Gerald grinned as he turned around in his seat. “Positive.”
The rest of the men shot puzzled looks at each other.
“You do know there’s nothing here, right?” Brigham asked.
Gerald pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped it completely, dirt, tall grass, and tumbleweed the only things visible.
“We set up different warehouses throughout time. In this era, this is just an open field. But, in 2064, this is home of the Road Runners. Let’s all take our sip of Juice to 2064, think of the current day and time, and I’ll see you on the other side.”
Gerald pulled out his flask and took a quick swig, leaning back in his seat to wait for the trip into the future.
Everyone else pulled out their flasks and twisted the caps off.
“Cheers,” Brigham said, and took an amount that looked more like a gulp than a drop on the tongue.
Martin nodded to Web and they took their sips in unison. There was less fear doing this act with others. Each time before—except for the time Chris had busted him out of the Oxford Hotel—Martin had gone at it alone, always wondering where he’d wake up, and if somehow his soul would get lost in the shuffle of time and never return to his body. This time, however, he sipped his Juice with confidence, knowing exactly where he’d be waking up and who would be there to join him.
The car fell silent as everyone waited for the brief two minutes to pass before their bodies dozed off to sleep.
Martin leaned his head against the window and gazed at the year 2019—his year, his current life. He wondered if he’d ever see it again and said a quick prayer to whoever wanted to listen to his helpless soul.
Little did any of them know, the Road Runners were striking a deal with Chris in Alaska that would flip the organization forever.
Martin woke up last, the others already standing outside of the car and admiring their new surroundings. The open field was now a five-level apartment building, possibly abandoned by the look of its deteriorating brick façade, busted out windows, and random ivy running up and down the exterior.
Martin stepped out of the car to join his group. The building they stood in front of was part of a community of similar buildings, all equally destroyed.
“What happened to this place?” Brigham asked.
Gerald sighed as he gazed at the building. “A complete massacre. In 2055, President Poe called for a cleansing of the country, calling for all pure Revolters to extinguish the slime of any one who wasn’t one of them. It was a call to action that every Revolter pounced on. You should understand that many Road Runners and non-Revolters all moved far away from the city to places just like this. They built new communities, started their own schooling systems, and even their own political systems with elected leaders. The people lived in peace and remained out of sight from the Revolters, but unfortunately, not out of mind.” Web nodded to himself as if he’d heard this story before. “When the Revolters got word that everyone they had pushed out of the city were thriving without them, the leadership grew scared. They felt if a group of people could create a new life so quickly, that they could one day grow into a force big enough to overthrow them.”
Gerald paused and looked to the building as if it were supplying him with its history.
“So what happened?” Brigham asked.
“Genocide,” Gerald said, rubbing his face. “A cold-blooded slaughter of innocent lives.”
They all gawked at Gerald, unsure if they wanted to know more details. He continued anyway.
“We didn’t know it was coming—we didn’t exactly watch the Revolters’ news channels. They wanted us to live separately from them, so that’s what we did. We minded our business, and assumed they would mind their own. April 15, 2055 was the day. Thousands of these monsters piled into their trucks with their automatic guns and boxes of ammunition. They started downtown, shooting anyone who wasn’t a Revolter, setting buildings on fire, running kids over with their trucks.”
“Wait,” Martin cut in. “Were you there?”
Martin noticed the story didn’t sound like a historical recounting, but rather a personal one.
Gerald nodded and rubbed the scar on his face. “That’s where this came from. I was living outside of Chicago at the time—after living in the city my whole life before being forced out. So I don’t know exactly what happened here at this Denver location, but I’m sure it wasn’t too different from what happened in my experience. It was around four in the afternoon when word started to spread about what was happening downtown. We watched in shock as the city we loved was destroyed. We didn’t realize at the time that it was going on all around the country, we thought it was just in Chicago. Have any of you actually seen a loved one get killed?”
Martin nodded, thinking back to the night he had watched Lela carry their dead daughter to the trunk, causing a shudder to run up his back. Everyone else shook their heads.
“I’ve seen the aftermath of a loved one’s murder, but not the actual event,” Web said.
“I watched my best friend get beat up by three men, doused in gasoline, and set on fire,” Gerald continued. “On live television. It was horrific watching these grown men laugh at what they had done. Right when we thought the worst of it was over, they got back in their trucks and drove out of the city. Helicopters followed the scene as it led to the outskirts where most of us lived. The only news stations that had the cameras were the Revolters’ channels, so we watched and listened as they cheered on what they called a ‘cleansing’ of the country.”
“How many survived?” Brigham asked.
Gerald shook his head and shrugged. “We don’t know. After these attacks, many fled the country or went into hiding. Some went undercover as Revolters just to stay alive. There are 80 million people unaccounted for since these attacks, and we suspect 60-70 million of those were killed.”
Gerald paused and let the astronomical number hang in the air.
“That’s almost a fifth of the county’s 2019 population,” Web added.
“2019, yes,” Gerald said. “But by 2055, there was already an exodus of about 100 million people that happened after Poe’s third election. So at the time, the murders account for roughly thirty percent of the population.”
“Jesus Christ,” Brigham said, a hand covering his mouth.
“Jesus had nothing to do with it.”
“How did you survive?”
“Pure luck. Right place at the right time—or the wrong time, I suppose. I was at work when all of this started. That’s where I was watching the news when I saw the trucks leaving the city. They blew out my office’s windows, and I caught a chunk of glass in my face. I didn’t have time to worry and raced home to my family, only to find they had already beat me there.”
A tear glistened as it streamed down his dark face, following the trail of the scar.
“When I got home, everyone was dead. We lived on a quiet block of one-story houses, big backyards. When I turned into the neighborhood I knew there was no chance. Every house I drove by was shredded by bullets. Bodies were in front lawns, blood was pouring from the driveways into the street like a river. I saw one of the trucks speed off when I reached my driveway. All of my windows were shattered and there were probably a thousand bullet holes in my house.”
“You don’t need to continue this story,” Martin said, eyes filled with tears. They all knew what came next.
“I do. I don’t talk about it enough. When I went inside, I found my wife and two sons in the kitchen. My wife had her arms over them, but it didn’t matter. There were just too many bullets for her to have stopped it. My boys were eight and ten.”
Gerald paused, his lips quivering, arms trembling, and buried his face into his hands.
Martin stepped to him and embraced the man nearly twice his size. “I lost a child, too,” he said, sobbing. “I know how hard this is.”
His words felt empty when they left his mouth, but he didn’t know what else to say. He knew from firsthand
experience that there wasn’t actually anything one could say to a grieving parent. The pain never leaves, and every passing day comes with a growing numbness that eventually turns your soul into stone.
They had clearly forgotten what they came to do, standing outside the tattered building that surely had its own, similar story to tell. Martin looked up its five levels and thought about all of the families that had once lived in it. Families that came home after long days at school and work, ready to relax and enjoy each other’s company for the evening. Families that had already survived hell, but still held on to a thread of hope for a better world.
It was clear why Gerald was here. There is nothing more frightening than a person who has lost everything. Martin was glad to be by his side for what was sure to be meaningful work. Hearing Gerald’s story showed Martin that this mission went beyond his selfish need for a medical cure. He belonged to an organization that strove to save itself from a looming apocalypse, an extinction of their very existence. Because if they didn’t, the world as they knew would further dwindle into a dystopia. A world that Martin was now in, with nothing to hold on to but the past.
103
Chapter 10
Chris didn’t sleep all night—not that he needed to. He spent another two hours in his office after the mysterious Road Runner had left, watching his screen and hoping by some long shot that the man would come back. He wanted to make the deal immediately, having an epiphany that he shouldn’t waste any more time. What would his counterparts around the world think if he had hesitated on the opportunity to have Strike in their possession? That was something they had drooled about for years. Opportunity literally came knocking on the door, and Chris told it to come back later.
Duane had left him alone, as he did require sleep to function as a mortal being. “We can discuss this in the morning,” he had said in regards to devising a plan for when to release the twenty-five prisoners to guarantee Strike’s exact location.
It was morning now, and Chris was ready. He’d still have to wait two days to get Strike, and that was two days too many. It had been decades since he last had a morning routine of eating breakfast and getting ready for the day ahead, so he wasn’t sure when might be a good time to page Duane to continue their discussion. Not that he needed approval from anyone; Chris respected Duane’s perspective on every matter that arose. He was a wise man with an ability to spot the vulnerabilities in any decision, a gift Chris never took for granted.
When the clock struck seven, Chris pushed the intercom button and called for Duane. He drummed his fingers on his desk for the next five minutes as he waited, thinking about the prospect of Strike sitting in this very office across from him, forced to spill the Road Runners’ secrets or suffer a most painful torture.
A steady rumble of footsteps came from the hallway, and Duane finally barged into the room, dressed and wide-eyed. “You were up all night, weren’t you?” he asked Chris after a quick glance around the office.
“Why sleep if it’s not necessary?”
“You know, you could probably lure more people into our group if you offered them the ability to stay fully functioning without sleep. I know I’d kill for an extra eight hours a day.”
“The world doesn’t need people out and about any more than they already are. I love the silence at night. That’s not what we’re here to discuss anyway, stop distracting.”
Duane nodded and gestured for Chris to continue. “So what did you come up with?”
“I want to release those prisoners today. Right now. Tell me why I shouldn’t.”
Duane sat down in the chair across from Chris’s desk with his face scrunched. “You know, I’ve thought this over and I can’t come up with any logic for one time being better than another. This entire thing is riding on a mutual trust that has no backbone, so the playbook is out the window.”
“Do you think they’re bluffing?”
“It’s possible, but not likely. Even if we released half of the prisoners and they backed out of their end of the deal, what good would that do them?”
“We’d kill the rest to send a message.”
“And I’m sure they know that. It sounds like there’s turmoil within the Road Runners, or at the very least, someone pushing their own agenda.”
“I find it interesting that this happened after our friend Martin decided to join them with his special gift. Maybe they can’t agree on how to use him?”
“That seems most likely. Here they are thinking they’ve struck the key to the war, but they don’t know what exactly to do with him. That’s the kind of situation that can cause friction in an instant.”
“Now, do we think Strike will even talk? None of these other bastards do.”
“Well, we don’t torture them aside from making them live in a three foot space. With Strike, we’ll break out the big guns. She’ll talk. No amount of loyalty can withstand the pain we’ll bring onto her. It might take time, but she’ll crack.”
“I’d hate to release these people for nothing.”
“It’s a risk, but we have to trust ourselves in getting Strike to talk. If she really wants to die as a martyr with all of their secrets intact, then good on her. But we won’t actually kill her if that’s what she’s hoping for. We’ll show her death, but not let her meet it.”
Duane chuckled at this, looking to the ceiling with a crazed look of a man who didn’t get much sleep.
“Well, it sounds like the decision is made,” Chris said. “Let’s release twenty-five prisoners right now. Can you head down to arrange it?”
“I can’t. That approval has to come from you directly. You made that rule.”
“Ahh, yes. Okay then, you start preparing to drop the barricade. I want every soldier in this house armed and ready when it drops. We still have enough to cover every side of the house. When it drops, we’ll give the prisoners thirty seconds to get out of the house, then I want it back up immediately.”
“Perfect, I’ll get on it.”
Chris nodded and stood from his desk, shuffling across the office to his private elevator. He whistled while he waited, and entered the elevator car with a wide grin as he watched Duane slide in behind his desk. A sliver of doubt still tugged at his mind. There has to be something bigger at play.
Chris had taken a quick peek into the future last night, but saw nothing of substance. Sometimes the future didn’t reveal itself, especially when a decision was up in the air much like his. He now had to live in the moment and trust his instincts that rarely led him wrong.
The elevator stopped on the basement floor, opening to its usual darkness and dank smell of solidarity. The room had always remained fairly quiet, only erupting into chaos whenever Chris decided to show his face.
The basement was designed so the outer perimeter was left in complete darkness, leaving guards the ability to roam the area without being seen. The center of the floor, where the Road Runners were held hostage, was illuminated by the soft glow of overhead lighting, done to force the prisoners’ eyes to adjust to the dim light. Should they ever escape, stepping outside would blind them as a result. Chris had forgotten about this detail until he stepped foot out of the elevator. The visiting Road Runner had made it clear they didn’t want any of their people damaged upon their return.
The perimeter lighting was turned on, something that had become the norm after the prisoners and guards had grown tolerable of each other. The guards had no need to hide from the prisoners, not that they ever needed to since the Road Runners were chained to the ground, but it helped maintain the peace at first. Once the Road Runners realized they were never going to be released, they accepted their fate and tried to make the best of the situation by befriending the guards and sharing stories with those closest in proximity.
Chris couldn’t deny that the Road Runners had a knack for making the best of any situation. They marched forward—emotionally—as the days, weeks, and months all eventually formed into one big, hellish blur.
He cut
the perimeter lights with a flick of the switch, not wanting to be seen on this brief visit, and worked his way around the walls to where the guards always sat. Some murmurs spread throughout the room, but there was nowhere near the fuss that would have risen had the prisoners seen Chris.
“Is that you, boss?” a wary voice called out to Chris.
“Yes. Sorry if I scared you. Can we have a word in private?”
“Certainly.”
In the darkness, Chris listened as the guard pushed open a door, hinges creaking before thudding against the inside of a small office. Chris followed the sound of the guard’s footsteps and closed the door behind him, causing an automatic light to flicker on above. This light was slightly brighter than the one that shone above the prisoners, but still dim compared to what Chris was used to in his personal office.
“Everything okay, boss?” the guard asked, his droopy face making no attempt to hide the exhaustion. His name tag read Wheeler, and the young man had a strong jaw and wavy brown hair, but also fear that Chris could smell oozing from his pores.
Chris knew many of the guards were having a tough time after the massacre of their teammates outside the mansion. Some suffered from survivor’s guilt, others from a growing paranoia that they were next. Chris understood their minds had already been fucked beyond repair thanks to him, so their overreactions were understandable.
“Everything is just dandy,” Chris said. “We’ve just come into a situation where I need to release twenty-five of these fine Road Runners as soon as possible.”
The guard’s face scrunched as the words processed.
“Twenty-five? Who?”
“It doesn’t matter. If everything goes according to plan, they’ll all be released in the next few days.”
The guard looked around the room as if someone was going to jump out and tell him it was a prank.
“Am I still going to have a job?”
“Of course,” Chris chuckled. “It won’t be down here, but we’ll have lots to do. Don’t even worry about such a thing.”
Wealth of Time Series Boxset Page 60
