by Andrew Mayne
I try to avoid defining my own religious beliefs, but if in this moment I saw Abraham raising his knife over his son Isaac, as God had instructed him to do, I’d unload my shotgun into his chest.
Elijah and I walk along a corridor I haven’t traveled down before. I distract him, and myself, with questions.
“How many rooms are here, Elijah?”
“Um,” he thinks for a moment. “Dozens?” He seems unsure of what the word means.
“What’s behind the doors?”
“Stuff.”
“Food?” I ask.
“A couple places. Not much.”
“How did you get down here?”
“Through a door.”
His answers are typical for a child who assumes you already know everything. “Is the door you came through locked?”
“I don’t know. There was a ‘splosion.”
“An explosion?” I ask. “Can you show me?”
He takes me through another long hallway, away from the main corridors. At the end of it is a massive rock fall, with boulders piled all the way to the ceiling.
Jesus. They sealed the place after they left.
“Where were you when this happened?”
“Sleeping,” he replies, and points back down the way we came.
“What about everyone else?”
Elijah shrugs. “I was sleeping. Then I heard the ‘splosion. It woke me up.”
Those assholes, leaving the boy down here to die. I hate them. I hate them like I’ve never hated before. I will hunt them down. I will chase them.
Badge or no badge, I will find these fuckers.
“Ouch!” Elijah jerks his hand away from my tight grip.
I kneel down. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs it off, then brushes a hand against my cheek and tells me: “It’s okay to be scared. I’ll protect you.”
He’ll protect me? After everything he’s been through, he wants to help me.
Sensing the effect his promise has on me, he throws his arms around my neck and hugs me.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Don’t be scared. I cried too when they left me. Don’t tell Mommy, but I cried a lot.”
“You’re a brave little boy.” I wrap one arm around him and return the hug, then stand back up.
“I found things to do.”
“With no light?” I still haven’t seen a single working source of light.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asks quietly.
I kneel back down. “Yes.”
His voice is hushed. “I found some matches. I’m not supposed to use them.”
“I think in this case it was okay.”
“I ran out.”
“What did you do then?” I ask, trying to fathom how he didn’t go crazy.
“I watched TV.”
“TV?”
His eyes flash open and, realizing he’s done something wrong, he clamps both hands over his mouth.
“It’s okay, Elijah. Don’t you know that when grown-ups leave you all alone, you’re supposed to watch television?”
He lowers his hands. “Really?”
I nod. “It’s practically a law.”
“Oh . . .” He nods at the revelation.
“Where’s this TV you were watching?”
Hopefully this could lead to another way out.
He points down yet another corridor. “That way. There are lots of them. But I can’t change the channels. Mostly boring stuff. People fighting and yelling.”
“News?”
“Yeah.”
“Sounds boring to me.” I try not to let on how interesting this actually is.
“There’s one really boring channel. Although sometimes I liked to watch it the most. It helped me practice my counting.”
“Like Sesame Street?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know where that is. This is just a really long number that keeps changing into a smaller number.”
I try to make sense of what he means. “Like ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one?”
“Yeah,” he smiles. “But bigger.”
“How much bigger?”
“A little, not a lot.”
I try to keep calm. “Has it reached zero yet?”
“Not last time I checked. Maybe. Is that important?”
I try not to let my fear show. I force a smile. “Let’s play a game, Elijah. Show me how fast you can run to the TVs, and I’ll try to follow!”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Ground Control
When I finally catch up to Elijah, he’s waiting in another concrete room.
“See!” he says.
His TVs are actually a wall of monitors, reminiscent of the setup we found in the CCA—in the same way an iPhone is reminiscent of an old brick-size cell phone. Instead of clunky CRT rear-screen projections, two rows of four large screens show CNN, Fox, MSNBC, BBC, Al Jazeera, and several other regional news stations. Below them is another similar screen with multiple terminal windows open. Six of them show countdowns that have completed. Two others are still ticking down.
I check my watch and do the math.
The first one has five hours left. The other, several months.
Counting down to what?
I realize that the finished countdowns have a “date of completion” at the bottom.
The first one is the same date as the dam break. The second one coincides with the shooting at the White House. The others match up to the dates of the blackouts.
Elijah leans over the controls, his small fingers about to press the keyboard. I gently pull him backward.
“Want a granola bar?” I take my lunch from my pocket and hand it to Elijah. “Have a seat by the wall for a second, okay?”
“Can I hold your gun?” he asks as sweetly as possibly.
“Not happening. Now have a seat.”
“I just wanted to protect you.”
“You do that by being a lookout. Okay?”
He takes the granola bar from me and squats down by the wall and watches. I make sure I can keep an eye on him as well. I trust him—to a point.
I don’t know if the countdowns are passive, or if they are controlling something. If they are, then what is it?
Staring at the lines of mysterious commands, I wish I’d spent less time palming silver dollars and put more effort into programming. If Gerald or Jennifer were here, I’m sure they’d know what to do in a cinch.
Hopelessly, I check the signal on my cell phone.
No Service. Obviously.
Thinking wishfully, I check the Wi-Fi in the event these backward, Luddite, floor-sleeping, candle-reading assholes happen to make an exception for checking Facebook and have an open network.
Nope.
But what about this computer? What about the screens? They have to be getting a signal from somewhere.
I crouch down and look behind the monitors. There are some power plugs, a coaxial cable, and what looks like an Ethernet jack.
Okay. This thing is networked. That’s something. In theory, I could use this setup to talk to the outside world. That’s if I knew what the hell to do in a Linux or Unix or whatever the kind of system this is.
“You know anything about command prompt interfaces, kiddo?”
Elijah shakes his head. “I’m not supposed to touch commuters.”
“Hah, when we get out of here I’m buying you an iPad and an Xbox.”
He makes an excited squeal then asks, “What’s an iPad-box?”
This is worse than child abuse.
“I’ll show you later. Do you know if the people down here had a way to talk to people outside?”
“I don’t think so. Sometimes people would come here to send messages, I think. I heard people saying they was going to the commuter room to send something.”
“It’s okay. We’ll figure this out,” I say, more confidently than I feel.
The countdown clock keeps whirring away.
I check my w
atch again. I have to decide if I just want to get out of here with the kid and call for some tech support when I get into cell range, or if I should stay and try to do something now. If I leave, it’s going to be too close. Assuming a best-case scenario, I’d be on the phone in two hours.
And then what?
There’s no chance in hell I’d be able to get anyone who knows what to do down here before the clock runs out. God knows what happens when it does.
I brace myself and type “help” into a command prompt.
A star (*) next to a name means the command is disabled.
JOB_SPEC [&] (( expression ))
. filename [arguments]:
[ arg . . . ] [[ expression ]]
alias [-p] [name[=value] . . . ] bg [job_spec . . . ]
bind [-lpvsPVS] [-m keymap] [-f fi break [n]
builtin [shell-builtin [arg . . . ]] caller [EXPR]
case WORD in [PATTERN [| PATTERN]. cd [-L|-P] [dir]
command [-pVv] command [arg . . . ] compgen [-abcdefgjksuv] [-o option
complete [-abcdefgjksuv] [-pr] [-o continue [n]
declare [-afFirtx] [-p] [name[=val dirs [-clpv] [+N] [-N]
disown [-h] [-ar] [jobspec . . . ] echo [-neE] [arg . . . ]
enable [-pnds] [-a] [-f filename] eval [arg . . . ]
exec [-cl] [-a name] file [redirec exit [n]
export [-nf] [name[=value] . . . ] or false
fc [-e ename] [-nlr] [first] [last fg [job_spec]
for NAME [in WORDS . . . ;] do COMMA for (( exp1; exp2; exp3 )); do COM
function NAME { COMMANDS; } or NA getopts optstring name [arg]
hash [-lr] [-p pathname] [-dt] [na help [-s] [pattern . . . ]
history [-c] [-d offset] [n] or hi if COMMANDS; then COMMANDS; [ elif
jobs [-lnprs] [jobspec . . . ] or job kill [-s sigspec |-n signum |-si
let arg [arg . . . ] local name[=value] . . .
logout popd [+N |-N] [-n]
printf [-v var] format [arguments] pushd [dir | +N |-N] [-n]
pwd [-LP] read [-ers] [-u fd] [-t timeout] [
readonly [-af] [name[=value] . . . ] return [n]
select NAME [in WORDS . . . ;] do CO set [—abefhkmnptuvxBCHP] [-o opti
shift [n] shopt [-pqsu] [-o long-option] opt
source filename [arguments] suspend [-f]
test [expr] time [-p] PIPELINE
times trap [-lp] [arg signal_spec . . . ]
true type [-afptP] name [name . . . ]
typeset [-afFirtx] [-p] name[=valu ulimit [-SHacdfilmnpqstuvx] [limit
umask [-p] [-S] [mode] unalias [-a] name [name . . . ]
unset [-f] [-v] [name . . . ] until COMMANDS; do COMMANDS; done
variables-Some variable names an wait [n]
while COMMANDS; do COMMANDS; done { COMMANDS; }
So much for that. I type in “e-mail” and get an error message. “Browser” gets me nothing either. I might as well be poking the thing with a stick and hooting at it.
“Are you talking to your friends?” asks Elijah.
“No, hon. I’m trying to figure out how to use this thing.”
“Oh. Are your friends nice?”
I think of Gerald and Jennifer. “Yes. I think you’d like them.”
“I miss my friends,” he says softly.
“Me too.”
“Sometimes we’d stay up after dark and whisper to each other. Do you do that?”
“Sometimes.”
His question reminds me of how Gerald and Jennifer make each other giggle in the bullpen. We all keep an instant message screen open, but they like to use one of their geek things to talk as well. Jennifer had shown me once, so I could be in on the joke, but it was too complicated for me. What was it?
IRC. Of course.
They keep that open all the time. Hmm.
I type “Open IRC” into the terminal.
Damn. Nothing.
The countdown timer keeps dropping. I’ve still got hours, but it’s stressing me out all the same. If this is like any of the other countdowns, people are going to die when it’s done.
I take a deep breath. Let me think this through.
This isn’t some magic box I can just shout commands at. I have to be specific.
open /Applications/IRC.app
Nope. Don’t they call it something else?
open /Applications/IRSSI.app
Boom. I’ve got an IRC window in front of me!
What the hell did we call the channel we used?
Right: #Misfitgmen
Password: PrincipalAiles<>
Gmancer: Pepperoni
NotACatLadyYet: Again? What about Hawaiian?
Gmancer: No dice. You and MagicWoman always gang up on me when it comes time to choose. I hate pineapple.
What name would you like to use to enter the chat room?
Seeing my coworkers bantering away about a pizza order makes me grin. I furiously type: MagicWoman.
Mod: MagicWoman has entered the chat.
MagicWoman: Sorry, Gerald. It’s going to be Hawaiian pizza again.
Gmancer: Jessica!!!!!
NotACatLadyYet: Where the hell are you?
MagicWoman: Deep underground in the Red Chain’s subterranean evil torture lair with two countdown clocks and a scared orphaned boy.
Gmancer: Hah!
NotACatLadyYet: ROTFL
MagicWoman: No. Seriously.
Gmancer: FUCK!
NotACatLadyYet: Why am I not surprised?
Chapter Fifty-Four
Sudo
Gerald and Jennifer patiently walk me through the steps to give them control of my computer. It takes about twenty minutes for me to find the ports and enact other mysterious wizardry they need, but when it’s done I watch as they rapidly open and close programs and scan through lists of text almost faster than I can see.
Occasionally they update me on the IRC channel.
Gmancer: You have your phone?
MagicWoman: Yeah?
NotACatLadyYet: We found a Wi-Fi network. We can turn it on and talk to you.
MagicWoman: Great!
A few minutes later, I’m patched through to them.
“Jessica? Can you hear me?” asks Jennifer.
“Right here!” I say over speakerphone. Hearing their voices makes me feel like things are going to be okay. “Say hello to Elijah.”
“Hey, Elijah!” Jennifer says, revealing a much softer tone she must only break out in the presence of children.
He looks down at the phone in bafflement. I realize he may never have made a phone call before.
“That’s my friend Jennifer,” I explain.
His eyes widen. “Hello!” he eagerly shouts.
“Are you keeping my friend Jessica safe down there?”
“Yes.” He pats me on the arm. “She was scared of the dark but I told her it’s okay.”
“You’re very brave.”
I’d filled them in on who his mother was and the current state of things down here via IRC.
“Hello, Elijah. This is Robert. I’m Jessica’s boss.” His voice is upbeat, but I can tell he’s doing that to put Elijah at ease.
“Are you in trouble?” Elijah whispers.
“Always,” I whisper back.
“Hello, Robert,” Elijah says.
“Elijah, I have a very special job for you. Can you help us?” asks Ailes.
“Yes, sir,” he answers, his back suddenly straight.
“Is there a chair where you can sit and watch the screens?”
“He can have mine.”
“Okay. Elijah, I need Jessica to do some work. While she does this, I want you to sit right there and watch all the TVs. Can you do that?”
“Okay,” he replies.
“Do you know your ABCs?” asks Ailes.
“Uh-huh. Not always in order.”
“That’s good enough. If someone comes into the room other than Jessica, I want you to type H for help. Can you do that?”
“Yeah. I
s Jessica going away?” Elijah asks, worried.
“I need her to go down the hall to check on something. That’s all. Tell you what. Why don’t we play a game on the little screen. Alright? I’ll give you a letter, and you try to type in as many animals as you can think of that begin with that letter. Can you do that?”
“Okay. What if it’s H?”
He’s a clever boy. I pat him on the head and he beams up at me.
“You’re very smart, Elijah,” says Ailes. “If you need help, type a lot of H’s and then hit the Return key. Got it?”
I put Elijah in my seat and make sure he understands how to use the computer. The kid takes to it quickly. In an hour he’ll be showing me how to run the thing.
I ruffle his hair. “I’ll be back. Stay put. Okay?”
“Okay.” His eyes are glued to the screen as he tries to think of animals that begin with B.
Out in the hallway I switch off the speakerphone. “Is he going to be okay with the computer?” I don’t want him accidentally blowing up the facility.
“Yes. Only that chat window is working. He’ll be fine,” Ailes answers.
“So, what’s going on?”
“We have the sheriff’s department on the way, but they’re still over an hour out. We’ve also been able to dig a little into the code on the system. It’s the CCA two point zero, as we feared.”
“Can’t we just shut it down?”
“We need to know what it’s doing first. It might have a deadman’s trigger.”
“Christ.” Just when I thought we had things under control. “What can I do?”
“We still don’t know what the hell this place is. I was able to task a military satellite to get some thermal images of the complex. There are two tunnels longer than the rest, which radiate in different directions, and one of them leads to a large area that seems to have some industrial air handlers near the surface. I need you to check it out.”
“What are you thinking?”
“We don’t have a clue. Finding out what’s in that room will help us figure out how to respond. We think the timer is connected to some kind of location, and the contents of this room could tell us what it’s for.”
