The Trigger

by L. J. Sellers

  Where the hell did Sonja think she was going at midnight? Dressed in black and wearing a small backpack? Someone—maybe Spencer—had mentioned she was into astronomy, but the cloud cover was too heavy for stargazing. She was up to something, for sure. He’d suspected she was looking for Grace’s grave, but Sonja had jogged past the turnoff to the generator and didn’t stop until she reached bunker hill, as they privately called it. Now she was searching the ground at the halfway point in the slope. Shit! She was only about twenty feet from the opening to where Emma was.

  She had to be a federal agent sent here to find his wife!

  Randall worried that Sonja could hear his heart pounding in his chest, but she hadn’t looked back since that first stop. He’d been right about her from the beginning. And his brother had called him paranoid. It would be the last time. Could he text Spencer without making any noise? Did he even have his phone, or had he left it on the seat of his truck? Randall patted his pants pockets and didn’t find it. Instead, he slipped his gun into his right hand. The act was physically comforting, giving him the control he needed. Yet psychologically, he’d crossed a line into new territory. He and his brother had made many critical decisions in the last week, but this one might be irreversible.

  A bright light with a narrow beam clicked on, and the dark figure moved forward, scanning back and forth. How did she even know the bunker was in this area? Had Spencer stupidly told her? Had lust and loneliness rotted his brother’s brain? Even though the Emma situation was his own fault, Randall resented Spencer for making it worse. What the hell were they supposed to do with Sonja? If that was even her name.

  Should he confront her? Then what? Kick her out of the community and hope for the best? She would be back with a search warrant in twenty-four hours, and he would be in jail shortly after. Could he kill her and be done with it? Only if it was necessary to save the mission. But even if he eliminated her, other federal agents would come looking when she didn’t check in. One option seemed prudent and palatable. Put her in the bunker with Emma and wait for the meltdown. When they finally released her, the world as she knew it would be gone, and she might decide to stay and make the most of her situation. They certainly needed more babymakers. She might run, but by then, it wouldn’t matter. What was left of law enforcement would have their hands full keeping government offices protected. They wouldn’t have time to worry about a harmless, isolated community.

  Randall moved toward her slowly, watched her search for the entry, and plotted his attack. Sneaking up on her might be impossible. He could approach her in a friendly manner, then pull the gun. What if she was armed? Did undercover agents carry weapons? Fear snaked through his bowels. She was probably a trained fighter, and he hadn’t been in a physical confrontation since fifth grade. This would not go well. Should he just shoot her in the back? Randall brought up his weapon. His hands shook, his chest itched, and he thought he might be sick.

  Her light stopped moving, and Sonja dropped to her knees next to a big boulder. She’d found the entry. Was this the right time to rush her? No. He wanted her inside the bunker. He might as well let Sonja go down the stairs on her own, then knock her out and drag her inside.

  * * *

  In the dark, the black U-shaped latch was nearly impossible to pick out against the green grass, but Dallas expected it to be there and didn’t give up. She had spotted a fresh footprint in the dirt about ten yards back, and behind the giant boulder seemed like an obvious place to put the entry. Even in broad daylight, you could lift the trap door without being seen from the curve in the road. She pulled the decaying tree limb out of the way and squatted a foot or so from the handle. After a hard tug, the trap door lifted on its own.

  Musty cool air rose from the opening. Dallas leaned over the hole, listening for sounds of activity, but heard nothing. It was midnight, so Emma and her baby could be sleeping. If they were down there. Her gut told her they were. Randall didn’t act like a man who might never see his family again. Dallas scanned the narrow cavity with her flashlight and spotted an interior door. If she could just make contact, she could call in backup, and maybe a Redding police SWAT team could come out and force the entry. She slipped the flashlight into her pocket and moved into position over the ladder.

  Hanging onto an interior strap, Dallas planted a foot on the second rung, then grabbed the edge of the ladder with her free hand. It was an awkward transition, and she wondered how they’d carried Emma down. She had to have been unconscious. Maybe Spencer, being the bigger one, had strapped Emma to his back. Dallas climbed down the ladder, hating the feeling of being underground. So unnatural. If a meltdown ever did happen, she would rather die than live underground for any length of time.

  At the bottom, she used her flashlight to examine the door. Made of steel with a keypad entry. Dallas pushed the handle, then pounded on the door. “Emma, are you in there?”

  For a moment, there was no response. Dallas started to bang again, but a female voice called back. “Who are you?”

  “FBI. I’m here to help.” Dallas slipped off her backpack to dig out her cell phone. She probably couldn’t get service, but she had to try. First she reached for her weapon.

  Suddenly, a massive weight landed on her back, knocking her to the ground. Her head smashed against the door, and for a moment she blacked out. When her brain was functioning again, she tried to push off the ground, but her arms were weak, her lungs burned, and a funny noise dribbled out her mouth. She’d had the wind knocked out of her.

  A faint clicking sound caught her attention, and the door next to her swung open, slamming into her. Dallas rolled on her side and struggled to reach her weapon, which she’d dropped when she hit the floor. Weak and winded, she felt as if she were underwater. Someone grabbed her hair and dragged her through the opening. She kicked at his legs just as her hand found the Kel-Tec. She swung the gun up, but Randall knocked it away before she could pull the trigger. Fuck!

  A foot smashed into her head, and shocking pain waves clouded her thoughts. She tried to reach her backpack, but Randall stomped on her hand, snatched the pack and gun, and ran from the dark room. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Chapter 29

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! The slam of the door sent a wave of panic through her body. Dallas sat up. She wanted to rub her head, but her right hand hurt too.

  “Who are you?” The captive woman had stood there silently while Randall assaulted her.

  “Sonja Barnes.” Dallas instinctively stuck with her alias. “Are you Emma Clayton?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry Randall kicked you. Are you all right?”

  “Mostly.” Dallas looked around, but the room was lit only by a small lantern in Emma’s hand. Dallas guessed the size to be about forty-by-twenty. “Where’s your baby?”

  “Tate has a fever, so Spencer took him to the hospital.”

  Dallas tried to work out the logistics, then shut down the thought. The baby didn’t matter right now. She had to get out of this underground prison. Head throbbing, she pushed off the concrete and examined the door. Also made of metal, the handle was locked in place. A keypad to the left was the only means of exit.

  She turned to Emma. “Any idea what the code might be?” A pointless question.

  “No. Randall keeps changing it.”

  “Have you tried to get out?”

  “I’ve tried a few codes, but the door is locked and I’m underground. What else could I do?”

  So Emma wasn’t the self-reliant type. Dallas tried to remember what she’d seen of the mechanism on the outside before she was attacked. Another keypad, also to the left. The door locked every time it closed. They clearly hadn’t wanted just anyone to come and go freely from the bunker. But why was Emma here? Dallas had to know. “What happened? Why is your husband imprisoning you?”

  The pretty woman turned on another lamp. Dallas guessed it was battery powered.

  “I was leaving to go stay with my mother.” She bit down on her lower lip. “But
I think they have something planned. Something that might have prevented me from getting back.”

  A jolt shot up Dallas’ neck. “Tell me everything you know.”

  Emma chewed her lip, struggling with what she should say.

  Dallas wanted to slap her. “If you’re working with Randall and Spencer to commit crimes, I’ll leave you here when I go.”

  “No!” Emma looked alert for the first time. “I didn’t know anything about their plans until after they kidnapped me.”

  “What are they up to? I need specifics.”

  “I don’t know details. I just know that Spencer is trying to trigger a financial collapse, and Randall…” She hesitated for a long moment. “I think his followers might blow up some internet buildings.”

  “Good fucking god.” Rage and frustration made her head hurt worse. “Why? What do they have to gain?”

  “Nothing personally.” Emma sounded defensive. “They want to stop global warming before it wipes out humanity.”

  Dallas tried to process their egomaniacal thinking. “So they trigger a metaphorical flood, and Destiny gets to be Noah’s ark? The sole survivors that repopulate the earth?”

  “Something like that.” Now Emma looked ashamed.

  Too stunned to respond, Dallas tried to form a plan. The concrete walls were impossible to get through. She had to find a weakness in the door. She glanced at Emma. “Are there tools down here? A screwdriver maybe?”

  “Of course. We’re preppers.”

  “Get ’em.”

  Emma walked toward a freestanding cabinet on wheels. “They’re in here.” She dragged the unit toward Dallas.

  The walls started to close in, and her thumping heart grew loud in her ears. How had Emma stayed so calm down here? Was she medicated? Dallas didn’t ask. She had to get the hell out, access one of her spare phones, and let her team know what the crazies had planned. She yanked open the top drawer and found everything a do-it-yourselfer could want. A giant screwdriver caught her eye. She grabbed it and headed for the door.

  Oh shit. It swung outward, so the hinges were on the other side. Removing the door wasn’t an option. Rage welled, and Dallas fought the urge to smash the screwdriver into the keypad. She would try a few codes first.

  Emma stood behind her, and Dallas asked, “What is Randall’s birthday?”

  “August first, 1972. But it’s not that.”

  A Leo, and ten years older than his wife. Dallas keyed in the numbers. No luck, but she had to start with the obvious. People tended to make passwords easy to remember. “Keep giving me dates. Your birthday, your anniversary, your son’s birthday.”

  “You’re wasting your time. I’ve tried all those.”

  Dallas spent twenty minutes on it anyway, then picked up the screwdriver. What if she disabled the keypad? Would the door open… or would it lock permanently? She pressed the tip of the tool between the metal edge of the keypad and the concrete wall and gently pried. The mechanism didn’t budge. She might not be able to access the wires without dislocating them. Fuck!

  She fought to stay calm. There had to be another way out. A second exit—of course. Preppers were thorough and paranoid types. They likely hadn’t built a bunker with only one access point.

  Heart pounding, she spun around. “We have to find the other exit.”

  “There isn’t one.” Emma shook her head, looking a little dazed.

  “I’m going to tear this place apart looking for it. Give me the lantern.”

  Emma handed it over, then went to a shelf in the kitchen for another. Dallas followed her, eyeing everything. Calling it a kitchen was too generous, but the space did have a countertop, cupboards, and a sink. They had plumbing!

  “Where does the water go?”

  “I don’t know. The bunker was already here when I married Randall.”

  “Where does the ventilation come from?”

  Emma pointed at a three-inch vent near the ceiling. “Oxygen is pumped in through that opening.”

  Three inches was no help. Dallas yanked open a cabinet and started pulling food items down to the counter. “Help me look for a larger opening!”

  Emma joined the search, but they found nothing in the kitchen. Dallas ran to another freestanding structure with floor-to-ceiling shelves and drawers. She looked around and didn’t see a movable chair. Just a bed, a couch, and a table covered with paperbacks, chocolate, lotion, and other female stuff. Stacks of plastic crates lined the back wall. Dallas wondered what was in them. What did people pack for the end of the world? She hoped to go out in a blaze of glory, or even a sudden, stupid death, but not cowering in a cave, fighting over the last can of tuna.

  “I need something to stand on,” she snapped at Emma. “Help me clear the crap off this table.”

  “We have fold-up chairs.” Emma dug one out from between two plastic crates. “What are you gonna do?”

  “I’m still looking for a vent. So should you.”

  Dallas climbed on the metal chair and pulled blankets and reference books from the top shelves, letting them fall to the floor. No vent. She made her way down the shelves to the drawers at the bottom, which were filled with medical supplies, batteries, and packages of dried fruit.

  The walls were uninterrupted concrete everywhere.

  Except for a back corner, which was screened off by plastic panels. Dallas rushed over.

  “That’s the composting toilet,” Emma called, following her.

  Dallas opened the makeshift door. The toilet was tall with a solid white base, and the smell was milder than she’d expected. But the appliance was not her concern. The large vent behind it, covered with a slotted grate, made her heart leap with joy.

  “Help me move this thing!” With no plumbing attached—only an electrical plug —the toilet was portable.

  The damn thing weighed a ton, and even with both pulling, it moved inches at a time, and they had to stop twice. When they had a foot of clearance from the wall, Dallas stepped in and examined the screws on the vent. Phillips head. She rushed back for the correct tool and quickly removed the four screws. Stale warm air trickled out the opening.

  Just big enough for an average person to fit through, the tunnel was lined with dense wet earth. The brothers had probably intended the vent to provide a flow of oxygen as well as function as a means of escape. Dallas turned to Emma. “Get some flashlights.” Randall had taken all of her gear, and it pissed her off all over again. Had he found the FBI cell phone hidden in a compartment inside the backpack? If she didn’t check in by morning, her team would come looking.

  If Spencer’s financial malware was already on its way into cyberspace, the bureau needed to focus on a public communication effort. More important, they had to pinpoint Randall’s targets for destruction. She had to get out of here fast and warn them.

  Emma handed her a small light that would strap around her head, like a miner would wear. Very handy. Dallas pulled it on. “Do you know where this tunnel comes out?”

  “No, but based on the direction, it’s probably near the creek.”

  Dallas had thought the same thing. As much as she wanted to climb in the tunnel and crawl like crazy to daylight, her job was to rescue Emma. “You first.” Dallas pulled the metal chair into place.

  Emma chewed her lip. “You should go. I’m afraid I’ll freeze up and block us both.”

  Relieved, Dallas stepped up on the chair, climbed into the vent, and started crawling. Small rocks cut into her hands and knees, and in places cold water ran down the walls and puddled in the tunnel. The hand Randall had stomped earlier ached from the weight of her upper body, and her head throbbed where she’d been kicked. None of that mattered. After a few minutes, the vent curved right and began a gentle downward slope. She stopped and called back, “Are you with me, Emma?”

  “Yes.” The voice behind her came through gritted teeth.

  The air was suddenly warmer. Dallas picked up her pace, ignoring the pain flooding her body. In a moment, she could smel
l fresh air. Another hundred feet, and she emerged, landing in dense brush that she had to claw her way out of. She could hear the creek nearby. Thank goodness. She would follow the waterway to the generator, then make her way back to Destiny from there.

  Behind her, Emma cried out. Dallas turned to see her fall on her face. But she was fine, and they were outside, free of the bunker. Now they just had to steer clear of the Clayton brothers. Dallas instinctively reached for her weapon—which she no longer had.

  Chapter 30

  Randall raced back to the cul-de-sac, his thoughts spinning as quickly as his feet. He’d just kidnapped a federal agent, and now they had to put everything into action immediately. Spencer would be furious, but they were both far too committed to stop. The carefully orchestrated meltdown they’d planned spun more out of control every moment, and the stress was making Randall itchy and ill. This had happened to him on the campaign trail too. Near the end of his last election he’d been covered with hives and vomited daily.

  As he neared Spencer’s house, he slowed to a walk to catch his breath. He needed to appear confident, in control. He knocked on his brother’s back door, not wanting to be seen out front. In the middle of the night, it was best not to barge in. They all kept weapons handy.

  After a long wait, Spencer came to the door. The skin under his eyes sagged, his hair was tousled, and he had what looked like mucus on his shoulder. Randall remembered that Spencer was taking care of Tate. “How’s my boy?”

  “A little cooler now and sleeping.” Spencer stepped back to let Randall in. “You need to stay with him for a while and give me a break.”

  “We have another issue.” Randall headed for the fridge and pulled out a couple of beers. He downed half of one, ignoring Spencer’s folded arms and bracing stare. Finally, he plunged in. “Sonja Barnes is an FBI agent.”