Crimson Son

by Russ Linton

  “Well, sort of.”

  “I said I trusted you, Spencer. Not that I was an idiot!”

  “We have the right place, I can guarantee that.”

  “No shit, I told you this was it!”

  “Excuse me for not trusting that website.”

  “Are you mental? He could’ve grabbed us right there!”

  “Yep. And he didn’t.”

  He can’t form a response. In my world, I was pretty damn sure whatever government Augment program that was maintaining this place could care less about me and Eric. A couple of dumb teenagers lost in the woods, that’s all Super Mall Cop saw. I saw a military trained hard ass, with instructions to turn away anyone and everyone. Hopefully, Eric found a bit of the truth as well.

  “Pull over here.” I point to a flat area on the shoulder between a couple of trees. He guides the car between the thin piney trunks and slams it into park.

  “Now what?”

  “You wait here.”

  I’m shouldering the backpack and have one foot out the open door when he says, “No way.”

  Once I’m out, I hang on to the door and peer at him. A good long stare and I close the door, dipping back in through the open window. “Yes way.”

  Without hesitating, I turn and head for the woods. I hear the driver’s door open and close, followed by a frantic scramble through the gravel near the roadside.

  “Stay here. Stick with the camping story. If I’m not back in a couple hours…” I’m not sure how to end that because I’ve never planned that far in advance.

  “Bullshit! You’ve… you’ve got my laptop.”

  “I hope that’s not a problem. Might need it,” I call out as I push into the undergrowth.

  “You… I… what are you doing now?”

  He’s close behind, crashing through the brush and I whirl to face him. I grimace when I see the gun in his waistband but lay into him anyway. “What am I doing? Breaking into a covert facility to talk to an Augment. It’s stupid. Probably won’t work. Might get me arrested, or worse, killed.”

  “What says he’ll even talk to you if you do get in?”

  “Nothing. I don’t even know if he’s there. But if he did make this encryption and my dad was using it, well, maybe he helped set up the system at the bunker. Maybe he wants to help.”

  “So a wild hunch and you’re off on your own?”

  “This is why you stay in the car.”

  I watch the inner turmoil play out on Eric’s face. Our old friendship is there battling the theories he’s been sucked into since I left. Is he worried that, as a still-unconfirmed piece of his past, I’ll sell him out and the black helicopters will descend as he waits, or concerned for the safety of his friend? I can’t sense which way he’s leaning. All I know is that I want him to be safe, and if I find what I need, my next step will be to hitch a ride out of here without him.

  “I want to go. You don’t believe that I’m an Augment. But I’m telling you, I am. You can’t do this without me.”

  Christ, here he goes again. “You aren’t an Augment. How many times do I need to say that! You aren’t. Can’t be.”

  “But the Foundation? Getting lost at birth? Weren’t you listening?”

  “A coincidence. That’s it.”

  “Then how do you explain my insatiable thirst for knowledge? My ability to break through any firewall that stands in my way? Man, I don’t even know how I do half the stuff I do. I can have an army of hijacked computers at my disposal in an instant. If it’s coded, I can crack it.” I point at the backpack with a raised eyebrow, tapping the pocket with the sealed bag and thumb drive. Eric rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. Not that. But that’s classic Polybius, man. He’s, well, he’s—”

  “An Augment?”

  He slouches in defeat and I put a hand on his shoulder. “Eric, you’re a fucking genius. Not an Augment.”

  “Damn it,” he exclaims. With a halfhearted chop, he brushes my arm aside. “Let me go with you. You find out about your mom, I find out if I’m an Augment. Maybe Polybius knows.”

  “I can ask him,” I reply, still pressing forward.

  “Bullshit. I want to hear it for myself. I want to see your face.”

  Raw determination and utter sincerity are blazing through the schizo fog that’s been surrounding him. In lots of ways, I can’t think of anything better that could happen. Why anyone would want to be an Augment is beyond me. I got over that real quick as a kid. Seeing Eric suffer like this is too damn hard.

  “Fine. You can come. But put the gun back. If we get into a shootout, we’re as good as dead anyway.”

  Chapter 32

  “That’s weird,” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m whispering. Eric and I belly crawled up the small hill overlooking the retirement home with all the stealth of wounded animals. Special Forces, we are not.

  “What?” Eric pants as he claws his way up beside me.

  “No cars,” I say. “The parking lot is empty.”

  He peers over the rise and scans the grounds. “Helicopters. They use those, I bet.”

  The area below is lifeless. It’s a sprawling one-story brick complex with high windows along the arms of each wing. Trees are cleared in all directions for maybe an acre or so, but not nearly as far away as the photo on the website. There are no patios with old guys reading the paper in the fading sun. A mundane sliding glass door entrance faces the parking lot.

  One wing, however, is windowless and solid brick from top to bottom, with a different material on the roof. It’s thicker and the door appears metal with massive hinges. I point it out. Nodding and huffing, he starts to scramble down the hill.

  I grab his arm. “It’ll be dark soon, let’s at least wait until then.”

  “Oh, yeah, good idea.”

  Light slips away as we huddle behind the crest of the hill. What few attempts we make at conversation are awkward at best. Short, barely audible exchanges that can’t hope to encompass all the stuff I want to say.

  Once the sun’s set, we’re set to creep down the hill when the sound of an engine flattens us to the ground. The black SUV from the guardhouse makes its way up the main road and a figure emerges from the glass door entrance. A tall, lean man in a form-fitting white T-shirt walks out to meet the SUV. In the gathering darkness, it’s difficult to say, but I’m hoping it’s the SUV from the gate and I’m really hoping it’s only the one guard and not backup. They exchange words and as the vehicle departs along the main road, the man in the T-shirt scans the horizon. Before disappearing inside, he leans his head back and inhales deeply, twisting his head in an arc.

  “What was that all about?” I ask.

  “Maybe they found the car?” He says. “This is strange, man. No other guards, only the dude at the gate and whoever that guy inside was. Did he have a piece?”

  “A piece? What are you, the Pillsbury Mafia boy? No, I don’t think he had a gun. Wait here. I’ll see if I can get that door open.” A word of protest sticks in his throat as I scramble to my feet and shuffle down the hillside.

  In the dark, lights have winked on, but their pale pools of illumination are easy to avoid. I keep an eye out for cameras and don’t see one until I’m almost to the reinforced door. It’s right above the doorway. I flatten against the brick wall, hopefully out of view.

  Cameras aren’t my specialty, but as I stare at the tinted globe, I can see there’s little to worry about. The wires are cut. Creeping even closer, I see the exterior lights shining right through the bubble. No trace of a camera, even. Still cautious, I slide toward the door, a single hunk of metal with a latched handle similar to one on a walk-in freezer. An irregular lump sticks out from the center. To the right on the wall, there’s a keypad.

  I run a hand along the door as I work toward the handle and I can feel the lump, about the size of a fist—like someone on the inside was pressing against a sheet of plastic. I’m amazed by the damage while I fumble for my multi-tool. By the time I’m ready to crack open the keypad, I
notice that’s missing, too.

  I pull the handle and the door opens.

  Why is “easier” so much worse? Hoping Eric can see me, I raise a palm in the direction of the hill and slip inside.

  I enter an empty hallway with dim lights near the floor. The hall stretches out to a “T” intersection. Other heavy doors line the walls. I avoid checking them as I move. I’m not sure I want to know if they are occupied, and I need an idea of how this place is laid out, first.

  Reaching the corner, I can tell a bit more light fills the hallway to the right. That’s as good an indication as any of where the occupied areas might be. I continue sliding forward, flat against the wall. Light floods the next intersection. Frozen, I try to steady my breathing and build up the nerve to peek.

  The air gets dense and my ears pop painfully. I start to shift for that peek and that’s the first time I can tell I’m held against the wall. A hand clamps down on my mouth. Another grips my shoulder. I kick against the wall, my scream muffled by a leathery palm.

  A man’s bald head gleams in the light from the hall. He holds a finger up to sunken lips.

  “Calm down, son, or the Jerrys’ll hear ya!” He sounds like he’s talking with a mouthful of peanut butter.

  His finger trembles in front of a reddened and chapped face. In fact, in the dim light, his whole body looks that way—everywhere not covered by a standard hospital gown. I do a quick double take to see that yes, he isn’t wearing pants, and I see only a thin shadow where his right leg should be.

  He leans across me and peers around the corner. There’s a sharp aroma of Ben-Gay and a rotting stench beneath that. With his finger hovering in front of his mouth, he pulls his hand from my face inches at a time, all the while nodding up and down. I nod back.

  “Whew, a mess out there, yeah?” the man says, his chest rattling. “What the heck’s a kid like you doing here?”

  “Nothing. I mean, well, who are you?”

  “The name’s Hurricane.”

  “The Hurricane? Augment Force Z—”

  His hand is back before I can finish, or blink, or move. He squints one eye, taking me in head to toe. “Who gave you that information?” He casts a nervous glance at the corridor as he tips his hand away from my mouth.

  “Indian Springs Elementary. And I read about it way before then,” I manage to say.

  “You been hit in the head, kid?”

  “Lately? Yes.” What other way can I answer that?

  “We don’t have time for fooling around. How’d you hear about Force Zero?”

  Why he’s denying the existence of information anyone can get off a night on the couch with the History Channel, I’m not sure. But I need to play along, because old or not, sane or not, this guy means business. If he is who he says he is, he’s totally serious business. “I’m on a mission. I came to talk to Polybius. They said Force Zero could help me find him.”

  He shakes his head in contemplation, grinding his jaw. When he starts to speak, I notice why his voice is so strange; he’s got no teeth. “You’re in the know, kid. Let’s say I can take you, but what do you need Polybius for?”

  “Code breaking. I’ve got to break a code and nobody in the world can do it except him.”

  “Sounds legit. Hop on, son, I’ll run ya into HQ and we’ll see what we can see.” Hurricane sticks his right leg straight out in front while he bends the other. The gown cinches up and that thin shadow catches the light. The lower part of his thigh is fitted into a flexible cup. From his knee down, his leg is a metal rod that ends in the molded shape of a shoe.

  “What happened?”

  “Huh? Oh, my leg gets stiff every so often. Jus’ gotta wiggle the toes a bit and it all works out. See?” His foot and the shoe remain motionless in the shadows. He bends forward and sticks his elbows back. “Come on, hop on.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope. You can’t weigh more than what, a buck and a quarter? Might slow me down some, but unless you want to hump it through the battlefield out there, you best saddle up.”

  “A buck fifty.” I lie as I clamber onto his back. He’s thin and frail, but his muscles and bones feel like granite lurking beneath a sheet of leather. “And speaking of humping, this is awkward.”

  “Don’t get fresh, kid, just hang on.”

  The world streaks by and I can envision my insides flopping around in the dark corridor somewhere behind us.

  Chapter 33

  “Hey, Hound, we got one in from the front!” Hurricane announces.

  We’re facing another room with empty walls and a concrete floor. A caged fluorescent bulb runs along the ceiling, providing sanitized light. There are three hospital beds, each beside narrow tables; two on the closest wall and one on the far side. Of the two on the closest wall, the one nearest the door is occupied and a formless mass fills the other.

  Despite being only as loud as a strained whisper, a commanding voice comes from the closest bed. “What the hell are you goin’ on about now?”

  Propped against the wall with a pile of pillows behind him is the guy Hurricane is calling Hound. Hound pulls away from an open newspaper and glances our direction, his nose twitching. He’s peering at me through bushy eyebrows as white as his T-shirt. He’s an old guy with a sheen of salt-and-pepper hair combed in thick lines against his head. Clean shaven, the skin on his face is rugged and bronzed. His nose continues to wriggle.

  Hurricane hobbles into the room toward the unoccupied bed, leaving me in the doorway. “Nazi codes. Maybe some of that Jap Purple crap. We’ll get one over on the Bletchley gang, for sure!”

  I try and ignore Hound’s gaze and check the bed in the far corner. A glistening, liver spotted bulb juts from a mound of sea-green blankets that rise and fall in mechanical waves.

  “Is that Polybius?” I ask.

  Hound twitches his head in the direction of the corner bed. He takes in a long draw through his nostrils as he asks, “Who the hell are you?”

  “My name’s Spencer.”

  “Where’s your friend?” he scowls.

  “What friend?”

  “That’s not an answer. Is your friend in here or not?”

  “No.”

  He lowers his head, glaring through the wiry eyebrow tufts with a silent demand. Without thinking I add, “No, sir.”

  Hurricane creaks into the empty bed and pulls the artificial leg from its socket. The stump beneath is raw and bloodied. Where his leg rests in the fitting is a bunched-up cloth streaked in scarlet, copper and black.

  “’Cane, you keep that bullshit up and you’re gonna wear your leg down to your nuts,” barks Hound.

  Hurricane laughs. “Maybe I’m trying to lure the nurses up here, eh? You see the one Echo Company has working with the field medics? Finest little French girl I ever saw.”

  Hound rattles his paper and dives behind it, turning the page with a grumble.

  “How long has this place been here?” I call from the doorway.

  Hurricane answers with a smile as he binds his leg, “Since the start of the War.”

  “Which war?”

  Hound slaps his paper closed and tosses it re-folded onto the bed as he swings his feet off the mattress. “The War, son. There’s only been one. Rest were an ‘undefined action’ or ‘insurgency’ or some other bullshit.” Standing with arms crossed, he glowers at me. He doesn’t look old enough to be a World War Two veteran. Back straight and eyes needle-sharp, his broad frame stretches at the white T-shirt. Peeking out from his sleeve is what might be a bruise… or a tattoo. “Suppose we should call Chuck,” Hound sighs.

  “Chuck?”

  “Guy at the gate you talked to earlier,” Hound mumbles as he makes toward the doorway where I’m standing.

  “Wait! My mom’s been kidnapped by the Black Beetle and I have to get her back.” Hound scrunches his face and I fumble over the words, “Mr. Dog… Hound… sir.”

  “Stick with ‘sir’. How old are you, son?”

  �
�Nineteen.”

  He frowns incredulously.

  “Oh yeah, Hound. You remember Blaise?” Hurricane’s cheerful voice plummets into a whisper. “Heard he bought it by mortar last week. Good kid…”

  Hound walks forward with slow, deliberate steps. “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Blaise? That French Resistance fighter. Had his dad’s ol’ powder rifle when he—”

  “Not Blaise, you senile old fart, this Black Beetle the kid’s goin’ on about.”

  Hurricane shrugs off the name-calling with a smile. “Oh, stop yer growling, Hound.”

  I take a gamble and step into the room toward Hound. “I don’t have much time. I think Polybius can help…” My eyes trail to the occupied bed in the corner. There’s a metal tree hung with bags of fluid, and a heart monitor standing at the side of Polybius’s bed. The shrouded body rises and falls rhythmically. “Is that him?”

  “Son, only thing he’s good for is catheter practice.”

  “You mean, he can’t talk?”

  “Not payin’ attention? He can’t even piss for himself. Not sure how much help he’d be.”

  “Maybe I should go and fetch this friend ya mentioned?” Hurricane stuffs a handful of fresh gauze in the prosthetic and swings his damaged leg to the edge of the bed. Affixing the prosthesis, he stands and presses his thumbs into his lower back leaning with a groan and a crescendo of popping joints. “Be back in a jiff.”

  “Dammit, ‘Cane…” Hound starts but too late. Hurricane’s white bed sheet settles to the bed which is now pushed back several feet. For a heartbeat, Hurricane just isn’t there.

  I wince as my ears pop and a blast of air drags the door to the hallway closed. Hurricane’s back, inches from my face, squinting. “Hey, Blaise, where’s this friend at anyway?”

  “He’s hiding in the trees. I don’t think we need to get him.” I call out the last bit as the door swings open again with enough force to bounce closed. Hurricane’s gone.

  Hound groans and strides to the bedside. “Damn fool.”

  “Do you think he’ll find him?”