by LeVar Burton
He waited for the voice to speak again, but it had grown silent. The anger slowly leached from his body, replaced by a weary sadness. Why did she call him? He didn’t know her, owed her nothing; he had his own problems.
A troubling thought crossed his mind. Maybe the woman called to him because she had no one else to call. Maybe she too was alone in life. Alone, lonely, such a terrible way to be. He had been alone for so very long. But now someone spoke to him, called him, needed his help. Vanessa had also needed his help, but he had failed her.
“Not this time,” he whispered. “I won’t fail this time.” He took a deep breath and looked around the room. Inside of him an ember was stirred, glowing with the tiny flame of his spirit. For the first time in years, Leon felt that his life might have some meaning and a purpose after all. Someone actually needed him, needed his help.
But the flame almost died again as the shadow of uncertainty crept over him. “How can I help you?” he asked aloud. “I don’t even know where you are.”
He stood in the center of the room, quietly waiting for the voice to again enter his mind. When it did, it spoke only one word.
Chicago.
In a field of wildflowers and weeds, beneath the pale light of a crescent moon, shadowy figures hunched around a hundred tiny campfires. Waiting, listening, they spoke only in whispers, their voices like the gentle murmuring of a babbling stream. Leon Cane also sat by a small campfire, carefully feeding it twigs and dried pine needles. He too waited and listened.
Before coming to the field on the outskirts of the city, he had gone to see Shaky, the Junkman. Leon wanted to say goodbye, because he wasn’t sure when he would make it back to Atlanta—if he ever came back at all. The old man had been visibly upset about him leaving.
“You’re going where?” Shaky had asked, jumping up from his seat.
“Chicago,” Leon answered, knowing how dumb his plans sounded.
“Chicago? Chicago? What’s in Chicago? You got relatives up there or something?”
Leon shook his head.
“Then what are you going for? There isn’t any work in Chicago, if that’s what you’re looking for. And the winters are cold as hell. You ever experience a Chicago winter?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Well I have, and I can tell you they aren’t any fun. Nothing but snow and ice, and the damnedest wind. You can’t go anywhere, can’t even get out of the house. You’ll freeze to death. So what the hell are you going to Chicago for?”
Leon explained about the voice he heard and his reason for going. Shaky looked at him for a moment in stunned silence, then commenced to yell.
“That’s about the craziest damn thing I’ve ever heard! A voice. You hear a voice.” He pointed a finger at Leon. “Well, let me tell you something, I hear a voice too. Right now that voice is telling me you’ve gone off the deep end, you don’t have both oars in the water, the lights are on but nobody’s home.”
“I’m not crazy,” Leon argued.
“No, of course not,” Shaky said. “Everybody hears a voice that tells them to run off to Chicago.”
“I do,” Leon said calmly.
Maybe there was something in the way Leon said it—something in his voice—or maybe it was the look in his eyes. Either way, Shaky calmed down and stopped yelling.
“You’re serious. Aren’t you?”
Leon nodded.
The old man blew out his breath; his shoulders slumped. “You got any money for the trip? Any food?”
Leon told him about being robbed the night before.
“And they took everything?” Shaky shook his head. “I told you you shouldn’t live by yourself. It’s not safe. Not that things are much better in the camps, but at least you’ve got somebody watching your back.” He turned away from Leon and started rooting through a pile of junk. A few seconds later Shaky tossed him a beat-up canvas knapsack. “Here, take this.”
“I don’t want any charity,” Leon said, starting to toss the knapsack back. The old man turned on him like a bulldog.
“Charity! Who said anything about charity? I’m a businessman; consider this a trade.”
“A trade?” Leon was confused.
He nodded. “That’s right, a trade. You’re leaving, probably won’t be coming back, so I’m claiming ownership to that wooden crate you call home and everything left in it—before someone else does. I can use the materials for a few projects I’ve got in mind.”
Along with the knapsack, Shaky added three cans of tunafish, a can opener, a rusty steak knife—just in case Leon ran into any trouble on the road—a thin army blanket and five crumpled one-dollar bills.
“Now get out of here before I change my mind,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Lord knows I’ve done too much for you the way it is.”
Leon put the cans of tuna and other items in the knapsack, and stuffed the dollar bills in his pants pocket. He then stood up and gave Shaky a hug goodbye. The old man started to push Leon away, then changed his mind and hugged him back.
“Take care of yourself,” Shaky said, showing his true feelings for one brief moment. He broke the embrace. “Now get out of here. I’m busy enough without having you hanging around all day.” With a nod and a smile, Leon shouldered the knapsack and left. It was a long way to Chicago.
Leon Cane smiled to himself in the darkness, thinking about what might have been his very last visit to the Junkman. He was just about to add another stick to his tiny fire when he heard a long and mournful call, like the howl of a dying wolf.
“Train!” someone yelled.
Instantly, all the campfires were extinguished and the field was again cloaked in darkness. In that inky blackness, men, women and children gathered together their belongings and moved up the hill to a strip of trees bordering the railroad tracks. Leon too gathered his stuff and started up the hill. Halfway to the top he turned and looked behind him. In the distance, the single headlight of an approaching freight train glowed like the eye of some prehistoric beast. A cyclops. But it was a beast that spelled freedom for many.
With the collapse of the American economy, few people had enough money to afford a car. Those that did often couldn’t afford the gas to keep it running. Public transportation had also come to a standstill. Buses no longer traveled the highways, planes no longer filled the sky. Even the subway systems had ground to a screeching halt. The only things still operating, on a somewhat limited basis, were the trains, and they were used strictly for hauling goods and materials from one city to the next. With passenger trains no longer in existence, the freight train had become the taxi of the poor, providing free rides to those quick enough to climb onboard.
The train drew closer, its light stabbing the night. Leon heard its engine strain as it started up the hill. The train would be moving its slowest as the engine topped the hill. That’s when several hundred people would rush the cars in an attempt to climb aboard.
Leon’s heart beat faster; he felt the excitement and fear of those around him. The engine sped by and the crowd surged toward the tracks. Jostled and elbowed, he was swept along with the mass of people. One slip and he would be trampled by those behind him.
The fastest runners reached the train and slid open the doors on the boxcars. Leon felt the wind of the passing train as he ran alongside it and knew that death missed him by only a few inches. He grabbed for an open door, but was shoved from behind by someone also trying to board the train. He stumbled, nearly fell, and tasted the metallic, bitter taste of fear.
The train slowed almost to a complete stop as the engine topped the hill. Only a few seconds before it would again pick up speed. Like a swarm of ants, the people shoved and pushed, fighting to get on. Leon saw a man slip and fall, heard him scream as the steel wheels ran over his legs.
The train sped up, sending the crowd into a blind panic. They clawed and punched, pushing people out of the way, not caring if those people lived or died. Leon grabbed hold of a door, but someone jumped on his back, using him as a human ladder to bo
ard the train. Angered, he drove his right elbow straight back, heard a groan, and felt the weight fall off him. He quickly pulled himself up and into the boxcar.
Hands grabbed him, helped him to his feet. The boxcar was already full, people packed in like cattle. He had expected it to be empty, but then realized that Atlanta wasn’t the first city where people had boarded. All along the line, whenever a hill or curve slowed the train enough to make it reasonably possible, people would attempt to get on. He wondered how many mangled bodies lined the nation’s railroad tracks.
He had just stood up when someone screamed. Startled, he turned around and saw a young woman in the doorway, reaching out to a little boy who clung by one hand to a metal latch on the outside of the boxcar. The latch was bent downward, and the child’s grip was slowly slipping along its length to the end. Soon the boy would fall. Chances were he would be crushed beneath the train’s wheels. Even so, those standing closest to the door made no effort to help. They just stood and watched as though it was all part of a show.
Elbowing his way to the doorway, Leon threw himself on his stomach and reached out to the child. “Give me your hand!” he yelled. The little boy looked at him in wide-eyed tenor.
“Hurry, damnit, give me your hand.” He stretched even farther. The little boy hesitated, and then grabbed Leon’s hand.
As the boy let go of the latch, his feet dragged the ground. Leon felt himself slipping and knew he was going to be pulled from the boxcar. They would both be killed. The only chance he had of saving himself was to let go of the little boy, and he wasn’t about to do that.
He was only inches away from falling when someone grabbed his ankles and pulled him and the child to safety.
Leon lay on his stomach, panting, weak from exertion. Several seconds passed before he was able to catch his breath. He sat up and turned to see who had pulled him inside, but there was no one there. His savior had vanished among the crowd. The little boy and his mother had also disappeared.
Getting to his feet, he squeezed his way through the crowd to the back of the boxcar. He found an empty spot along the wall and sat down. The excitement and fear of his near-death experience had left him, replaced by a black cloud of despair and humiliation. He had tried to save the boy’s life and failed. Some hero. If it weren’t for the efforts of some unknown helper he and the boy might have died.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, feeling the swaying motion of the train. He thought about his reasons for going to Chicago. What good could he be to the woman whose voice he now heard? How could he help her when he couldn’t even help a little boy? Why was he doing it?
Someone touched his shoulder. Leon opened his eyes. Even in the darkness, he could see that it was the little boy he had tried to save. Small. Thin. Wide eyes set in a tiny brown face. The little boy held out his hand, offering something. Leon looked and saw it was an orange. Food. The most precious gift the child could give him. A thank-you.
He smiled and took the orange. The child smiled back and turned away, vanishing among the shadows and crowd. Why was he going to Chicago? Because it was the right thing to do.
PART III
“We used to wonder where war lived, what it was that made it so vile. And now we realize that we know where it lives, that it is inside ourselves.”
—Albert Camus
Chapter 14
Rene Reynolds had no way of telling time in her windowless cell, no way, other than counting aloud, to mark the passing of the minutes and hours. She didn’t wear a watch and her surroundings never changed. The temperature never got any hotter, or any cooler, and the dim lightbulb in the ceiling above never varied its shade of sickly yellow.
But even in her unchanging environment, she knew that time was, in fact, passing. Her body’s internal clock told her this. Since her arrival, she had used the toilet four times. Overcoming her revulsion for the soiled cot, she had also slept twice. Rene had no idea how long she had slept. It might have been hours; it might have been days.
Trays of food had been brought to her, carried into her cell by a silent guard. It was always the same guard, and he had always greeted her questions with a glare and icy silence. She had thought about slapping him just to see if he was able to speak, but the gun he wore held her at bay. Since the guard refused to answer her questions, and he wore no wristwatch, the length of her captivity remained a mystery. The food offered no clue either, since it was always the same: a ham and cheese sandwich on wheat bread, an apple and a carton of warm fruit drink. Nothing on the menu indicated whether it was being served for breakfast, lunch or dinner. For all she knew, the trays might have been brought once a day, twice a day or once every other day.
As the hours trickled slowly by, Rene’s frustration with the hopelessness of her situation grew. She paced the room, occasionally punching the padded walls to vent her anger. When she grew tired of that, she would sit on the edge of the cot and attempt to transmit her thoughts. She had all but given up on contacting the homeless man in Atlanta, knowing that he was probably too far away to be reached and much too far away to be of any help. Instead, she sent her thoughts out at random, hoping somebody, anybody, would hear her silent callings and come to her aid.
She had also tried to probe the mind of the guard who brought food, but was unsuccessful. The most she got for her efforts was a slight headache and a feeling of boredorn, which could have come from the guard or been merely a reflection of her own state of mind. Still, she was determined to keep trying. After all, there wasn’t much else to do.
Danger.
Rene opened her eyes and sat up straight. She had been leaning against the wall, attempting once again to mentally call for help. The warning had stopped her transmission as effectively as hanging up a telephone.
She looked around the room. Nothing had changed; the danger had not yet arrived. Almost on cue, she heard a lock click and the door to her cell swung open. Instead of the familiar guard with a tray of food, two armed men stood just beyond the threshold. “Come with us,” one of them ordered.
Rene’s heart began to beat wildly. She tried to calm herself, but could not stop her hands from trembling. She slowly got to her feet; her legs feeling like lead as she crossed the room. She dreaded what was about to happen, expecting the absolute worst.
The men positioned themselves on each side of her as she stepped into the hallway, preventing any chance of escape. Escape? What a joke. She was so scared she could barely walk, let alone run. Escape was out of the question. All she could do was cooperate and hope for the best.
Rene was led to the end of the corridor and down another hallway. At the end of the second hallway they stopped before an elevator, waiting while a car was summoned. They rode the elevator down to the third floor. Stepping from the elevator, she was taken down yet another corridor.
She was surprised at the cleanliness of the third floor compared to the level above it. While the carpeting may not have been new, it looked like it had at least been vacuumed once in a while. The walls were also clean, as was the ceiling, and the lights burned a bright white instead of a diseased yellow. Obviously, the third floor was used for something other than keeping prisoners.
Halfway down the hallway, they stopped before a door of polished oak. Her escorts didn’t knock as they opened the door and ushered her inside, closing the door behind her. Rene heard a click and knew she was locked in.
The office she found herself in was spacious and plush, the office of a company president or CEO. Padded leather chairs and bookshelves filled one end of the room. At the opposite end sat a massive wooden desk, a water cooler and several straight-back chairs. Rene took all this in in a glance, focusing her attention on the man who sat behind the desk.
He was a large man, muscular, the type who might have once played professional football. He wore a shortsleeve white shirt, his arms and face a patchwork of skin grafts. He studied Rene as she entered the room, sizing her up with the eyes of a predator. But it
was the wave of black hatred pouring off him that caused her to break out in a cold sweat.
She recognized the man behind the desk as Dr. Randall Sinclair, the same Dr. Sinclair who had been in the audience when she demonstrated the Neuro-Enhancer. He stared at her for a moment longer, and then smiled. The smile was false, a mask to hide behind. She could still feel his loathing for her.
“Good evening, Dr. Reynolds. I hope your being brought here wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.” His voice was sweet, patronizing.
“No. Not at all.” She forced a smile. “I enjoy being physically abducted and held a prisoner against my will.”
His smile faded. “Most unfortunate. I do apologize. But I’m afraid it was all very necessary. We saw no other way to get you here.”
“Wherever here is.” She crossed the room and looked out the windows. Across the street, several high-rise buildings and what looked like a warehouse sat in darkness, offering absolutely no clue as to her whereabouts. She turned back to look at Dr. Sinclair. “What is this place?”
“It used to be a home for the mentally disturbed, but that was many years ago. Now it is a medical research facility. Nothing more. You might find our labs a little bigger, our staff a little larger, but other than that it is very similar to where you work.”
“We don’t have armed guards and jail cells where I work,” she countered.
“No need to be bitter, Dr. Reynolds. You’re a scientist; you know the need for security. It would not do for some of our projects to fall into the wrong hands or become public knowledge before they were ready.”
“Why have I been brought here?”
He ignored the question. Reaching into his desk drawer, he produced a small notebook and a stack of paperwork. Rene recognized the notebook as being hers, probably taken from her office by the same men who abducted her. A flush of anger warmed her face, but she held her tongue and didn’t say anything. If Dr. Sinclair had her notebook, then he might also have the Neuro-Enhancer.
