Harbor

by Tom Abrahams

  “C’mon,” Marcus said. “Who am I gonna tell? We’re not using names. We don’t know our final destination. You work for the government. What does it—”

  Marcus had an epiphany. He smiled and wagged a finger on his right hand.

  The smile disappeared from the conductor’s face. His head snapped to Marcus, to the road ahead, and back to his passenger. His brow furrowed. “What?”

  “I know where we’re headed,” said Marcus. “It’s obvious.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes,” said Marcus. “You work for the government. We’re headed to Atlanta.”

  CHAPTER 21

  APRIL 21, 2054, 8:30 PM

  SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  Rickshaw held his hands under the stream of hot water. His skin was pink and felt raw from the scrubbing. He turned his hands over and curled his fingers in toward his palms. There was still blood under his fingernails. He still couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten blood under his nails.

  That wasn’t entirely true. He knew how it had happened.

  After more than ten hours of interrogation, Blair had cracked. More accurately, Rickshaw had cracked him open.

  He grabbed the shriveled bar of soap from the dish on the sink’s edge and passed it between his hands, creating a healthy lather. Then he held it in one soapy hand while he raked the fingers from the other across it, digging into it. He repeated it with the opposite hand and then plopped the bar back onto the ledge.

  The hot water stung as he ran his thumb along the beds of his nails and under the nails themselves, trying to pry loose the remnants of Blair’s gore. It was tedious. He sighed. He’d done this to himself.

  There wasn’t a need to get as violent as he had with Blair, who was relatively forthcoming. It was that last little bit of information he wouldn’t divulge that had driven Rickshaw to exact the sort of pain usually reserved for higher value targets.

  In the end he’d put the poor man out of his misery, though not before Blair gave Rickshaw what he wanted.

  It was a strange thing, being an interrogator. It was stranger still to enjoy it as much as Rickshaw did. Even though extracting intelligence wasn’t in his job description, it was something he did with relish. It allowed him to explore both the depth of his intelligence and cunning, while at the same time delving into the darkest corners of his soul. He could play psychologist and antagonist, friend and foe, liberator and captor, judge, jury, and executioner all within the span of a few hours.

  Rickshaw turned off the water, content to leave specks of dark blood trapped underneath his jagged nails, and then flicked the water from his raw hands. From a hook on the wall, he pulled his duster and slid into it one arm at a time. He adjusted the collar and looked at himself in the mirror above the sink, winked at himself, and moved to the hallway outside the restroom. The soldiers waited for him, standing at attention. They were in uniform, armed, and expressionless.

  “You ready?” he asked them collectively.

  “Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

  “You have the address?” he asked the tallest of the five, a guard named Krespan.

  “Yes, sir,” said Krespan. “It’s logged into global positioning.”

  “Let’s go,” said Rickshaw.

  The guards saluted and fell into rank order as they marched along the hallway toward the transportation bay. Rickshaw walked behind them, his mind lingering on the last bits of information Blair had given him. He tightened his jaw thinking about it. It was infuriating.

  They wound through the labyrinth of secure corridors until they reached the bay. Krespan unlocked it with a scan of his eye and finger, then held the door for the others to pass through. Rickshaw thanked him as he moved past the soldier.

  Krespan was a good man. There was kindness in his eyes, a humor in his laugh, that didn’t exist much anymore. Rickshaw sometimes wondered if Krespan was too good for the work of the Pop Guard. Still, he’d always done as Rickshaw asked. He never questioned authority. He used his rank judiciously, rarely pressing an advantage over lesser soldiers. It almost made Rickshaw untrusting of the soldier despite having no legitimate reason to doubt him.

  Krespan let the door close behind Rickshaw and hustled past the captain to lead the formation. They were on the bottom level of the multistory garage. It was hot in the concrete structure. The smell of exhaust and motor oil was almost overwhelming.

  Though much of the Pop Guard’s fleet was solar electric or electric-fuel hybrid, there were plenty of older vehicles that relied on fossil fuels. The maintenance work on those trucks and SUVs was completed on that level.

  Rickshaw noticed several of them in various states of disrepair as they worked their way across the bay toward their vehicle. The captain tried taking short, shallow breaths to avoid inhaling the noxious odors, which turned his stomach. Blood and gore he could handle. Exhaust and motor oil, not so much.

  “Where is this thing?” he snapped, his voice echoing against the solid surfaces of the structure. “Why wasn’t it pulled around to the door?”

  Krespan kept his pace. “Sorry, sir, it’s the newest of the fleet. It’s the fastest, but I wanted to keep it charged as long as possible.”

  Rickshaw rolled his eyes. Another few steps had him at the side of a black van. It was oddly shaped, more rounded than squared. Krespan stood at attention and slid back the van’s cargo door on the driver’s side of the vehicle.

  The four men in front of Rickshaw climbed into the crew hold, angling their rifles to accommodate the space, and they found their seats on benches that ran the length of the hold on both sides. Krespan slid the door shut.

  “Sir,” said Krespan, “let me get your door. I—”

  “No need for that,” said Rickshaw. “Get behind the wheel. I can open my own door.”

  Krespan saluted Rickshaw and hopped into the driver’s seat. He was buckled, the engine running, and the van was in gear by the time Rickshaw opened his door.

  The captain climbed into the front passenger seat and aimed the air-conditioning vents away from him. Despite the heat, Rickshaw didn’t want the cold air blasting on him. Krespan tapped the display at the center of the dash and the stream of air dissipated.

  “Sorry about that, sir, I—”

  “Just drive,” said Rickshaw. “We don’t know how time sensitive the intelligence might be. Let’s get there.”

  Krespan nodded, wide-eyed, and took his foot from the brake. The van accelerated silently and he steered it out of the bay, up a gradual incline, and onto the street. He swung the wheel, the tires chirped on the asphalt, caught, and the van jerked forward.

  “As fast as you can,” said Rickshaw.

  On the central display, a map of their location glowed against the dark cabin of the van. At its center was a green, strobing dot that represented the van. Surrounding the dot, a spiderweb of streets and highways crisscrossed the screen in all directions. Rickshaw tapped the screen, and the display shifted from an overhead view of their navigated path to one that more closely resembled a three-dimensional representation.

  Krespan had both hands on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. His face reflected the blue glow from the dash display in front of him.

  “How fast are you going?” asked Rickshaw.

  “Forty-five.”

  “Faster,” said Rickshaw.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sudden acceleration pushed Rickshaw back against his seat. The men behind him grumbled. His weight shifted when Krespan slowed, steered onto Peachtree, and accelerated again. Rickshaw turned his attention from the navigation display to the window. His nose touched the glass and he watched his breath plume and evaporate.

  Beyond the glass, they zipped past the modern Atlanta. Trash littered the streets or spilled from trash cans set at the ends of driveways. Buildings were dark or dimly lit. People stalked the sidewalks alone or in small groups. They kept their heads down, their hands stuffed in their pockets
or gripping the hands of companions.

  They slowed again and Rickshaw looked up at the twin spires looming over him. He’d never been inside Cathedral of Christ the King, but he’d heard it was beautiful. The stained glass was remarkable and particularly beautiful in an area succumbed to neglect and blight.

  The large doors to the church were propped open. As they passed, Rickshaw stole a look into the sanctuary beyond. The soft glow of candlelight, either real or artificial, was welcoming. There was a small part of Rickshaw that would have enjoyed a detour inside the cathedral. He’d like to see what kind of people still prayed, still knelt before their God, and were thankful for what they had, wanting of more, or both.

  He sucked in a breath and exhaled. The sound that accompanied the sigh surprised him, and he coughed to mask it. His fog of breath evaporated and he turned back to the screen.

  They were almost there. Three blocks.

  “No mercy here,” he said to the men in the back of the van. “I don’t want any hesitation. There might be young women, children, we don’t know. Regardless of what we find, act decisively.”

  The men agreed. Krespan nodded his understanding of the orders.

  “There is one person I do not want harmed,” he said. “No matter what, it is imperative she survives and we have her alive. She is an incredibly high-value target. I cannot stress that enough.”

  “Yes, sir,” the men said.

  “I do not know her appearance except that she’s a white woman,” said Rickshaw. “She’s older, looks like a grandmother. My guess is she’s the only one there who will fit that description.”

  “What is her name, sir?” asked Krespan.

  “Her name is Gladys. She runs the whole damn thing. We grab her, we might put an end to the railroad once and for all.”

  CHAPTER 22

  APRIL 21, 2054, 9:00 PM

  SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  Sally heard the air brakes squeal and hiss outside the safe house. Through the window she saw it edge to the curb across the street. She let go of the white sheers and stepped back into the room. It was time.

  Gladys was standing in the foyer, swiping the wrinkles from her long skirt and adjusting the tuck of her blouse. She offered Sally a smile and picked at the stray hairs at her forehead. If Sally didn’t know better, she’d think the woman looked nervous.

  Sally tugged on the waist of her pants, sliding the button to align with her navel. Then she moved from the parlor to the foyer.

  “That’s them, right?” Sally asked. “The truck?”

  Gladys nodded. “It is. I was on the radio a few minutes ago. They’ve come from Texas. They’re the special group of folks who’ll be your last charge.”

  “Texas?” Sally looked toward the door as if she could see the truck through its solid mahogany. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m serious,” said Gladys. “My old friend is there. She sent them this way. I think they took a path similar to the one I took a few years ago.”

  Sally stared at Gladys, trying to fix eye contact. Was Gladys serious? The look of confusion and disbelief must have been obvious. She’d heard Gladys mention Texas when they were on the radio with the Harbor. But she didn’t put two and two together and Gladys hadn’t connected the two at the time.

  “They drove through Latex,” she said. “That’s an actual place in east Texas. They rode through Shreveport, Louisiana, the Talladega National Forest, and then on into Atlanta. It’s a ten- to twelve-hour drive from the wall.”

  Sally still wasn’t sure what to think. In all of her years, she’d never conducted a trip for someone from Texas. She’d heard of people fleeing the territory, especially since the Pop Guard amped up its patrols.

  “The wall?” she asked.

  “The wall,” said Gladys. “It’s a—”

  A strobe of headlights flashed through the transom above the front door, and Gladys’s expression flattened. “Come on,” she said. “That’s the signal.”

  Gladys led Sally away from the foyer and deeper into the house. It was a maze of hallways into a part of the first floor Sally hadn’t explored. They passed a laundry room and a walk-in pantry with its door open. A light flickered in the pantry, casting an eerie effect on the cans and boxes of dry goods on the shelves inside.

  Gladys swung open a narrow door and flipped a switch on the wall. Without checking to make sure Sally was behind her, she descended a narrow set of stairs into a basement that Sally had no idea existed until now.

  Sally pounded down the unfinished wooden steps, her hand gliding along the handrails affixed to cinderblock walls on both sides of the stairs. They reached the bottom of the steps and Gladys swung to her left. She wove between pieces of cherry furniture half-draped in sheets, old bicycles wrapped in chain link and padlocked to a support beam in the middle of the space.

  There were boxes labeled with black marker, random tables covered in paper maps and laptop computers. Some of the computers were off, while others glowed with their home screens asking for passwords. Black power cords and orange extensions snaked across the floor, plugged into large multi-outlet boxes affixed to the cinderblock walls.

  The farther they traveled the space, the danker and cooler it became. The faint odor of mildew tickled Sally’s nose.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, trying to keep up with Gladys.

  The older woman was surprisingly spry and sure-footed. She kept maneuvering amongst the clutter, not answering Sally’s question.

  The more they walked, the clearer it became they were no longer directly underneath Gladys’s home. It wasn’t possible. They’d walked too far.

  She noticed then that the walls weren’t cinderblock anymore. Now they were red brick, sandwiching thick zippered layers of grout from floor to low ceiling. They were definitely under some other structure.

  Gladys slowed and turned left again. She pulled a set of keys from a pocket in her long skirt, flipping through them until she found one she took between her thumb and forefinger. They were at a door. It was narrow, half the width of a normal door, and Gladys struggled to slip the key into the deadbolt above the knob.

  It stuck. Gladys cursed under her breath and wiggled the key. Finally it clicked and she turned it.

  “Come on,” she said and tugged open the door, pulling it into the basement. “Almost there. Switch places with me.”

  Beyond the door was another staircase. Sally stood at its bottom step for a moment while Gladys locked the door behind them. They climbed quickly, Sally almost out of breath. Her heart pounded from the speed with which they moved and the excitement of the secretive adventure.

  Their shoes pounded on the wooden steps as they ascended in the dark. The keys in Gladys’s hand jingled. When they reached the top of the staircase, the older women nudged past Sally and drew another key. Without the benefit of light, she managed to fit the key into a lock. It clicked and the door opened.

  They walked through it and stood in a brightly lit kitchen decorated in white tile, red fabric, and black-lacquered cabinets. It had the look of a diner from the 1950s, like those Sally had seen in photographs and old movies.

  “Where are we?” asked Sally.

  “It’s all a precaution,” said Gladys. “Can’t be too careful. We never know who’s watching.”

  They moved from the kitchen into a hallway. The home’s floor plan was a mirror of Gladys’s place. They hustled through the hall toward the parlor, on the opposite side of the space in Gladys’s home.

  “Wait here,” said Gladys. “All of this is going to happen quickly. You ready?”

  Sally nodded.

  “All your supplies are loaded. Food, water, contacts. You’re good to go. You okay?”

  Sally was not okay. Her heart was racing, her throat was dry, her head hurt, and she wanted to puke. “I’m fine.”

  Gladys nodded. Sally was sure the woman knew she wasn’t fine. The flat glare barely covered the vaguest hint of sympathy
or pity. Gladys turned and moved swiftly from the parlor to the front door. She peeled back the lace sheers covering the sidelight of frosted glass next to the door and then stood on her tiptoes. Her fingers against the door, she looked down her nose, shifting her head as if trying to peer through a small slit that only gave glimmers of what lay beyond.

  Another glance toward Sally, another nod, and she lowered herself. She balled her hands into fists and straightened her arms, appearing to psych herself up for what was to come. Her tension eased and she flexed her fingers, then pressed out the creases in her dress.

  Gladys unlocked the door at the handle, a deadbolt, and a chain. She stepped back, away from the door, and folded her arms low across her chest.

  No sooner had she moved out of the door’s swinging arc than it burst open. Three, four, five people were suddenly in the foyer. Or was it six? Their dark figures merged together with ambient light from the street, making it difficult to see the details of their faces. Even Gladys was virtually unrecognizable. Outside, the hiss of air brakes and the rattle and rev of a powerful diesel engine cut through the still air. There was a loud clunking sound, and what sounded like a large truck lumbered away.

  “Close the door,” said Gladys. “Hurry.”

  One of the figures, a man, pushed the door shut. He locked the handle, the deadbolt, and pulled the chain. Gladys motioned for the group to follow her. They passed the parlor and moved toward the kitchen.

  Sally watched them as they moved past her with stolen glances, flashes of smiles, or weary expressions of fatigue or distrust.

  Two men, two women, and two children. The two women held babies. At least Sally thought they were babies. The women held the tiny bundles in their arms like newborns, and the bundles were small enough to be newborns.

  This was not what Sally expected. Eight people now depended on her. Eight people. That was more than she’d ever guided before. No conductor would handle eight passengers at once. It was too sloppy, too risky, too much to control.