by David Meyer
“Fei.” Her gaze turned to Fei Nai-Yuan, a brilliant Chinese-American geophysicist. “Charlie needs help.”
Nai-Yuan, equipped with one of the many rifles seized during the coup, gave her a brisk nod. With quick steps, he made his way into the Eye, shutting the door behind him.
Morgan strode across the Heptagon, passing a collection of bound guards along the way. They sat in a circle, backs to the middle. Six people, a mixture of scientists, technicians, and rangers, kept them in check with rifles. The station’s primary physician, Dr. Ankur Adnan, moved silently about the guards, checking their stitches and rebandaging their wounds.
She grasped Research’s doorknob. As she opened the door, a distinct humming noise, the product of computers and machinery, filled her ears. Strong heat reached out, causing a thin layer of sweat to bubble up all over her body.
She paused, giving herself a moment to adjust to the sudden temperature change. Then she strode through the doorframe, paying no attention to the mounted Stop: Restricted Access, Research Only sign.
She walked through the maze of tables and machinery. A metal hatch, roughly three feet on each side, occupied the room’s far right corner. Other than some giant hinges on one side and a handle on the other side, the hatch was perfectly flat with the floor. A small computer screen was embedded into the metal. It showed ever-changing strings of digits and letters, bright green against a black background.
Two women sat at a long table near the hatch. Their gazes were fixed upon laptops. Their fingers swept over the keyboards, pecking keys at a high rate of speed.
Morgan cleared her throat. “Well?”
“Nothing yet,” Bonnie Codd said without looking up.
“You’ve been at this for hours.”
“We’re making progress.”
Morgan rubbed her forehead. Normally, the hatch—which was controlled by computers far beneath them—took mere minutes to open. Unfortunately, this was no normal situation. “How much progress?”
Codd clucked her tongue in disapproval. “If you’re in such a hurry, why don’t you try that back entrance you mentioned?”
“Because it’s just as hard to open from the outside. Now, how much progress have you made?”
“Do you see that thing?” Codd nodded at the hatch. “It’s two-feet thick, made of the latest torch and drill resistant metals. Thermal lances couldn’t touch it. I don’t think even an atomic bomb could crack it.”
“I know. But—”
“The only way into the Lab is to penetrate a whole bunch of mechanical and electronic locking mechanisms. And that’s a lot easier than it sounds.”
“I need you to go faster. It’s only a matter of time before the Foundation figures out something’s wrong here.”
Zlata Issova, who served as Codd’s right-hand woman at Hatcher Station, arched an eyebrow. “Do you think they’ll attack us?”
“Not right away,” Morgan said, trying to hide the doubt in her voice. “Not while we’ve got hostages.”
The two computer experts stared at her with hooded eyes.
“Let me worry about the Foundation.” Morgan nodded at the hatch. “Just get us down there so we can access the communications network.”
Codd and Issova exchanged looks. Then they returned to their keyboards.
As they worked, Morgan gently touched her waist. Pain shot up and down her right side, but she didn’t feel sorry for herself. She deserved the pain. After all, she and the other researchers weren’t entirely blameless in all this. They’d challenged God, challenged His grip on time itself.
And some sins, unfortunately, could never be forgiven.
Chapter 5
Date: June 19, 2016, 8:01 a.m.; Location: Central Park, New York, NY
“Good morning, folks.” Suppressing a yawn, Caplan stared across the wide expanse of Central Park’s Great Lawn. Nineteen shining faces, clearly pumped up on copious amounts of coffee, stared back at him. “And welcome to the Zach Caplan Survival School. This particular class, Urban Survival Basics, will run for the next eight Saturdays.”
A couple of smiles greeted his words. Most were broad and curious. But some, as always, were smirky and self-satisfied. Inwardly, he groaned. Introductory sessions were always the worst. In order to reel in the fish, he offered them for free. As a business strategy, it worked wonders, doubling his paid attendees. But it also had a dark side. Namely, the fact that it brought in the cynics.
“I’ve got a question.” A dude, outfitted in jeans and a tight t-shirt, folded his arms across his chest. “Why do you do this?”
Here we go, Caplan thought. “Do what?” he asked.
“Rip people off.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the air.
“Let me guess,” Caplan replied. “You hate survivalists, right?”
“I think they’re stupid, dangerous hillbillies.” The dude flashed a grin at a heavyset guy. “But I don’t hate them.”
The guy, clearly friends with the dude, roared with laughter.
“What you call stupid, I call smart.” The words, repeated many times over the last five months, rolled easily off Caplan’s tongue. “Back in the 1950s, people built bomb shelters in order to survive nuclear fallout. When inflation ran wild in the 1970s, they ditched paper money for gold. A few decades later, they bought canned goods and generators when Y2K looked like it might cause food shortages and blackouts.”
“Interesting,” the dude replied in a voice that indicated the exact opposite. “What’s your point?”
“Those people weren’t stupid hillbillies. They were ordinary, intelligent people, preparing for difficult times.”
“Which never happened.”
“But that doesn’t mean something couldn’t have happened.” For an instant, Caplan’s mind snapped back to the Vallerio Forest. To five months ago. To that part of him that no longer existed. “If something goes wrong, a little preparation just might save your life.”
Exhaling softly, Caplan shifted his gaze to the other students. “Now, let’s talk about what you can expect from this class. Urban Survival Basics isn’t meant to prepare you for a minor terrorist attack or a measles outbreak. It’s in case something truly bad happens. Something that destroys civilization.”
The heavyset guy smirked. “How often does that happen?”
“More often than you think,” Caplan replied smoothly. “Think of the Anasazi, the Mayas, the Khmer Empire, the Roman Empire, the Soviet Union.”
“And yet, here we are, more civilized than ever,” the dude said, finding his tongue. “Those people didn’t need bug out bags or canned goods to survive disasters. They just picked up the pieces and moved on with their lives.”
God, he hated the cynics. Why didn’t they just let him teach his classes in peace? “Not all of them. Many people—the ones who didn’t see it coming—perished. Modern civilization is built on the backs of those who were prepared.” Caplan smiled. “The survivalists.”
The dude exchanged frustrated looks with the guy. Together, they ambled away from the group.
Caplan turned his attention back to the students. “So—”
“I’ve got one more question for you.” The dude whirled around. “You’re a survival expert, right?”
Caplan nodded.
“Then how come you only teach urban stuff? How come you don’t teach wilderness skills?”
Caplan’s mouth moved, but no words came out.
A grin creased the dude’s lips. Whirling around, he and the guy hiked across the Great Lawn, chortling loudly with glee.
Caplan’s blood rushed to his head. It wasn’t the questions that bothered him so much as the thoughts they provoked in his head. About his career at Hatcher Station, deep within the Vallerio Forest. About the life he’d left behind.
His hands formed into fists. He was sorely tempted to chase after the dude, to beat the man senseless. But he forced himself to breathe slowly. To allow his anger to ebb. You’ve got a class to teach, he reminded
himself. Money to earn, rent to pay.
Caplan took another breath. “Urban Survival Basics isn’t about growing urban gardens or installing solar panels. On the other hand, it’s not about fighting off hordes of enemies with your fists and feet. It’s about two things, evasion and escape. Evasion from authorities, terrorists, criminals, zombies, you name it. Escape from captivity, escape from the city.”
He paused, allowing his words to register with the students. “Let’s face it … New York sucks.” A few half-hearted chuckles rang out. “If the shit ever hits the fan, this is probably the worst place you could find yourself. It’s overcrowded and under-resourced. Urban Survival Basics will teach you how to handle that. Over the next eight weeks, we’ll cover a variety of topics. The building and planting of supply caches. The creation of fake papers and IDs. Stealth movements, including buildering and parkour. Checkpoint crossing via disguises and the aforementioned false documents. You’ll learn how to pick locks, break zip ties, and bust out of temporary urban prisons. And you’ll learn how to steal an abandoned car and start it without keys.”
He noted the excitement, the enthusiasm amongst the students. He wasn’t surprised. His students were, by and large, rich urbanites. They bored easily and were always on the lookout for a new experience. His classes promised that and a whole lot more.
“After seven weeks of training, you’ll be given the opportunity to show what you know,” Caplan continued. “The last class will consist of a real-world scenario. All of you will be restrained and locked down somewhere in New York City during a mock disaster. You’ll have to break out, gather resources, evade agents trying to recapture you, and escape the city. And you’ll do it all without the use of cell phones or computers.”
The students’ excitement level jumped a few notches. If there was one thing urbanites loved more than unique experiences, it was an excuse to temporarily escape the drudgery of social media and constant connectivity.
Caplan wiped his hand across his brow, relieving it of sweat. The temperature, a balmy seventy-four degrees Fahrenheit, didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the lack of shade, the lack of trees.
He sniffed the air, but was unable to get a good whiff of anything. The grass barely registered in his nostrils. The few surviving trees, the ones that had so far avoided the recent die out, were seemingly odorless. He missed the smells of the outdoors. The real outdoors, not the well-groomed artifice of Central Park.
“Today’s session will focus on knowledge-gathering and prep work,” Caplan said. “We’re going to discuss recent riots and large-scale terrorist attacks. We’ll look at how authorities work, how they lockdown cities and establish checkpoints. Then we’ll move on to caches. I’ll show—”
“Is this session full?” The voice was familiar, but somehow tougher, stronger. Like it was packed full of nails. “Or have you got room for another student?”
Whirling around, Caplan fixed his gaze at the old man from the fake mugging. His fingers curled into fists. He forgot the students, forgot the session. “You little—”
“The student’s name is Amanda Morgan.”
Caplan’s brow cinched tight. Amanda? His Amanda?
“She’s always getting herself into trouble. So, I’d like to sign her up for your class.” The old man inhaled deeply. “I think you’re the only one who can help her.”
Chapter 6
Date: June 19, 2016, 8:09 a.m.; Location: Central Park, New York, NY
“Spill it.” Caplan pushed the old man away from his students. “Now.”
The old man turned around and rubbed his bruised jaw. Then he smoothed down his gray sport coat and tailored white shirt. “Take it easy, son.”
Caplan wasn’t in the mood to take it easy. Grabbing the man by the collar, he pulled him close. “How do you know Amanda?”
“She works for me.”
“Liar.” Caplan shook the man hard. “You staged that mugging. Then one of your cronies followed me back to my apartment. That’s the only way you could’ve found out about Amanda.”
“You’re right about one thing. The mugging was staged. But it was also necessary. I needed to vet you, to see you in action.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
With surprising strength, the old man broke free of Caplan’s grip. “Let’s start over. My name is James Corbotch.”
“And I’m Leonardo da Vinci.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you’re a con artist.”
James Corbotch, the elderly patriarch of the Corbotch family, was one of the most enigmatic people in the entire world. His vast holdings, known to most people as the Corbotch Empire, had its origins in the family’s seventeenth century banking business. Over the years, it had spread its wings across the globe, gobbling up countless enterprises along the way.
Little was known about James. Some said he lived in the French Alps, wiling away his years with a bevy of buxom beauties. Others thought he owned a chain of private South Pacific islands from which he hosted island-hopping fetish parties for the rich and famous. Still others believed he lived like a hermit, moving from hovel to hovel, doing everything in his power to keep a low profile.
Personally, Caplan wasn’t sure what to believe. Maybe all those things were right. Or maybe they were all wrong. All he knew was that the man in front of him was not James Corbotch.
The man pulled a wallet out of his back pocket. He passed a business card to Caplan.
Caplan glanced at the card. Constructed from elegant cardboard, it held just two lines of text. The name James Corbotch on the first line. And a phone number on the second one.
Caplan crumpled the card in his fist. “This is your proof?”
“Not all of it.” Corbotch flashed his license and several other cards in front of Caplan’s face. “See?”
Caplan ignored them. “You’re boring me.”
“Perhaps this will convince you.” Corbotch took a deep breath. “Your name is Zach Caplan. You used to work as Chief Ranger at Hatcher Station, the Vallerio Forest’s lone outpost.”
Caplan’s eyes tightened. That information was strictly confidential. Nobody outside of Hatcher—not even his closest friends—knew it.
“For three years, everything was fine. You were liked and respected. You grew close to Amanda Morgan, a biologist of the highest caliber. But all that changed five months ago when Tony Morgan, Amanda’s brother, vanished while conducting an unsanctioned visit to Sector 84. An exhaustive three-day search turned up his abandoned vehicle and some bloody scraps of clothing, but nothing else. Since he’d stolen the keys from your workspace, you took it hard, choosing to tender your resignation. Then you moved here, to New York City, where you proceeded to open an urban survival school.”
“How … how do you know all this?”
The old man didn’t blink. “Because I own the Vallerio Forest. It’s been in my family for as long as we’ve been on this continent.”
“Nice try. The Vallerio Foundation owns it.”
“Yes. But I own the Vallerio Foundation through various trusts and dummy corporations. For reasons that aren’t relevant to this conversation, I disguise my affiliation through a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo.”
Caplan heard the man’s words, heard the veracity behind them. He could scarcely believe it. Yet, he knew it was true. The man standing before him was indeed James Corbotch, the perennial top placeholder on Acton’s annual ranking of the globe’s wealthiest people.
“When you left, you sat for an exit interview with Ms. Keifer. At that time, you informed her that you’d never return to Hatcher Station. I believe the expression you used was, ‘I’ll rot in hell first.’” Corbotch paused. “I’m here to change your mind.”
Caplan thought about what Corbotch had said, about how Amanda Morgan needed help. The very thought sent bolts of electricity shooting through him. “Why the mugging?” he asked. “Why didn’t you just talk to me?”
“Like I said, I needed to vet yo
u.”
“For what?”
“For a multi-layered crisis situation. I wanted to see how you’d react, how’d you handle it.”
Caplan rubbed his sore jaw. “So, those guys …?”
“Part of my personal security team.” Corbotch offered a bare hint of a smile. “Of course, I instructed them to take it easy on you.”
That was easy? Caplan thought, rubbing his sore jaw. “So, how’d I do?”
“You passed with flying colors. You showed courage and persistence. You spotted hidden threats, used the environment to deliver creative attacks, and even uncovered my duplicity.” Corbotch paused. “In short, you’re exactly what I need.”
Caplan felt a spot of darkness enter his heart. He didn’t care for Corbotch. And he certainly didn’t like being lied to and manipulated either. “The feeling isn’t mutual,” he said, turning to leave.
“She needs you, Zach.”
Caplan paused. Slowly, he twisted back to Corbotch.
“Last night, a team of armed terrorists seized control of Hatcher Station along with a group of visiting dignitaries. Amanda Morgan, along with dozens of employees, was on the premises at the time.”
“Impossible. Hatcher is protected—”
“—protected by multiple layers of top-notch security,” Corbotch said. “Yes, I know. But that doesn’t change the facts.”
Caplan fought to control his emotions. “How’d it happen?”
“The details are unclear. All we know for certain is that the assault started around eight o’clock. The terrorists seized the Warehouse and disarmed most of the guards. Fortunately, a couple of guards eluded capture and locked themselves into the Lab. They’ve been using the communications equipment to keep my people apprised of the situation.”
Caplan’s forehead started to ache. Gently, he kneaded it, massaging away months of mental pain.
He’d never actually seen the underground Lab. And the scientists who worked there were forbidden to talk about it. He’d once asked Morgan about it and her cryptic response still haunted him. Let’s just say we’re doing something important, Zach, she’d said. Revolutionary, even. It’s going to change the way we perceive this world’s past, present, and future.
