had cooled it by then, and no one got shot or sent to solitary."
"Oh," I said. "Makes sense. Why waste time patrolling when they've imported the modern surveillance state in here?"
"Rumor has it that we're gonna have a lot more company in a month or two when the shit hits the fan." He gave me a shaky smile. "Then it will get interesting."
IT GOT interesting a little earlier than expected. Three days later, I was playing three-on-three basketball – finding even that many participants in this distinctly non-athletic crowd was a challenge – when I noticed Hank gesturing to me in a semi-urgent manner. I broke off the game and jogged over to my hirsute friend.
"Sorry to interrupt," he greeted me, "but we only have a few minutes, and I could use your help."
"For what?"
"There's some things on the yard I need to pick up, but they're gonna look a little bulky in my suit."
"You realize I have no fucking clue what you're talking about?"
Hank issued a strained chuckle. "My ex-wife used to say the same thing. I always started in the middle of a subject." He breathed in and released a raspy breath. "Okay, no easy way to prepare you. We're breaking out."
"Since when?"
"Since now. Just heard you're coming with us."
"Heard from who? And who's 'us'? Jesus, Hank, who's behind this?"
Hank raised one finger at the sky.
"God?"
"Next best thing." His attempt at a roguish smile didn't get past the "I'm scared shitless" notch. "They're rescuing the wounded guy the police brought in. Apparently, he's one of them, and he's coming around now. They can't afford for him to talk." He broke off with a frown. "Hayden, just bear with me for now, okay? I'll answer all your questions – the ones I can answer – when we're back inside. Meantime, we got ourselves an Easter egg hunt on the yard, looking for six racquetballs – or they look like racquetballs – and two gas masks camouflaged as grass. Least that's what I made out of the description."
I allowed him to tug me away from the basketball court. I waved a hand at my former teammates, who waved back – I could've sworn with relief.
"Gas masks?" I lowered my voice, making myself not glance at the cameras ringing the grounds. "That doesn't sound good."
"The balls contain a knockout gas. Just keep moving and keep an eye out."
If I had picked one thousand possible events for today, this would not have made the list. I found myself going along more out of concern for Hank's welfare – perhaps even his sanity – than out of any belief this was on the level.
"Look, Hank – "
I stopped as my foot struck what felt like a piece of sod lodged in the grass. I stared at my foot and then at Hank.
"Just be casual," he whispered.
I stooped as though I were bending to tie my shoe. As I pretended to fiddle with my shoelaces I pawed at the grass and dirt enough to reveal an honest-to-god gas mask – of a compact design I'd never seen. I unzipped the top half of my coveralls and as I coughed with one hand I tucked the small mask into my uniform with the other. Hank raised an approving eyebrow and nodded.
"Just one more of those and the balls, and we're set."
So Hank wasn't suffering some bizarre mental breakdown. This was real. I had a hundred questions, but I was either going to focus on them and go mentally "vapor lock" or just play along on the assumption that escaping was something I wanted – or should want – and get my answers later. Whatever the details, it had to be Markus's "network" that was behind this. They had tried to kill me and now wanted to rescue me? But wait – Hank and said "us." Who was "us"?
I noticed another patch of grass that stood out and headed over to it, picking up two racquetballs along the way. A couple of kicks confirmed it was another mask. I nodded to Hank, and he ambled over, settling down on the grass near the camouflaged mask as if he planned to take in the afternoon sun. He slipped the mask into his coveralls under the guise of scratching his chest.
"How many balls do you have?" he asked.
"Two." I flashed him a thin smile. "The usual number."
"Guess I got you beat. I got four." He returned my smile with a pale one of his own. "I'd say our job here is done. Thanks for trusting me enough to follow my lead. Let's go inside."
I kept my eyes ahead and away from the cameras and my body language relaxed as I followed Hank back into the prison and to his cell.
"Now what?" I asked softly.
"We wait." He nodded to the hallway wall clock, which read 1:33, his voice barely a whisper. "Until the clock strikes 2."
"What's special about 2?"
"It's when the shift changes. Then you and me will get in a quick shoving match. No karate moves allowed. Someone will show up and cleanse of us of our sins. We'll talk more after that in a safe place. The walls here have ears, you know."
Frustration at not being able to talk freely was starting to eat at me like a peptic ulcer. Or what I imagined a peptic ulcer felt like. I paced while he lounged happily on his bed, reading a magazine.
At the appointed hour he set aside the magazine and lumbered to his feet, facing me.
"What?" he demanded. "Are you talking to me? You talkin' to me?"
"Ah..."
"Sorry," he whispered. "One of my favorite lines."
He shoved me hard enough to rock me back on my feet. I returned the favor. We locked arms and pretended to wrestle, standing upright. I imagined we looked like drunken or highly incompetent Tango dancers.
"Don't you ever insult my mother's cooking!" he snarled.
"Your mom's so fat, that uh..."
We mock-struggled some more before Hank removed his large hands from my arms. He was stronger than he looked.
"That should do it," he said in a hushed voice.
I released him. I wouldn't normally believe that our show would've brought anyone down here, except to arrest us for bad acting, but I guessed the flimsiest pretext would do. And sure enough, less than five minutes had passed before two guards showed up brandishing tasers.
"Get on your bellies!" one of them barked. "Do it now!"
They shoved us down and searched us roughly, removing the masks and "racquetballs" in a furious flurry of motions that were far more Oscar-worthy than our mock fight.
> "They're clean," announced one of them, speaking into a mike on his uniform. "Get up and behave yourselves. Nothing physical or you'll spend time in solitary. Believe me, it's not worth it."
With those inspiring words, the two guards departed. I hopped up and helped Hank to his feet. We brushed ourselves off and caught our breath.
"Now what?" I asked.
"Let's go back outside. We've got a few minutes left of the break."
Back out in the yard, I led us to the weight area where as usual no one was working out. We stopped by the dumbbell rack.
"Good idea," said Hank. "We can pretend we're discussing workout techniques or something."
"First," I said, resting a hand on the uppermost dumbbell, "how did they get this stuff in here? And I assume the two guards are 'network' people?"
"Yup. They pretty much have their hands in everything. I'm guessing the masks and balls were an air drop, probably at night. Maybe using a small drone. I dunno."
"How did you get involved with these people? Did Markus note your driver's license when you dropped me off?" That was my best theory.
"Heh, no." His laugh was apologetic. "Me and them go back a few generations, ever since my great-grandmother had an affair with one of them. That caused quite a stir – they frown on marriage or any kind of carnal contact outside their bloodlines, to put it mildly."
"No kidding," I said slowly. That might explain some of Lilith's behavior.
"But my great-granny worked it out with them," Hank continued, "and it's become a family tradition to pass down knowledge of them and to help each other out from time to time. I guess you could call it an alliance?"
I was staring at him, forgetting to keep my mellow expression in place. I probably looked like I was about to shit bricks. I swallowed, took a deep breath, and forced my body and facial muscles into a more relaxed state for the benefit of our not-so-secret admirers.
"Are you talking about a secret handshake kind of society like the Illuminati? Freemasons?"
"Kinda, I guess. Not them, though. Nothing evil like our elites. No, they're working behind the scenes for the good of mankind." He half-frowned. "Least I'm pretty sure they are."
"Do they have a name?"
"They don't usually give any names. Sometimes they'll refer to themselves as 'The People.' Maybe they have Native American roots? Anyhow, if they call, like they did that night before I drove into the mountains, you just know."
"Wait a minute. You're saying they asked you to go up there?"
"I was already thinking about it. I really am interested in UFOs and all that stuff. But yeah, they asked me to drive up there and see what I could find."
I rubbed the back of my head. "If you and I are typical of their lead investigators, I can't see them making a lot of progress in changing the world."
Hank's laugh was pained. "Hey, don't count us out, brother. But from what I know, which isn't much, they don't seem to be big movers and shakers. They seem more content just watching things in the background, biding their time, waiting for some big event. Looks like the wait's about up."
"But you don't know anything about what what's supposed to happen."
"Nope. Not really."
"The mystery apocalypse." I scowled. "I'm so sick of hearing about it."
"It's not going to be the end of the world, that much I'm sure of, Hayden. More like a radical reshuffling."
"That's already happened."
Another thing I was sick of was the layers of mystery. The world had become like some huge, mutant onion with a million fucking layers. I was starting to get the feeling that if I ever did dig down to its core I'd find some blind, drooling idiot playing "pin the tail on the donkey."
"Anyway," said Hank, "whatever happens, from everything I know, 'the people' are good people. I trust things will work out for the best. Hey, they're rescuing you, too, and you're not one of them, right? That has to count for something."
"After trying to kill me last time."
Hank's mouth flapped open, his eyes shocked. "No way," he murmured.
"Well, to be accurate, two security dudes tried to take me out and two others tried to protect me. I do believe Markus and –"
Hank held up an urgent hand. "No names, man. That's one of their ironclad rules."
"What I was saying is that I believe some people in this organization are good."
The yard horn went off, and we shuffled after the others toward the exit.
"When's this rescue going to take place?" I asked.
"In the next few days. Could be any time." He smiled. "Don't get too attached to anyone here."
I TRIED not to think about the upcoming rescue, dwelling instead on the pedestrian minutiae of daily life – which was a challenge since it was mind-numbingly dull – and three days crawled by with many of my hours spent contemplating the nature of "The People" before a guard showed up at my cell and told me I would have to come with him.
"To where?" I asked.
He just glanced at me with a cryptic smile. I followed him down the hallway at a jog while my fellow outcasts formed a gauntlet of suspicious faces and bemused eyes. This had to be it – the great escape.
What did I do to deserve release? Not a damn thing other than being lucky. Assuming leaving here was being lucky. What if Colonel Collins was right about this being the safest place to be come the asteroid/martial law/anonymous Apocalypse? Still, when someone holds you against your will, what kind of pussy doesn't escape or fight back if they have the chance?
We marched up a flight of stairs and ran into Hank gasping along behind another guard and two large, non-uniformed men hoisting a dazed dude on a stretcher. After a moment of haunting familiarity, recognition dawned: that was one of the security guys I tangled with at Markus's poolside.
The chatter of a helicopter shook the roof above us as we ascended. Theirs I assumed. I didn't know what had happened below, but this was obviously a precision operation. I hadn't heard of any "knockout gas" that could reliably incapacitate people without possibly killing them (Hank said he'd been assured that no one would be killed), but who knew what had gone down out of our sight?
We burst through a final door onto the roof. A U-H1 helicopter was already settling down a short distance away. They hustled the wounded security dude into the rear doors and us into the forward section. The two guards joined us inside. Staying behind probably wasn't a good option for them.
The helicopter blew off the roof with stomach-clenching force and banked sharply toward the west. I glanced at Hank, who gave me a thumbs-up despite his green complexion resembling a nauseated frog's. No one spoke to us or offered us mike headsets to carry on a conversation over the engine and rotor noise. No indication of where we were going.
I guessed we'd find out when we got there.
Chapter 19
ANOTHER DAY DAWNED ON the exciting existence of Robert M. Drexler – known as Hayden Hunter in a former life – and I needed to drag my ass out of bed and get to work.
A few weeks before, the helicopter had dropped me off in western Colorado - I mean literally dropped, because it never quite touched down – leaving me with a new driver's license and one thousand dollars in cash to make my way in the world as Robert (Rob, Robbie?) Drexler. I barely had a chance to return Hank Gilmore's frantic wave before the copter blasted off to parts unknown.
No instructions or fare-thee-wells – just a stern finger from one of the rescuers pointing to the ground as we descended. I hiked from that point into town, which turned out to be Grand Junction, and then into a motel, a restaurant, and finally a bar where I met a simpatico dude named Craig Evans on my third night there.
I'd been wondering how to pay my bills and where to live. An easy route would be to offer my services as a "software consultant," but I decided against doing anything that would tie me to Hayden Hunter. I wasn't making any headway, except of the hitting your head against a brick wall variety, but after an hour of friendly chatting with Craig Evans, he mentioned
his need for a reliable construction assistant along with a possible live-in arrangement, and I was all ears. I mentioned my situation – needing a job and housing but being short on references – and he asked me to stop by his place the next day and "see how we do."
Turned out his construction business consisted mainly of building chicken coops.
"I know it sounds dicey," he said, "but believe it or not, I can't keep up with demand. My coops fly out the door. Pun intended!"
The pay was $15 an hour, and I was welcome to stay in the "granny flat" he'd build atop his garage for a meager $200 a month. The guy was so desperate for dependable help that he might've let me stay there for free – or chained me to the barn where he assembled his chicken houses. It didn't seem to concern him that I had no experience in construction. My optimistic claim that I was "semi-mechanical" seemed good enough for him.
Craig was wearing his usual big grin when I entered the barn a fraction after eight. You'd think the guy couldn't be happier building chicken condos. But then he claimed he was making just over 70K a year, about the same that I'd been making. And I didn't go to work grinning.
"How's life treating you this morning, Robby?" he greeted me. "Good?"
I love it when people ask you something and then answer their own question. But actually I didn't mind it so much with Craig – Mr. Sunshine as I called him in my head.
"Like shit," I said with a straight face.
Craig sputtered out a laugh. "Then things can only get better, no?"
I grabbed an Dewalt impact driver and joined him in assembling the "cage," the basic coop frame. We got it up in the next few hours, pausing frequently to help ourselves to beer or snacks from the ancient red fridge in his barn. I found it surprisingly satisfying to build something, especially with topnotch tools. The last time I'd done anything with construction was helping my dad put together a doghouse for Scamper, our perpetual motion Australian shepherd, when I was nine. We'd used hammers and nails, and I must've struck my thumb half a dozen times. My thumb turned green and my mom joked that maybe I should try gardening. My mom had always been the wiseass and dad and I the straight men.
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