Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Come!” she hissed. “We must move quickly!”

  Still he just stood there. She came to him, gently took his arm as the boy leaned over the two men, checking quickly for vital signs. “Please!” she pleaded, pulling him toward the door. “We don’t know how soon there will be others.”

  Bryce followed her dumbly, like a child in a stupor. The man with the rifle stood. “Go!” he commanded. “Get him out of here!”

  The events that followed became the rapid blur of a nightmare for Bryce. The woman half dragged and half shoved him out a back door and to a beat-up old pickup truck hidden in a stand of trees. “Get under the tarp,” she commanded, pointing to the back of the truck. “You mustn’t even stick your head out until we stop again.”

  Still dazed, Bryce obeyed, feeling her tuck the canvas around him. The engine coughed into life, died once, then started again. There was a lurch, the crunch of the tires on gravel, then they turned onto pavement. They drove at a sedate speed along the highway for only five or six minutes, then turned left onto a rough dirt road. Now she really put the pedal to the floor, and for the next fifteen minutes Bryce’s body was battered and bruised as the truck bounced and careened wildly over a road that could not have been much more than a deer track. Several times he was tempted to peek out, then his mind would flash back to the image of the captain’s body slamming against the wall and the bright red smear he had left as he slid to the floor. That was enough to keep him under cover.

  Finally the truck careened to a stop in a spray of gravel. The truck’s door opened, there was a soft step, then the canvas was pulled back. Bryce sat up slowly, blinking at the light.

  “Hurry!” she urged. “You mustn’t be seen.”

  He climbed stiffly out of the truck. They were in front of a one-room cabin, roughly built, half hidden in a heavy stand of birch and white pine. Thirty yards in any direction and one would be lost to sight in the thick trees.

  She motioned with her head. “This way.”

  They went only ten or fifteen yards, and for a moment Bryce thought she was going to hide him in the forest, for they had stopped in front of a thick clump of mountain laurel. But then she reached down and pulled. Bryce was startled to see a door open. It was a root cellar, dug right into the hillside, with its door still covered with soil and grass. His estimation of the woman went up yet another notch. One could walk into that clump of brush with a magnifying glass and pass right over the door.

  The cellar was small, no more than ten by ten, and had a dirt floor. The air was musty and smelled of rotten potatoes. Inside was a small wooden bin filled with sawdust, a beat-up old army cot, and a wooden crate turned upside down. On the crate sat the lid of a jar with a small candle stuck vertically in its own wax.

  She lit the candle with a match retrieved from somewhere. “I’ll bring you some food tonight.” She pointed to the sawdust bin. “There are a few carrots in there.”

  Bryce nodded, sensing her urgency, but also feeling his own grasping need for some answers. “Who were those men? Why are you doing this for me?”

  She looked surprised, then quickly shook her head. “I’ve got to get back and help my son.” She moved back to the door. “I’ll be back after dark. Keep the door closed. Don’t go out for any reason.”

  He fought back the urge to grab her and shake the answer out of her, but again he just nodded numbly.

  Satisfied, she opened the door, slipped out, and pushed it shut again. Bryce stared at it, watching his shadow flicker and dance in the dim light of the candle.

  Chapter 15

  Bryce was half dozing in the darkness, trying to ignore the discomfort of the narrow cot and wondering why after seven or eight hours his nose had still not grown completely accustomed to the smell of rotting potatoes. The door above his head scraped softly. He was up instantly and crouched in the corner.

  “It’s me.” It was her voice, and he saw a dark shape framed against the starlight as the door to the root cellar opened, then closed again almost immediately. “Just a moment,” she said.

  There was a loud scratch, a match flared, and she raised the glass on a kerosene lantern and touched the match to the wick. As the light filled the cellar, she set it on the upturned crate, then turned and smiled. “There. Is that better?”

  Bryce nodded gratefully. He had never been claustrophobic, but the candle had burned out after a couple of hours, and after six or seven more hours in total darkness, he better understood the feeling.

  She turned. Next to the door was a small cardboard box which she lifted and put next to the lamp. Bryce stepped forward, catching the sudden whiff of something wonderful. Fried chicken. Sandwiches. A bottle of milk. Some peaches. After his eighth or ninth carrot, he had finally lost his ability to get another one down and had tried to ignore the gnawing hunger.

  “Eat,” she commanded, pulling the cot over close enough to serve as a chair.

  Bryce obeyed without hesitation, biting into a chicken breast eagerly.

  “I’m sorry it took so long.” She looked away. “There was much to do.”

  Bryce stopped chewing, feeling a sudden lurch in his stomach. “Are they dead?”

  “Only the one.” She saw the look on his face, and frowned. “We had no choice.”

  “I know,” he said, slumping back. He had been interrogated like a common criminal, slugged in the stomach, and smashed in the jaw. He had seen the rock-steady muzzle of a pistol poised at his head. But in spite of all that, he had hoped that he was not party to a killing—especially the killing of a policeman. And yet, in reality, there had been no hope. The horror of the captain smashed backwards by the bullet would never again leave him.

  He sighed, wearily. “What about the big man?”

  “He’s in another cellar, not far from here. We’ll send him north to Boston, ship him out on a freighter headed for Africa or India. They won’t hear from him for at least three months.”

  Bryce nodded, grateful that they hadn’t killed the second man too. On the other hand, he knew he owed a great debt to this woman and the man who was her son. If they hadn’t opened the door when they did…He stopped, remembering. Would the captain have pulled the trigger? He wasn’t sure. The man’s rage had been enormous. Bryce shuddered, pushing the thought away. “Who were they, anyway?” he asked woodenly.

  She shrugged, her face forlorn. “ISD.” At his blank look, she added, “Internal Security Division.”

  Internal Security? There it was again. “What is this Internal Security Division?”

  That surprised her. “From the Ministry of Internal Affairs. They’re the secret police. That makes it very, very serious for us.” She gave him a reproving look. “Why didn’t you listen to me? I warned you not to call them.”

  “Secret police?” There it was again, the whirling sense of surrealism, like being part of a conversation, understanding every word, but not comprehending a thing.

  He set the piece of chicken down slowly. “Secret police? In the state of Connecticut?”

  “The province of Connecticut,” she corrected. “But no, the ISD is the national police, for all of CONAS.”

  “CONAS? What is that?”

  She gave him a sharp look. “The Confederation of North American States.”

  The vision of the map on the bulletin board swam before his eyes. “What is happening?” he asked of the empty air. “One moment I’m in the United States of America, and the next, I’m in some wild, insane nightmare.”

  That brought her head up slowly. “So you are from the United States?”

  “Of course, I—”

  She grabbed his arm. “When?”

  “When what?”

  “When did you come from there?”

  He rubbed his hand across his eyes, fighting for some semblance of sanity. “Yesterday.”

  She leaned back, eyes glowing. “When I saw your currency, I couldn’t believe it. The United States!”

  “Look, lady—Mrs. Lambert, I—”

&
nbsp; “Please, my name is Jessie.”

  He grabbed her arm, swallowed hard, took a deep breath. “Look, Jessie, I am very, very confused. Something is terribly wrong here, and I want to know what. Let’s start right at the beginning. See if I can sort this out.”

  “First, I must ask two questions.”

  He sighed. “Okay, what?”

  “Could you lead us back to the United States of America?”

  He just stared at her.

  “I mean if we get the necessary papers? We’ll need new passports, identity cards—”

  “But we are in the United States of America!” he said, fighting not to scream it at her.

  Now it was her turn to stare. “Is that what you think?”

  “Of course that’s what I think. Where do you think we are?”

  “In the Confederation of North American States,” she said slowly, “and more specifically, the New England Confederation.” She was looking at him strangely.

  He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “The map,” he mumbled. “That’s what it said on the map.”

  “What map?”

  “The one on the bulletin board in the motel.”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “Is that…” He swallowed. “Is that accurate?”

  She gave him a long look. “Yes, of course.”

  He felt like the sergeant had slugged him in the stomach again. He dropped his head into his hands, staring at nothing.

  Jessie stood, went to the box she had brought and fished out a thin sheaf of papers from the bottom, then turned back and thrust them at him. “Here’s my second question.”

  He didn’t really need to look. He already knew what it was as he took the papers from her. He glanced down to confirm, saw the title, then started slightly. There was a dark red stain in the upper corner, next to where it read “Declaration of Independence.” Bryce felt his stomach turn. The captain had been holding these papers when the gun battle began.

  “Is this authentic?” Jessie asked softly.

  He handed the papers back to her. “Yes, it’s just a copy, but it is authentic.”

  Jessie sat down slowly on the cot, her hands trembling. She caressed the paper reverently with her fingertips, and Bryce was stunned to see sudden tears well up and trickle down her cheeks.

  “We always heard it was real,” she whispered, “but we couldn’t be sure.”

  The penalty for possession was death. That’s what the captain had shouted at him. The penalty for possession of this document is death. It has been outlawed for a hundred years. Now as he watched this middle-aged woman weeping over it, Bryce suddenly knew that everything here was very, very real. He didn’t understand it. He couldn’t comprehend how it had happened. But of this he was sure: this was no dream, no nightmare, no temporary flight into insanity. He was right smack in the middle of something very horrible and very, very real.

  He straightened slowly. “Jessie, we have got to talk.”

  The next morning, just before dawn, Jessie returned. She brought Bryce more food and a can of kerosene for the lantern. She looked drawn and haggard but brushed aside his solicitations. They had to leave by tonight, and there was still much to be done in preparation. She had brought a small box camera, and they went out into the daylight long enough for him to stand in front of a makeshift background made from a blanket and have three pictures taken.

  “Jessie?” he asked a few minutes later, watching her hands as she took the food from the box and put it on the crate.

  She looked up, brown eyes dark and tired.

  “Do you believe what I told you last night?”

  Straightening, she looked away for several seconds, then met his gaze. “It seems so crazy, so impossible.”

  “I know,” he said forlornly.

  “And yet.” She took a breath, then sighed. “And yet, it is the only explanation that makes sense of everything—the United States currency, the foolishness of your phone calls, your driver’s license with the Maryland address.” There was a long pause, then, “Yes, I believe you.”

  Bryce opened his mouth, then shut it again, surprised at the sudden burning in his eyes and catch in his throat. For the last twenty-four hours he had been skirting a mental breakdown. To have this woman, who exuded such New England practicality and common sense, say she believed him meant more to him than he could express. Finally, he got control. “What ever prompted you to intervene in my behalf?”

  There was a short hoot of disgust. “You heard the captain. I was in serious trouble for not calling in and reporting you when you first showed up.”

  He shook his head. “Trouble, yes. But not anything like you’re in now.”

  Her eyes were suddenly glistening, and she turned, so he couldn’t see her face. Bryce took a step closer to hear as she continued softly, “Eight years ago my husband went south, into the Atlantic States Alliance, to buy some things for the motel. His papers were not in order, or so they said.”

  She turned back to him slowly, and Bryce saw the lines around her eyes deepen and her mouth tighten. “He was arrested.” She swallowed, fighting for control. “No one helped him.”

  “Is he still in prison?” Bryce asked softly.

  She shook her head. “He died of tuberculosis three years ago.”

  “I understand. Thank you.”

  Her head came up. “But it was more than that.”

  “What?”

  “When I saw your money, I couldn’t believe it. We hear rumors about the USA. But no one is allowed to travel there, and no one from there has ever come here. I thought it was some kind of test by the secret police or something. I almost called them, but I kept thinking, ‘What if he is really from the United States?’ Then, after the big man searched your room, I heard the captain talk about the document they had found.” She finally met Bryce’s gaze, steadily and proudly. “That’s when I decided I would help you, no matter what the cost.”

  Chapter 16

  Bryce lay on the cot, staring at the roof of the root cellar. He had turned the lantern down until the wick barely glowed. Suddenly he jerked up, aware that he was not alone. In the dim light he saw the figure of a man perched on the orange crate.

  “You!” he shouted.

  “Hello, Laddie.”

  Bryce leaped to his feet. “Gorham! Man, am I glad to see you. The most incredible thing has happened.”

  Gorham didn’t move, but suddenly the wick of the lantern flared higher, filling the cellar with light.

  Bryce rushed on, not even noticing. “You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve been dropped right in the middle of the most bizarre nightmare. The United States is gone. Well, not really gone, but it’s not here anymore. It’s out west. Here it’s… it’s—there’s secret police, different currency. I was arrested, nearly shot. A captain of the secret police was killed. I’m implicated in the murder and now…”

  His voice trailed off as he peered at the old man. “You already know all this.”

  Gorham nodded slowly.

  “My car? The motel? Jessie? You know it all, don’t you?” The thoughts were coming faster now. “The Declaration of Independence? That’s why you gave it to me, wasn’t it. For Jessie?”

  Gorham just watched him steadily, face expressionless.

  Bryce turned and started to pace angrily; then suddenly he spun back around. “You did this!” He stepped forward, understanding coming in a rush now. “You did it! You brought me here!” His voice was hoarse with shock as he stared at Gorham. “You tried to warn me. There in the car, just before I hit that wall of whiteness.”

  “Yes,” Gorham sighed. “I tried to warn you.”

  Bryce’s eyes were blazing now. “Then take me back! Get me out of here!”

  There was no response.

  “I mean it, Gorham. Your little joke has gone far enough. Get me out of here!”

  Gorham stirred, his eyes brooding. “In the first place, none of this is a little joke, as you call it. Secondly, I didn�
��t put you here. You did!”

  “Oh sure!” Bryce snapped. “I was driving through the countryside of Connecticut, and thought to myself, ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful to—’”

  “Look!” Gorham thundered, startling Bryce enough that he fell back a step. “It was very difficult for me to get here. I can only stay for a short time. Are you going to sit there and whine, or do you want to hear what I’ve come to say?”

  Bryce sat back down on the cot slowly. “All right, I’m listening.”

  “For a while, I thought we were making progress with you. Between me and Leslie and her father, I thought we were really going to convince you.” Gorham sighed, and it was a deep, painful sound. “Then came the thing with Mannington and Leslie. Perhaps it was foolish of me to interfere—”

  “Perhaps nothing!” Bryce blurted. “You blew the whole thing.”

  “Well, be that as it may, when it became apparent that you had become absolutely rigid in your determination to continue on in the same course, there was a meeting of the Council of Founding Fathers. It was their unanimous decision to take more drastic action.”

  “Wait a minute,” Bryce cut in. “You didn’t know for sure how I felt about the amendment until we were in the car. There were only a few seconds between when you disappeared and when I hit that wall of light. When did this meeting with the council take place?”

  “Time, as you think of it, does not hold sway in that other sphere. Though it was only a few seconds for you, actually the deliberations of the council went on at great length.”

  Bryce was shaking his head. “And because I wouldn’t kowtow to you guys on this amendment thing, you zapped me into another world?”

  “Your stand on the amendment was an important factor, but it was not the only one, and not even the most important one.”

  “Then what was?”

  Gorham stood and began to pace the narrow confines of the root cellar. “Over the past few decades, the principles that we fought so hard to establish have been eroded again and again. In and of themselves, none of the losses were that critical. But the aggregate effect has become very serious. When added to all that has gone before, the proposed amendment is potentially devastating. It could be the straw that finally tips the camel over.”