Twist and Turn

by Tim Tigner

  Despite the danger, Seb found himself dragging. It had been a very long day. Even with the stretchers, hauling so many hostages had been physically exhausting. Now that their preparatory work was complete, he actually found himself looking forward to the next stage.

  While Danica went to work injecting the diners with the same sedative cocktail she’d used on the restaurant staff, Bruce reminded Seb and Webb of their mission. He went through everything in detail for the fourth or fifth time, then added a new twist. “To avoid confusion, you’ll still go by familiar names. Instead of Joel Sebastian, you’ll be Sebastian Silver. And instead of Milton Webb, you’ll be Webster Gold.”

  “Sebastian and Webster,” Seb said. “Easy enough.”

  “Silver and Gold,” Webb said. “Got it.”

  “Good,” Bruce said.

  Danica looked their way. “I’ve still got a dozen bodies to position. If you’re done, please grab all the pill bottles and cigarette packs you can find among the confiscated belongings. We should leave them on the kitchen table to help prevent unproductive anxiety.”

  The guys did as the good doctor asked, using the trip upstairs to stash the AcotocA headsets in the hidden closet.

  After that last group task was complete, Bruce pulled a roll of red duct tape from his backpack and walked to stand directly beneath the only electronic device in the room—a fancy doorbell some seven feet off the ground. Seb recognized it as the same model of wireless intercom with one-way video that the Devlins had in their home.

  Bruce proceeded to pace out to a position seven feet from the wall. There, he used the tape to demarcate a two-foot by two-foot box on the floor.

  The scene sparked an insight. “I get it now,” Seb said. “The Wi-Fi repeater on the elevator. You can turn it on and off from up top by using the corresponding circuit breaker. Very clever.”

  Bruce nodded affirmation.

  Seb and Webb assumed prone positions among the other diners.

  “Sleep well,” Bruce said, as Danica pinched Seb’s left triceps and plunged her needle in. “A few more days of work and then you get to spend the rest of your life living the dream.”

  13

  First Impressions

  Location Unknown

  I SLIPPED THE ENGAGEMENT RING deep into the front pocket of my jeans, then gave Katya a shake before whispering for a third time, “Katya, wake up.”

  She didn’t wake, but this time she stirred. A second later I got the second big shock of the day. The world burst into life.

  Lights illuminated. Appliances sputtered. Air started to flow. All as if tripped by a motion detector.

  With the urgency of a paratrooper who’d just hit the ground, I surveyed our surroundings. The room we occupied was windowless—despite being roughly thirty by sixty feet in size, with a twenty-foot ceiling. I’d have compared it to an elementary school gymnasium were it not for the high-end furnishings. Adding the still, stale and silent air to my initial observations, I concluded that we were underground.

  By we, I wasn’t just referencing Katya. There were dozens of unconscious bodies scattered around the floor. Familiar faces and clothes. I was looking at the other diners from Cinquante Bouches. Forty-eight of them, I supposed.

  A few other guys started stirring. The younger, more athletic ones. And by guys I meant men. There were only two women in the room.

  I gave Katya’s arm a good squeeze.

  She winced and withdrew, but didn’t open her eyes. The odd reaction led me to inspect her arm. Sure enough, I found a needle mark.

  I checked my own arm and found a matching red dot. Just one, thank goodness. An anesthetic, no doubt. That thought toppled another like a big fat domino. Anesthetics caused short-term memory loss.

  I leaned over Katya so my face was just a foot from hers and stroked her cheek.

  She smiled faintly, and then opened her eyes. Her nose crinkled and she blinked a few times. “What’s going on?” she asked with groggy voice.

  “I’m not sure yet, but we’re together, so I’m not too worried,” I replied, keeping my voice calm and low.

  Her eyes widened. “The restaurant, the ring, the gunmen. I remember that—but then draw a blank.”

  Gunmen! The mention of them restored a few more frames of my memory. I recalled black masks and panicked people being led from the room—but nothing more.

  Knowing that Katya was a processor rather than a panicker, I gave it to her straight. “We were drugged. Near as I can tell, we’re in a sub-basement beneath the restaurant.”

  “You mean we’ve been kidnapped,” she said, glancing around.

  I hadn’t thought of it quite like that, but given the gunmen element, I supposed she was right. “It appears that way. I have yet to talk to anyone else or otherwise investigate.”

  Katya sat up and studied our surroundings. After a few seconds, she slipped off her high heels and said, “Let’s look around, quietly.”

  Katya had it right. Her contained and courageous reaction would surely prove to be the exception. Pandemonium was about to break out. Best to gain a basic understanding of our environment before that happened.

  I stood and offered her my hand. There were two other hushed conversations taking place as we rose, but most of our fellow diners were still anesthetized. I suspected that the stressful, sedentary lifestyles led by these big time bankers and blue-chip executives had slowed their metabolism.

  My first observation was that the room had lots of exits. Both the short walls had large double doors in the middle. One long wall had ten regular doors, five at ground level, five accessed by an elevated walkway that ran the length of the room. It was the kind of construction I’d seen in only one other setting: a prison.

  Suppressing the emotions that accompanied that observation, I turned my attention to the most interesting doors. Two elevators in the wall behind us. One large, one small. The poured-concrete shaft that housed both was bumped out, partially dividing the big room, with the kitchen and dining room on one side, and a lounge area on the other.

  The larger elevator appeared typical at first glance. A stainless steel set of double sliders. A second glance revealed deadbolts at the top and bottom, obviously designed to prevent the doors from opening. They weren’t engaged, but still struck me as odd since I’d never seen that feature on an elevator before.

  More concerning than the presence of locks was what wasn’t there, specifically the control panel. The place where it had been was now just a rectangular hole in the wall.

  The smaller elevator had a single, hinged door that was obviously very heavy duty. Almost safe-like. It too had deadbolts. I didn’t see a call panel next to it either. Not exactly. What I did see was a large ratcheted crank.

  “What is that?” Katya asked, her gaze in line with mine.

  “I think it’s a failsafe. A manual lift.” I walked over and put pressure on the crank handle. It wiggled a bit but wouldn’t turn. “Locked.”

  Katya canted her head. A mathematics professor by profession, she had exceptional analytical skills. “Is it there in case of a power outage?”

  “Or a mechanical failure.”

  “Why not simply install a ladder?”

  “Ladders don’t have cargo capability.”

  Katya had an answer ready for that. “You use the ladder to get out, then call an electrician. Problem solved.”

  I turned toward my sweetie and took both her hands in mine. “I referred to this place earlier as a sub-basement, but I didn’t mention its purpose, its function.”

  Her eyes grew wider. “And what’s that?”

  “I believe it’s a bunker. A refuge designed for doomsday survival. The accompanying assumption is that no electricians will be available.”

  “Oh,” Katya said, processing the unexpected twist like a wood chipper encountering a knotty log. “Are there any other insights to our predicament you’d care to share?”

  “The control box has been removed from the electric elevator, so we ca
n safely assume neither lift will operate.”

  “What else?”

  “You see the red box?”

  “The tape on the middle of the floor?”

  “I think it’s a podium.”

  “You mean, like a speaking platform?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But it’s not raised.”

  “It’s not for addressing people in the room,” I said with a gesture toward a piece of electronic equipment installed above the elevators. “It’s for addressing whoever’s on the other side of that camera.”

  “Oh,” Katya replied, her mind continuing to chip away as her gaze came to rest on the electronic eye.

  “What the hell happened?!” a voice boomed behind us.

  14

  Prepping

  Location Unknown

  KATYA TURNED to see the same blowhard banker who’d bothered her at dinner. He was sitting up and rubbing the back of his skull. The sight made her wonder if he’d been dropped on his head—either accidentally or on purpose.

  “Where are we?” he continued in a voice much too loud, addressing the guys to his left and right while shaking them awake.

  Katya noted that people were grouped on the floor roughly as they’d been in the restaurant. At least to the extent she could remember. The other diners had been far from her primary focus at the time. She suspected that their sleeping locations were likely the result of the loading and unloading function that got them from there to here, rather than a conscious design.

  “Ignore him,” Achilles said. “Let’s go explore.”

  “With pleasure.”

  In the back of her mind, Katya was aware that she should be panicking, but she wasn’t. Like the banker, she should be screaming and pounding, interrogating everyone around, but she didn’t feel the need. It wasn’t that she was an exceptionally calm or brave person, although a few extreme experiences had tempered her reactions. She owed her current composure to the fact that she was facing the unknown beside Kyle Achilles. Now and forever.

  Had he swallowed the ring? This probably wasn’t the best time to ask.

  They were nearer the lounge than the kitchen, so they walked toward the double doors in that direction. “You think they’ll be unlocked?” Katya asked.

  “They don’t appear to even have a lock,” Achilles replied.

  He opened the handled door, revealing a storeroom. It illuminated in response to their motion.

  “It’s the size of a small grocery store, and packed like they are in Midtown Manhattan,” Katya said, calculating the room to be about three times as wide as it was deep.

  “About fifteen by forty-five feet, I’d estimate,” Achilles said. “It runs further to our right than the main room by about fifteen feet, which I’m sure we’ll find is the depth of the rooms along the back wall.”

  Katya saw the pattern too. With this second piece of the big geometric puzzle, she could now estimate that the bunker’s footprint was at least a forty-five-by-ninety-foot rectangle, with the main room sandwiched by long rooms on each end, and a series of smaller rooms capping the top in the middle. Whether or not other rooms extended it further remained to be seen.

  The supplies stored before them on heavy gauge wire shelves were all generic. Brandless. Brown, white or olive green boxes with plain black lettering. Multivitamins. UHT Milk. Powdered milk. Powdered eggs. Canned Tuna. Canned Chicken. Peanut Butter. Olive Oil. Chili. Sugar. Flour. Salt. Pepper.

  They began walking the closest aisle.

  The room was arranged with deep floor-to-ceiling shelves around the perimeter and had a similar island of shelving in the middle, creating a circuit which they now lapped. Dried Apricots. Dried Plums. Raisins. Red Beans. Black Beans. Dried Cheese. Mixed Nuts. Trail Mix. Oatmeal. Wheat Crackers. Granola Bars. Power Bars. Chocolate. Katya stopped at Chocolate. She’d seen enough. She wouldn’t starve.

  They exited where they’d come in and found that the main room was now awash in murmured conversation. Katya noted that all but a few of their fellow prisoners were awake or waking. Most groups were talking in hushed tones, a few others were also starting to explore. Fortunately, nobody sounded hysterical. Katya considered that a small blessing, a silver lining on the cloud of captivity.

  Achilles continued to ignore the crowd. He led her up the stairway to their left. The first door off the elevated walkway opened into a bedroom, fifteen feet square. It had twin beds in two corners and a king between them in the third. All were bunk beds, creating a room that would sleep eight comfortably and many more in a pinch. There were clothes dressers as well, but they were relatively small. Dorm room or military size. “I guess the fashion needs are minimal when you’re in survival mode,” Katya said.

  “The weather needs too,” I replied. “I bet the temperature stays the same here year round.”

  The next door exposed an identical bedroom. Then a den full of books and desks but no computers. The fourth was a dormitory-style bathroom with multiple sinks and toilets.

  “I was hoping to find one of these,” Achilles said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Katya replied.

  “Where are we?” the obnoxious banker yelled when they exited the bathroom. He was addressing them, Katya noted.

  Achilles walked to the edge of the railing and she stayed at his side. The shout had turned everyone’s attention in their direction.

  “Looks like a bunker,” Achilles said, gesturing with both arms.

  “How did we get here?” the banker asked.

  “I think the elevator is a safe assumption.”

  Achilles took her hand and headed down the staircase opposite the one they’d ascended. A flurry of quiet conversations broke out. Again, Achilles ignored them.

  The second set of double doors was right there at the bottom of the stairs so they stepped inside. Although large, the room appeared to be half the size of the pantry. It had double doors on the end to their left, presumably providing access to the second half.

  They were surrounded by troughs rather than shelves. Troughs of dirt at floor level, and empty plastic troughs suspended above. All were empty.

  The ceiling was lined with light fixtures that varied from those in the rest of the bunker. In the corner, she spotted what appeared to be an uninhabited chicken coop. “A farm,” Katya said. “I don’t know if that’s a good sign or bad. While the setup is impressive, the implied timeline is discouraging.”

  “I don’t think it’s a sign at all,” Achilles replied. “This facility isn’t brand new, but it hasn’t seen much use either. That tells me it wasn’t designed for us—or people like us.”

  Before asking who Achilles thought it was designed for, Katya decided to ponder the problem herself.

  They spent a minute walking around, touching and testing, taking it all in. “What do you think is through there?” Katya asked, gesturing toward the double doors at the far end.

  “The utility room,” Achilles said. “It’s the only critical element we haven’t yet found. And potentially, the most interesting one.”

  “Shall we?”

  They were two steps from their destination when shouting turned them in their tracks. They ran back to the main room and saw the source of distress. The obnoxious banker had the man they’d entered the restaurant with pressed against the elevator door, swaths of shirt bunched in both fists. “If you don’t get your people to let us out, I’m going to pound you to a pulp.”

  15

  Good Question

  Location Unknown

  EXACTLY TWO YEARS AGO, I was in a conventional jail—awaiting trial for murders I hadn’t committed. I made the most of those miserable circumstances by focusing on the unique opportunities that incarceration presented.

  I became a calisthenics junkie, developing the balance and strength that ultimately took my rock climbing to a level I might not have otherwise achieved. I also trained for the U.S. Memory Championship, honing my mind in a manner that seemed likely to bring lifelong benefits.


  But this was a very different kind of confinement. On the upside, the company appeared more erudite, the facilities more luxurious, and the food more palatable. All welcome improvements. On the downside, I didn’t know for certain why we were here or how long we should expect to stay. And the pressure was greater. More aggravating and intense. Because I worried about Katya.

  Being buried alive was also a bit unsettling.

  I found myself reassessing my initial impression of the company as Katya and I burst back into the main room. The scene had changed a lot. Or rather the people. Apparently, locking humans in cages tends to bump them down the evolutionary ladder.

  I’m far from a pacifist. Although intellectually I bow to diplomats and diplomacy, I’m built and wired to grab the bull by the horns. A man of action, you might say. But I’m also disciplined. Logic driven. And I have a deep affinity for fairness. So when I see injustice occurring, I tend to wade in. “What’s going on?”

  A circle of spectators had formed around the pair, with the banker’s buddies on the inside left and the assaulted man’s attractive wife on the inside right. I pushed through the crowd and placed one hand firmly on a shoulder of each man. “What happened?”

  “I’m getting us out of here. I suggest you leave me to it,” the aggressor replied without meeting my eye.

  No way this guy would have spoken to me like that if we were alone. Mano a mano, he’d undoubtedly have melted. But surrounded by his colleagues, Biff’s banker brain was blinded by simple math. Four to one.

  As a military man, I knew that caliber and cyclic rate counted much more in situations like these. Four .22 revolvers were no match for a .50 machine gun.

  Oblivious to the fact that he was outgunned, Biff attempted to shrug off my hand.

  I dug my thumb into his brachial plexus, applying just enough pressure to give him a taste. You’d have thought I’d plunged a dagger between his ribs based on reaction I received.