"There's no light," Irene said dryly. "Didn't you say there'd be light?"
"Obviously, I . . . made a mistake." He directed the flashlight at himself again, offering her a fake smile. He then headed in the opposite direction.
"You mean I was—"
"Right . . . we should have gone right."
Irene grumbled under her breath. "Do you always treat the people you rescue like this?"
"I don't know. You're the first person I've ever rescued."
Irene stopped abruptly. "What?"
"You're the first person I've ever rescued," he repeated, not bothering to stop.
"I figured you were an expert at this. I trusted you were an expert. I could have been killed."
"That was a possibility. But you weren't killed. Were you?"
Irene shook her head at the man's carefree attitude. But she decided to focus on something more positive, like the light ahead, which was becoming brighter with each step they took until, at last, it revealed the end of the tunnel positioned above a steep incline.
Her rescuer looked down at the concert slope covered in green slime. "We'll have to slide out of here."
"Yu—"
"Yuck. I know." He finished her sentence as he sat on the edge, placing the flashlight in his mouth.
Irene positioned herself beside him. "Please don't finish my sentences. It's quite—"
The firm push on her back was no doubt from his hand, and she clumsily slid down the slope. She reached out her arms to steady herself, but before she could manage to do so, she glided out onto the bottom of a deep cement pool that held a few scattered puddles of water.
She stood to move out of the way, hearing her rescuer descending downward. He was laughing as if he were a kid at play.
Once he got to his feet, she shoved him in the arm. "Don't do that again."
"Yeah, sure, as if that will ever happen again."
"You know what I meant." Irene looked about as she tried to wipe the green slim from her pants. "What is this place?"
"As I said earlier, it's a greywater treatment center. This was a holding tank. It's been offline for some time now." He pointed over at a rusty ladder at the other side of the deep pool. "And that's our way out."
"I agree."
He paused. "Well, look at us. We finally agree on something."
…
The pair made their way through a patch of woods, arriving at a car parked along a dirt road. "This is me," he said and began to pat himself down. "Now, where did I put that key fob?"
Irene scrunched her face in disbelief.
"Ah, here it is." Pulling the key fob from his pocket, he clicked it and hopped into the vehicle. "Just a little humor to lighten the mood," he said as Irene got into the passenger side.
"McAllister, please head to 112 Industry Park Lane."
"You named your car after one of The Firsts?"
"Yeah, that way, I get to tell him what to do." The car started, and he pulled away. "Nice, right?"
"You're a child." Irene turned to the window. "And you remind me of someone."
"Who? You weren't going to say Cary Grant, were you?"
Irene frowned. "Hardly. Are you going to tell me who you are and why you rescued me?"
"Yeah, about that," he said, his tone turning somewhat serious. "I'm part of what The Firsts call The Discord."
"The Discord?"
"What? You've never heard of us? Well, I suppose that's a good thing." He began to fiddle with the air controls on the dash of the car. "Some time ago, a group of neighbors and a local church leader started noticing that their friends and parishioners were . . . disappearing. They decided to send a small team to look into it. In doing so, they uncovered some evidence that The Firsts were kidnapping people to test their processing system on them."
He pointed out the windshield to a commotion happening on the city street. "And as you can see, The Firsts liked the results they got. Their systematic cleanse is in full effect now."
Irene strained her neck to watch as a few uniformed women led some children into a van. Oddly enough, the children weren't objecting. Irene's emotional high from being liberated quickly evaporated as she thought of her own family. Of course, her daughters were no longer children—all three were now young adults, but they'd been transported to be processed, not by some anonymous van full of strangers, but by their own misguided father. At that thought, a deep sadness came over Irene. But the grief quickly converted to anger. She struck the window with her fist.
Her rescuer flinched and glanced at her appearing surprised.
Irene breathed heavily, trying to calm her rage. "Sorry."
"No, I understand. I always hated that passenger-side window too."
Irene let a laugh out through her anger.
He gave her a quick smile as he exhaled wearily. "At least now," he said, softening his tone, "you have some hope that you'll see your family again."
She nodded if for no other reason than to move his attention from her.
They drove on in silence, and after passing by a few more city blocks, she felt her emotions calming. "Why me?" she whispered, with her head resting against the window. "Why did you save me?"
He seemed to size her up as if wondering whether she was ready to handle the answer.
"I want to know," she said, turning to him.
"Right, well, The Firsts are taking people who possess certain skills, particularly those with abilities that could be used against them. They're picking up well-known people too." He shifted in his seat and reclined it slightly. "You fit that profile since you worked with the president and were well regarded in certain circles."
He moved his seat to an upright position again. "The Discord couldn't afford to have someone like yourself manipulated into joining The Firsts. But I suspect the real reason you were rescued was that the church leader I spoke about earlier apparently knows you. His name is Roger Stein."
"Roger Stein?" Irene did know the man, but she couldn't quite believe he was the one behind an opposition group fighting The Firsts. Before the war, he'd served as an advisor to the president. His advice, however, was more spiritual in nature than Irene's, which was centered more on political strategy. During his short tenure, the two of them had shared some interesting conversations on faith, and he'd become a trusted colleague in the process.
"How in the world did he end up in charge of fighting The Firsts?" she asked out loud, partially guessing the answer. Like her, Roger held principles, and he didn't just talk about them. He lived them. She recalled one particular heated exchange he'd had with the president who was about to make an immoral policy decision. Roger convinced him not to go through with it. Roger had risked his position for what he believed was the right course of action.
"I'm a bit of a newbie. I've never met Roger. The Discord has a hierarchy, and only those in upper management get to see the Oz. I suppose it's a good idea from a security standpoint."
"But you . . . volunteered to rescue me?"
He hit the seat adjuster and started to recline again. "What can I say? I was free on Tuesday."
"It's Wednesday."
"Really? My goodness. I'd planned to wash my hair on Wednesday." He glanced over at her. "I guess this time, not remembering turned out to be a good thing for you."
…
The Discord's place of operation was an abandoned warehouse near the river. Stepping inside, Irene and her rescuer were met by a woman stationed behind a cloudy plate of glass.
"State your name." The woman's voice crackled through a decaying window intercom.
Her rescuer leaned closer. "Chris Parks." He gestured at Irene. "And this is Irene Duncan."
"Your code."
"982137."
A buzzer went off, and the woman nodded. "You're clear."
Irene walked into the wide-open space of the warehouse. Its interior was stuffy with an odor of iron in the air. Up ahead, a large dried rust stain discolored a patch of wall. To the right was an arrange
ment of metal chairs. Posted over them, was a patient waiting area sign.
"So now I know your name," she said, facing him.
Chris smacked his hands together. "Right, well, I'm going to get some grub. Escape attempts always make me hungry."
Irene cocked her head. "I thought you said I was your first?"
"Right." Chris pointed at her. He laughed uneasily.
As he walked away, Irene wondered if anything he'd said was actually true.
"Irene Duncan," someone called from behind her with a heavy accent.
Irene spun about to find a young Asian woman dressed in a suit coming her way.
"Roger will be pleased." The woman held out both her hands, surrounding Irene's as she shook it. "Natalie Chan. I'm a good friend of Roger's." She slid a section of black hair behind her ear. In doing so, she revealed tattooed numbers on her neck with the last digit appearing to be an incomplete five. "It looks as if you made it out safely," Natalie continued.
"Chris took good care of me." Irene glanced down at the filthy uniform. "But I could use a shower."
"I'll show you to your quarters. You can wash up there." Natalie motioned for her to follow.
But Irene remained in place.
"Is something
wrong?"
"Chris and a man named Donatello both told me that The Firsts have my family." Irene could hear the desperation in her voice as it trembled with emotion.
"I'm afraid . . . that is true." Natalie paused but then went on, "Your family has been relocated to The Firsts' new locations, but we don't know exactly where those locations are."
Irene shook her head. "I can't believe this is happening," she said, not necessarily to Natalie but more to herself. She looked about the space, attempting to get her mind off what had happened and to bring her emotions in check. She didn't want to break down in front of yet another stranger. "So this is where The Discord is located?"
Natalie began to move again as Irene trailed behind her. "We don't actually care for that name. The Firsts like calling us that, but we prefer to call ourselves The Opposition. Much more positive term."
"And what exactly is this place?"
"It is temporary shelter for the few we can rescue. We house them for short time before we relocate them."
"You relocate them?"
"Yes, beyond Sector 14."
Irene stopped. "Beyond Sector 14?"
Natalie motioned Irene toward a series of doors. She stopped in front of one. "This is you." She swung open the door to reveal an orderly room with a made-up bed, a change of clothes in the closet, and an en suite bathroom. "Once you tidy up, I'll take you to dining hall."
"When do I get to see Roger?" Irene asked.
Natalie lowered her chin at her and glanced back into the room.
Irene realized she was coming off as being ungrateful. "It's not that I'm unappreciative of what you've done for me. It's just that I'm a little anxious to see him."
"After you eat and rest, we’ll arrange transport." Natalie stepped closer to her. "No reason to be anxious," she added quietly as if reassuring a child to sleep. "You are safe now."
…
The worn-out, metal frame of the bed creaked as Irene sat on its edge. She ran her hand across the top blanket, thinking it an extravagance after being in a cell without one for so long. But the wool unkindly bristled her palm.
Then, something smooth touched her hand—a silky label sticking out from the sheets below. Flipping the label over, Irene read its tiny script: Donated to the Riverside Provisional Hospital, courtesy of The Firsts. Irene yanked her hand away as if the inscription had soiled it. The Firsts' influence had been everywhere for some time now without anyone even noticing.
Irene collapsed back on the bed. The familiar quiet she'd known from her cell settled in around her. She remembered the times before the war when she wished for a place to be alone. It was usually when her kids were fighting or when Kent was in a bad mood about something at work he didn't want to discuss. That was when she felt like stepping out of the scene to catch her breath and readjust.
During those times, she would often go for a long run. Even in the depths of winter, she could be found jogging along the road among the pastoral settings of farmland, the view calming her nerves and sometimes her anger or disappointment. The difference now was she no longer had the choice of moving outside her familial picture. The entire scene had been stolen from her.
She hoped that Roger would know how to get her family back. Wherever he was, her singular goal now was to make her way to him.
…
Entering the dining hall, Irene noticed the atmosphere was subdued even though it was full of the families sitting together eating. Instead of celebrating their escape, they seemed guarded. Irene understood why. They all needed to go through one more step to be free from the control of The Firsts.
She had no idea how The Opposition was doing it, but they obviously promised these families a way out, beyond Sector 14, which was a vast area of land polluted during the war by chemical warfare. Such a journey seemed incredible, but Chris had gotten her at least to this shelter. So it seemed The Opposition could be trusted.
Seeing him at a nearby table, she snatched an apple from the kitchen counter and walked toward him. She wasn't yet sure if she could trust him, but he did serve as a distraction. "Still eating, I see."
"Mmm," he said as he spooned what appeared to be a kind of vegetable stew into his mouth. Swallowing, he pointed his utensil at her and paused. "You look as if you've been crying."
Irene didn't bother to deny it. She took a bite of her apple and rotated it in her hand. "This tastes so sweet. I haven't had an apple like this since before the war. Usually, the fruit we get in the city is sour or nearly rotted."
"I only cry on Wednesdays."
"What?" she asked, looking from her apple to Chris.
"I only cry on Wednesdays."
"It is Wednesday," Irene said, knowing she'd already told him that.
Chris jumped from the table with his spoon in hand. "Well, in that case, excuse me—"
"Irene."
Irene turned to find Natalie at the room's entryway. Her wide smile took up most of the acreage on her face. "We're ready." She began to walk in Chris's direction. "You're coming too."
"Really?" Chris's mouth dropped open. He looked as if he'd just won the lottery.
Natalie leaned toward him but flinched. "You need shower and shave first. You stink."
"I do?" Chris looked over at Irene.
She agreed with a nod.
"Right." Chris picked up his tray. "Give me ten minutes."
"Take twenty," Natalie said, flatly.
Chapter 4
Irene watched as a self-driving van full of armed men drove away from the warehouse’s parking lot.
"That's our security team. We follow them," Natalie said to Irene and Chris as she pointed at a nearby car.
Getting inside, Chris took one of the front seats, and Irene got in the back. After putting on their seatbelts, the car took off.
"So, how do you plan to pass through the checkpoints?" Chris asked. "More are going up every day. I was surprised that Irene and I didn't run into any."
"We have our ways." Natalie said to him, and as if on cue, the car turned onto an unpaved road.
Irene gripped the door handle to steady herself over the rough lane. After a maze of dirt trails, the car exited back onto a macadam street. Another hour or so, the vehicle slowed as it followed the security van to a brick road blocked by an iron gate.
The van's driver stretched out his arm and appeared to punch in a code on a keypad positioned on a tall stone pillar. A buzzer went off, and the gate swung open, allowing the two vehicles to drive onward down the road. After a few minutes, a large, impressive stone mansion came into view.
Chris held his head nearly out the window. “Whose place is this?”
“It’s Arnold Kingston’s house,” Irene answered, remembering the occasion
when she’d first seen it.
“You mean the inventor?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been here before?” Natalie inquired from the front seat.
“Mr. Kingston once invited President Malone, his cabinet, and all his advisors for a weekend.”
“Well, la-di-da,” Chris mocked.
“It was part of the job,” Irene said, sounding more defensive than she needed to. The truth was she was proud of her time with the president. With a show of strength, they’d staved off war. Unfortunately, when the next administration came into office, they changed policies and undid the work President Malone's administration had accomplished. The war began shortly afterward.
“Of course, Mr. Kingston is no longer with us,” Natalie said as the car came to a stop in front of the mansion. “But he did leave us something significant.”
Irene paused to get out of the car, waiting for some kind of explanation. Chris appeared to do the same, but Natalie exited the vehicle without saying more.
As they approached the front door, a guard greeted them. Natalie nodded at him and led the way into the house. They entered the grand hall and moved toward a wide stairwell that worked its way down to a wine cellar. At the far end of the basement, they stopped in front of an elevator. Natalie ceremoniously motioned at it.
“It’s an elevator,” Chris stated matter-of-factly as a grin slowly formed on his face.
Natalie hit the down button. “I look forward to wiping that smirk off.”
As everyone moved into the elevator, Natalie pushed a button labeled with a capital T. It was evident that Natalie was enjoying keeping to herself where they were going, but she’d given away the surprise. Irene knew what that T meant. She was about to give Chris a clue when she noticed he was focused on the depth indicator near the control panel.
“How far does this thing go down?”
Natalie didn’t reply but merely crossed her arms. “We’re here,” she finally said after the elevator slowed and bounced slightly. The doors opened to reveal a hallway that led to a glass entryway. Through the glass, Irene saw the white cylinder-shaped capsule.
The Gift of Remembering Page 3
