The Rage Colony (The Colony Book 2)
Page 6
She forced a chuckle. “Duh, I know. It’s fine. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business, anyway.”
The response was overtuned, and Mia saw right through it. “Honey, your value and contribution to the Colony are not based on the rank of your assignment. The bottom line is that we were looking for a specific personality type for this particular role, and Isaac hit the mark.”
Her sympathetic tone only made Layla angrier and more jealous. Layla’s rank gave her quite a lot of status on campus, but GS-5 was a big step up. In the need-to-know hierarchy, Isaac now knew more than she did. He’d been promoted above her.
Her eyes swam with tears as an even more painful realization hit: James hadn’t told her. He hadn’t warned her to soften the blow when she found out, and that meant he didn’t think she could handle it. It was yet another example of how he undermined her work.
“Hey, hey, don’t do that. It’s not personal.” Mia swiped her thumb under Layla’s eye to wipe a tear away.
“Yes, it is, and you know it.” She’d confided in Mia about how James’s overprotectiveness had grown to the point of holding her back within the organization.
Mia set her laptop on Layla’s overbed table and lay next to her, her thin body comfortably perched on barely six inches of mattress. “Finish your pregnancy, and I promise I’ll force a conversation about this. Okay?”
Layla was too embarrassed to look at her. She nodded and stared at the belt of her fluffy robe, stretched to its max around her belly. “It’s just … I’ve worked so hard.” She tried to control her vocal cords, but the words came out sounding choked.
“Lay, that fetus needs you. Forget about your GS right now. You’re doing the most important job in the Colony. Not the pain program—”
“The purification program,” Layla corrected with a sniffle. She’d been trying to change the old way of thinking since she’d taken on a leadership role. It’s not about the pain, you guys, it’s about the purification. We’re selling an evolved human state, not a sadistic torture cult.
“Right, sorry. But my point is you’re a carrier. You’re carrying the future of the human race. That makes you a GS-10 in importance.”
Layla repressed an eye-roll. Mia was only trying to help. She took a deep breath and exhaled to the count of four to release her anger. She wanted to have a good attitude for the fetus. He needed her.
Mia smiled. “That’s better. Now, don’t worry at all about recruiting. I’ll make Michael help me, and I’ll invoke the recruiting gods in a primitive prayer dance, and we’ll emerge unharmed and victorious until the tribal chief returns to her position at the head of the village.”
A soft knock at the door was followed by an even softer voice. “Hello? Sister Layla?”
“Come in, Harmony.” Layla wiped her nose on her sleeve.
Harmony stepped inside with three large bags and startled at the sight of Mia. “Oh, I didn’t—”
She stumbled over the door threshold and released the bags to catch herself. Plastic containers of food crashed to the ceramic floor, splattering what must have been tomato sauce all over the floor and walls.
Layla grimaced as Harmony cried out, “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. Oh, Sister Layla, I’m so sorry.”
“I got this.” Mia rolled from the bed in a graceful way that only she could pull off, calling out, “it’s okay. No need to cry over spilled marinara.” She disappeared into the kitchen leaving Layla alone.
Alone with Mia’s open laptop, which happened to be displaying her email inbox.
Layla’s eyes traveled down the screen of messages until they landed on a subject simply entitled, Isaac Reassignment. The email was from James.
“Where do you keep your supply of paper towels?” Mia called out.
Butterflies fluttered in her belly. “Uh, should be in the laundry room.”
She heard the splashing of water in the sink and more whimpering from Harmony. Her gaze returned to the email. A GS-5 level? What could it be? Why would James and Mia choose Isaac over her? It was so unfair.
As if it had a mind of its own, her hand moved closer to touch the pad, paused a moment and extended an index finger, gently moving the cursor down the page.
She had to know. She deserved to know.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad.” Mia materialized in front of her.
She yanked her hand away from the keyboard and faked a muscle spasm to cover her wrongdoing.
“Oh god, cramp. Cramp in my calf.” She grabbed her leg and groaned.
Mia grabbed her foot and flexed it, scrunching her face into a look of empathy, as if Mia had any idea what pregnancy was like, or painful cramps for that matter.
Layla fell backward and exhaled.
“I better get going before this place gets struck by lightning.” Mia snapped her laptop closed and slid it into her bag.
Harmony collected Layla’s still full water glass to unnecessarily refill it with fresh water. “Bye, Sister Mia. Again, thank you for your help.” Harmony lowered her eyes to her feet. “With pain comes peace.”
“With gratitude comes the Father’s love,” Mia responded appropriately. As custom dictated, she pulled Harmony into a quick hug. “Bye, Sister Layla,” she called over her shoulder. “Be well.”
Layla’s gaze lingered on Mia’s tote as she waltzed out the door.
Harmony cleared her throat. “Um, I brought you some prepackaged meals. You just need to put them in the microwave.”
God, she’d been so close. The cursor had been hovering right over the email. All she had to do was click. Why hadn’t she moved faster?
“You know,” Harmony continued, “like if you get hungry.”
“Yes, thank you.” She picked up her phone and pretended to be reading her email to discourage additional pointless chitchat. What would Mia have done if she’d caught her? Would she have told James? What would James have done?
“And I also made little baggies of fresh fruit and nuts. You can just take the whole baggie right into bed with you.”
“How thoughtful.”
Harmony gathered the clean clothes from the washer and set up the ironing board. Great. She’d have nicely pressed pj’s to wrinkle in bed.
She did her best to ignore Harmony’s puttering. She didn’t want to appear ungrateful, but having a stranger fuss over her made her uncomfortable. Naturally, James had insisted. Layla, I know you. You’ll be up and down every five minutes if you don’t have some help. If she’d refused, he would’ve canceled his trip and rushed home, and she didn’t want to be a burden.
“I put on a fresh toilet paper roll in the bathroom. There was only a little left, and I didn’t want you to run out before I get back tomorrow.”
Layla wanted to reassure Harmony that pregnancy hadn’t impaired her dexterity to the point that she couldn’t grasp a toilet paper holder and slide on a new roll, but as usual, she bit her tongue. “Thank you. Now, you’ve done more than enough. Go home and relax. You have an early morning. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you, Sister Layla. May the Father watch over you.”
“Bye, now.” She held her smile until the door clicked shut.
She couldn’t be irritated with the inductees. It was part of the process. She’d been in exactly that place before. Removing the inductee’s strong sense of self and replacing it with a central figure that represented something collective was imperative. There was simply no other way to secure unwavering commitment and dedication to their vision.
But sometimes she just wanted to punch the Father in the face. Figuratively, of course.
11
March 2024, Arizona
Nick parked his open-top Jeep Wrangler fifty yards or so from the service gate and swung out to inspect the area. He circled the truck, kicking up dust as he scanned the deserted landscape at the base of the foothills. The Vitapura facility certainly was a tranquil place to unplug and unwind. He inspected the key reader at the gate. Nothing had cha
nged. Next he set off along the wall in the direction the van driver had gone. Footprints weren’t easy to track on this terrain, but he was able to identify the zig-zag print from the soles of the driver’s boots at several points along the wall. It didn’t appear he ventured out into the brush. Still, to be thorough, Nick extended his walk for fifteen minutes, inspecting the wall, the ground, even the sagebrush and cacti as far as twenty feet off the wall.
He returned to the gate empty-handed. No sign of any disturbance along the wall or the surrounding area. Maybe the guy had been looking for something and found it. Or hell, maybe he’d simply wandered off to take a shit while he waited for some rendezvous that never happened.
He plodded back to the Jeep and gazed down the long dirt service road. He wiped the sweat off the back of his neck and mindlessly scratched it. His muscles felt stiff, and he foolishly blamed them for his inability to understand what had happened here. If only they’d relax, release the blood flow to his sluggish brain, a lightbulb would flash on, and he’d finally understand what he was missing.
You’re a goddamned disappointment.
The words weighed on him. They always had.
In his father’s eyes, success meant following the rules. Write the mainstream stories. Don’t step out on a limb. And never believe you have a story just because your gut says you do. Instincts are not facts. That’s not reporting. That’s chasing a conspiracy theory.
He paced the driveway, shaking his arms and rolling his head. What was he missing? A guy in a white van. Eleven minutes of walking along the wall. His shirt, which had dried after his bike ride, was again soaked with sweat. His arms and legs were covered in a thin layer of dust that itched. He badly wanted a shower and a Guinness.
But he’d sooner spend the night out there than leave empty-handed. This was his story, and that van parked in front of Vitapura’s back entrance gate was the first sign of those sewer rats he’d seen in a long time. Damned if he was going to let them scurry on by.
The still, lifeless air made the area as desolate as a graveyard in a ghost town. There was no sign that this once lively, luxurious spa had employed hundreds and catered to as many guests. Now it was a mound of dusty buildings forty-five minutes down a bumpy dirt road from the hick town of Black Canyon City, the nearest place to get a cup of coffee or buy a pack of smokes.
He jolted as if the thought literally struck him, and he jogged back to the gate. Stepping lightly, he frantically surveyed the dirt near what would have been the passenger side of the van. The driver hadn’t been stood up; he’d been relaxing in the shade of the van with a cigarette before the long ride back. Smoking wasn’t allowed in most company passenger vehicles.
He dropped to his hands and knees, inspecting the area inch by inch. He almost gave up when his eye caught the cigarette butt, farther from the tire marks than he expected and dangerously close to the dry tumbleweeds. He dashed back to the Jeep and grabbed a plastic grocery bag from the center console.
“Oh yeah, baby. Come to daddy, you pretty little DNA specimen.” He tenderly pinched the butt, dropped it into the bag, and held it up with satisfaction. Look at that: progress.
With more optimism than he had in a long time, he threw the Jeep into gear and peeled out in a cloud of dust.
He made it barely half a mile before he heard the explosion.
He hit the brakes too hard and lost control of the car, fishtailing for a couple of moments before running off the road. The Jeep hit a saguaro cactus and stopped abruptly, stalling the engine.
Panting, Nick cranked his neck around.
A black cloud of smoke mushroomed into the air, right over Vitapura.
12
March 2024, Arizona
Four more crackling explosions echoed around him. Nick slammed the Jeep into reverse and hit the accelerator, escaping the spa as fast as he could.
So that’s what the bastard had done. He’d planted explosives scheduled to detonate long after he was gone from the scene. Based on the secondary explosions, he must’ve planted them near the generator room where he could do the most damage.
All the energy seemed to drain from Nick. All his hard work, the time he’d spent exploring that spa, the money he’d blown in surveillance gear, all of it was now spiraling up in black smoke. Obviously, the article had spooked them into action—but a spa inferno? What the hell were they trying to hide?
He’d have to think about it later, because right now he needed a plan. He’d be driving straight into a pack of police and fire trucks in a matter of minutes.
One hand on the wheel, he groped under the passenger’s seat until he found the topo trail map of the Black Canyon City area. Except for the acreage still owned by Vitapura, this entire section of land belonged to the Bureau of Land Management, who’d opened it up to off-road vehicles to attract tourism. All-terrain vehicle shops and touring centers had sprung up, and wider trails were developed to accommodate four-wheelers, many of them sprouting from the back doors of the shops along the freeway.
Nick needed to find one before the incoming fire trucks found him.
He slowed enough to keep one eye on the map. The best option was a flat quarter-mile stretch through vegetation that connected with the treacherous Old Black Canyon Highway. It was technically rated difficult, although erosion after an uncharacteristically wet winter had probably upgraded that to severe. He slowed down to a crawl at the power lines and rolled off the dirt road. Cactus and rocks weren’t a problem for the Jeep’s high clearance and thirty-seven-inch tires; the problem would be the sandpits. He wouldn’t have the momentum to get through them, and that’d be the end of the line.
He leaned out to get a better look at the terrain and cringed at the vibration of the rocks and cacti shredding the undercarriage. He downshifted to first, hit a boulder, and stalled out. In the stillness before he restarted the engine, he heard the first sirens.
“Shit.” He yanked the car into reverse and steered around the rock into a gulch. His Jeep, his precious motherfucking Jeep—this was gonna fuck up his gas tank or rip off a muffler, but he had to get to the foothills to find cover.
At the Old Black Canyon Highway, he cranked the wheel to bump up onto the road. Highway was a gross overstatement; it was more of a dry riverbed, rocky and undulating, with steep banks on either side. He crawled at a turtle’s pace, white-knuckling the steering wheel, fixated on the road to keep the tires from sliding into the deep ruts created by water runoff. The breeze had carried the smoke from the explosion across the valley, and his eyes burned and teared, but he couldn’t spare a free hand to rub them. After an eternity, the trail flattened, and he could see trucks up ahead barreling along the freeway—the beautiful blacktop surface known as I-17.
“Booyah!” he bellowed, pumping a fist in the air.
He slid the Jeep into fourth and raced down the last leg of dirt road, bursting into the rear parking lot of the permanently closed Canyon Sports All-Terrain Vehicle Tours.
He couldn’t afford to be spotted here, but he needed a moment. He whipped to a stop, pulled out his phone, and checked the time. Four-thirty. He could make it.
He sent a quick text. I need you, baby.
***
Nyla Madden, forensic analyst at the Phoenix Police Department Crime Laboratory—and Nick’s dynamo ex-girlfriend, who’d always been too good for him—was pacing the waiting room when Nick stepped through the door.
“So how’s the little one?” He couldn’t remember her daughter’s name, but maybe she wouldn’t notice.
She narrowed her eyes and yanked him down the hall by the sleeve of his shirt. “You know I could get into serious trouble over this, don’t you?” She shoved him inside the lab as if he were resisting arrest and kicked the door closed behind them.
“Whoa, watch the manhandling. I’m not the bad guy.”
“You’re a widely known reporter, and I need this job. You know as well as I do that DNA analysis requires a warrant. Let’s get this over with.”
She flopped onto a rolling stool and snapped on latex gloves. Using tweezers and scissors, she snipped the cigarette butt into three parts and dropped them into fluid-filled tubes. She positioned the tubes onto a rack inside what Nick would’ve thought was a printer but whose label identified it as a BioQuant Precision ID Whole Genome Panel. DNA analysis had come a long way since high school genetics, when he’d used a vortex mixer and centrifuge.
Nyla peered nervously out the window as she peeled off the latex gloves. She thrust out a hand and waggled her fingers. “Give me the print.”
He pulled the folded printout of the image of the van’s driver from his pocket. She smoothed it over a scanner and scooted her stool forward to watch the facial recognition software scroll through images. Nick peered over her shoulder.
No matches. His heart sank.
“Well, he’s not a felon,” she said. “Our funding was cut last year, and now we’re only able to keep felony records.”
She rolled back to the PCR analysis machine, tapped a couple of buttons, and returned to her computer. She opened another program and drummed her fingers while she waited.
“What the hell?” Nyla gaped at the screen. “He’s been scrubbed.”
“What? What do you mean?”
He bounded around the desk to look for himself: Sequence complete, Error 0339 TS/SCI.
“He’s with a top-secret organization.” The color drained from her face. She scurried to the door and craned her neck up and down the hallway.
SCI—the acronym hit him.
“Sensitive Compartmentalized Information,” he murmured. “Jesus.”
Like Area 51.
She hustled to her computer, tapped the escape button, and selected Delete Record. Then she took him by the arm and dragged him to the door.