Don't Turn Around

by Michelle Gagnon

Still, he was right about one thing. It didn’t look promising. Not a single car had driven down the road. Torn plastic bags dotted the fence, stuck where they’d been blown by an earlier strong wind. Most of the lights were extinguished, either burned out or shattered. No guard visible in the outpost by the main entry gate, and no cars in the enormous lots surrounding the buildings. The fifty-acre complex dead-ended on the waterfront.

  The entire facility sat dark and still. Clouds hung heavy above, braced to drop a deluge. It seemed utterly desolate and abandoned.

  But if they were right, that was exactly the impression the company wanted to convey.

  Noa had sussed out the best spot to infiltrate. The razor wire capping the ten-foot chain-link fence had split here, leaving a six-inch-wide gap for them to climb through. Tricky, but manageable if they were careful. Once inside the fence, she and Peter would have to clear about eighty feet of wide-open space before reaching the first building.

  “Ready?” she whispered.

  “Wait!” Peter said. “What’s the plan?”

  “Just stay close,” Noa hissed.

  Without waiting for a response, she latched her fingers through the cold steel and started to climb. Below her, Peter swore in a low voice. She ignored it.

  Noa scrambled up quickly; compared to the tree the other night, this fence was a piece of cake. At the top, she hung back, slowly easing her right leg through the gap. She awkwardly shifted sideways, sliding her narrow frame through the split in the razor wire. She held her breath as her torso edged through: So far, so good. She carefully drew her other leg over, then clambered down and jumped the final few feet.

  Noa kept low, huddled against the fence. It clanged slightly as Peter swung over it.

  “Shh!” she said when he issued a small cry.

  He dropped down beside her. She could barely make out his features in the dark, but he appeared to be wincing. “I sliced my arm,” he said in a strained whisper. “Crap. I can’t remember the last time I had a tetanus shot.”

  “How bad?” she asked.

  He tugged up his sleeve and held out his arm. Noa tilted it, squinting to see in the ambient light. There was a scrape, long but not too deep. “Press down on it,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”

  She was wishing that Cody had come instead. Peter was obviously more comfortable performing subversive acts from the comfort of his home. Sheltered life, she reminded herself. But he was here, after all.

  He didn’t say anything, just pulled his fleece back over the cut and gripped the injured arm with his opposite hand.

  “Okay, let’s go,” she said.

  Bent double, Noa trotted quickly to the closest building. Her messenger bag hung heavily to her right side, nearly knocking her off balance a few times. It took a couple minutes to reach the shadows of the Quonset hut. The whole time her chest was tight, breath coming in small gasps. She kept expecting a spotlight to suddenly flare to life, trapping her in its beam.

  Peter was fast—she’d give him that. He’d matched her pace, reaching the western corner of the building at the same time she did. No visible doors or windows on this side. The hut stretched fifteen feet skyward before arcing over. There were vents at the top, but they were too high off the ground to be accessible.

  Noa waved for him to follow. She slipped along the length of the building. Her footsteps sounded unnaturally loud, boots scuffling against concrete. She reached the corner. Peter was breathing hard behind her.

  “How do we get in?” he asked in a low voice.

  Noa leaned forward to peer around the edge of the building. There was a door carved into the metal shell about halfway down.

  This was the first in a long line of Quonset huts. Mirroring them was an identical row. Their doors all faced in toward the main road, like soldiers standing in military formation. Twelve on each side, marching toward the water. The road ended in a wide concrete pier.

  And there was a boat tied to the pier. Small, new, and definitely not naval.

  So maybe this place wasn’t abandoned after all.

  She pressed up against the building so that he could see past her, and pointed. Peter nodded—he’d spotted it, too.

  “What do you want to do?” he asked.

  Noa debated. She was a little surprised they hadn’t seen any signs of life yet; she’d been expecting swarms of guards, like the place where she’d awoken. Yet she hadn’t been able to detect any security measures—not even mounted cameras or motion-sensing lights, at least not that they’d encountered so far. “Let’s try to get inside.”

  “What if there are people in there?” Peter sounded worried.

  “Then we run like hell for the fence.”

  “That’s the plan?” he asked incredulously.

  “I didn’t say it was perfect,” Noa grumbled.

  She was betting there wouldn’t be anyone inside, though—she got that sense, even though she couldn’t pinpoint precisely why. These buildings were much smaller than the warehouses at the other complex. Each was maybe thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide, probably just one big room.

  She eased around the front of the building, Peter sticking close to her heels. Noa tried the door: The knob twisted easily under her hand—someone had oiled it recently. Noa drew a deep breath and opened it just wide enough to slip inside.

  The interior was pitch-black. A nudge against her back as Peter entered, then the door shut behind him.

  “Looks empty,” Peter whispered.

  A thin beam of light pierced the darkness. Noa turned in surprise—he was holding a small flashlight. “Grabbed it from the glove compartment,” Peter explained. “Audi owners—prepared for anything.”

  He stepped forward and Noa followed. The beam illuminated a concrete floor streaked with dirt and dust. He panned the light slowly around the room. The rounded interior walls were rusty and tarnished. There was a sharp tang to the air, like it hung heavy with absorbed metal filings.

  Peter stopped dead. Noa halted beside him and her heart leaped into her throat.

  In the center of the room was another glass box, similar to the one she’d woken up in, but smaller. The same steel table, light strung from the ceiling above, scattered trays and machines. Everything was silent and still. The table was empty.

  “Looks like we’re in the right place,” he said in a low voice.

  Noa couldn’t answer. Her throat had suddenly constricted, panic squeezing the air from her lungs and sending her heart back into overdrive. She could practically feel the IV in her arm, the cold steel against her exposed flesh. Her scar was throbbing as if the scalpel had just sliced into her.

  “You okay?”

  Noa forced a nod, although even that small motion was difficult. All her muscles had gone rigid.

  Peter’s hand slipped into hers. His palm felt warm, solid. The grasp steadied her, bringing her back into herself. She wasn’t on that table. She’d gotten away. And maybe whoever else had been here had gotten away, too.

  They stood like that for a minute. For the first time in recent memory, Noa was glad she wasn’t alone. Peter’s presence beside her was comforting. Even though he didn’t say a word, she sensed he was struck by the horror of what she’d survived. Somehow that made it more tolerable.

  Peter panned the rest of the room with the light. Aside from the chamber, there was nothing there.

  “Next building?” he asked. “Or should we call the cops now?”

  The voice in her head geared toward survival was screaming at her to tear through that door, make for the fence, and keep running until there were miles between her and this awful place. But Noa forced herself to say, “We need to find a computer. Let’s keep looking.”

  He gave her hand a final squeeze, then released it. Together they crept back to the door. Peter clicked off the flashlight before opening it. This time he took the lead, cracking it and peering out, then slipping back into the night.

  Compared to the impenetrable darkness inside, the night seemed b
righter, the clouds less oppressive. Noa sucked in gulps of fresh air, thankful to be out of that place. They stuck to the shadows, trying to clear the gaps between buildings as quickly and silently as possible.

  They got lucky. All the doors were unlocked. The second building was completely empty, lacking even a glass chamber. But in the third they found some sort of command center. Two neat rows of terminals on adjoining tables, standard office swivel chairs in front of each. All the towers were shut off, the screens blank.

  “So I’m guessing this is where the plan part comes in,” Peter said.

  “We’re geeks, right?” Noa said, feeling more like herself as she slid in front of a terminal. “This is how we fight.” She closed her eyes and offered a quick prayer for electricity. Hopefully these terminals were still linked to a generator.

  She hit the power button and the tower hummed to life. In stark contrast to the dilapidated surroundings, it was a state-of-the-art HP. Noa turned on the screen, relieved to see an updated version of Windows. The desktop was clotted with folders. She clicked on one to open it and saw the same type of stats sheets. Maybe her guardian angel was wrong, and they hadn’t gotten all the data. Or this was different information that hadn’t been funneled into the main servers.

  Either way, there would be something here for the cops to find. These computers were about to become the centerpiece of an extremely extensive and thorough investigation.

  She clicked on another folder and found a jpg. Noa steeled herself before opening it: A waifish girl with cropped blond hair lay on the table. Her chest had been peeled open, just like Alex’s.

  “She’s just a kid,” Peter said softly.

  That was all she needed to see. Noa closed it again and started typing a series of commands.

  “Can I help?” Peter asked. “Although it would probably be easier if I knew what you were doing.”

  “I’m hacking into the NSA,” Noa explained, rapidly clicking through keys.

  “Seriously? The National Security Agency?”

  “You heard me,” she grumbled. “Keep an eye on the door.”

  “I can help with their firewall,” Peter said. “If you want. I mean, I’ve gotten through it before.”

  “Please. Who hasn’t?” Noa resisted an eye roll. “But you were careful to make sure they’d never know, right?”

  “Well, yeah,” Peter said. “It wasn’t like I’d want them to—” He laughed softly, realizing what she was getting at. “That’s genius. They’ll come running.”

  “If I screw it up badly enough that they can track the IP address then, yeah, they should.” The National Security Agency was in charge of all of the sensitive and classified data in the country. Their firewall was notoriously impenetrable, so that the information wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands. Every day, the NSA batted back thousands of attempts to hack into their servers. They were the modern-day equivalent of a castle under siege, constantly hurling flaming oil down at every idiot trying to scale the ramparts.

  Noa’s goal was to hurdle enough obstacles to seriously spook them.

  “They won’t need a search warrant for a threat to national security. They’ll send in a SWAT team, and they’ll find all this.” Peter’s voice was filled with admiration. “Damn, that is a good plan.”

  “Just watch the door,” Noa said. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Fifteen minutes later, Noa hesitated outside the building. They’d shut off the screen but left the terminal humming with the malware program she’d installed. Hopefully if anyone came by they wouldn’t notice, although the tiny green light cast an unearthly glow in the room. Chances were that by the time anyone went in there, it would be too late. The IP address would already have been traced, and the cavalry would be en route.

  She only hoped that the NSA was as capable as everyone claimed.

  “What’s wrong?” Peter asked.

  “I think we should check the boat,” Noa said.

  “Yeah?” Peter sounded dubious. “You sure? The cops’ll be coming soon.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.” Noa couldn’t explain why she was suddenly fixated on the boat. Peter was right to be nervous; every minute they remained here put them in more danger. And the boat’s presence meant that someone might be in one of the buildings they hadn’t checked yet.

  Still, she had an almost overwhelming desire to investigate it.

  Despite clearly having reservations, Peter said, “All right, but then we book it out of here.”

  “Agreed,” Noa said.

  It took them five minutes to reach the hut closest to the pier. Raindrops had started falling, heavy and thick, advance emissaries of a nasty fall storm. Noa tugged the cap down low over her ears. Peter pulled up the collar of his black fleece.

  The boat bobbed in the waves. An approaching squall had kicked up whitecaps that splashed against the hull, cresting it at times. It was tied at the bow and stern with ropes wrapped around cleats.

  One of Noa’s foster dads had been a crab fisherman. He and his wife took in kids for the government checks that enabled them to make ends meet during the off-season. They kept “the good ones,” as they referred to them, for crab season, too. Unfortunately they hadn’t counted Noa among them.

  This boat reminded her of his, battered by years of hard use. It was a twenty-footer with low gunwales and a small open shed protecting the captain’s chair. It was stacked high with pots, even though crab season had ended months ago.

  Peter whispered, “What do you think—”

  The Quonset hut door ten feet away suddenly slammed open, cutting him off. They both ducked back into the shadows along the side of the building. Noa held her breath and braced to run.

  Footsteps crunched on the sandy gravel outside the building. They paused. Noa turned her head and saw Peter’s eyes gazing back at her, wide and scared, mirroring the terror she felt.

  “Christ, is this the last load?”

  “One more,” a man’s voice said.

  “Damn, my back can’t handle much more of this,” the first guy grumbled. He sounded older; a smoker’s wheeze rumbled through his words.

  “Storm’s coming up, might have to wait.”

  “No freakin’ way I’m hauling them back off the boat,” the smoker complained. “I say we take our chances.”

  “Yeah?” The other guy sounded dubious. Noa couldn’t blame him. The rain was coming down harder now. A small boat like that would be tossed mercilessly by the waves.

  “We only gotta go out and drop, what, ten pots? Take us an hour.”

  “If you say so,” the guy said. “Don’t want to run into the coast guard out there, though.”

  The smoker grunted. “Yeah, all right. Kick back for a bit? I got a sixer of Sam Adams.”

  “Cole said he’d be back soon,” the other guy said nervously.

  “Hell, he don’t want this boat tipping over, either. Least not until it’s supposed to.” Laughter that ended in a cough. “Come on. I’m getting soaked out here.”

  “You want to just leave them?”

  “It’s not like they’re going anywhere.”

  The door slammed shut. Footsteps echoed against concrete inside, and there was the sound of a chair scraping the floor.

  She and Peter were both hunkered down, and her knees were aching. She slowly got to her feet. Peter hesitated, then straightened. He leaned over, lips brushing her ear as he said urgently, “We gotta go!”

  Noa held up a finger, gesturing for him to wait. Without giving herself a chance to reconsider, she ducked around the side of the building.

  A few feet in front of the door sat an oversized cooler, the kind fishermen used to store bait. The bottom of the container was blue, and its white top was smeared with red streaks.

  The metal tinkle of a bottle cap hitting the floor sounded from inside the Quonset hut, then another. Noa kept her ear attuned to the building, straining to hear the low conversation, any indication that one
of them might be coming back out.

  Her fingers were trembling. She fought to still them as she unclasped the cooler’s latch.

  Inside, something was swaddled in plastic. Noa reached out a shaky hand and gingerly drew back the top layer with two fingers.

  Her hand brushed against something cold and hard. She drew a deep breath and squinted, trying to see in the darkness, wishing she’d thought to grab the flashlight from Peter.

  Finally, she reached down and drew it out.

  She’d been braced for fish guts, maybe squid. But when she held it up to the light, she realized it was a human foot. Small, female. Chipped black paint on the toenails. The big toe was curled slightly upward.

  Noa couldn’t help herself; she dropped it. It made a small thud when it hit the ground.

  “What was that?” came from inside the hut.

  Noa scrambled for the foot, overcoming a wave of nausea as she grabbed it and chucked it back in the cooler. She closed the lid. Footsteps approaching the door again. She hurriedly redid the clasp and rushed back to where Peter waited.

  The door opened again. Silence. Noa’s cheeks ran wet with rain and tears that came so thick it was hard to see. She wanted to wipe them away, but couldn’t stand the thought of touching anything with that hand. She could still feel the cold flesh against her palm. She repressed a shudder.

  “Anything?” the smoker called out from inside.

  “The wind, I guess.” But the guy sounded uncertain. “Maybe I should do a quick check.”

  “Be my guest,” the smoker said. “I’ll keep a seat warm for you.”

  Another long pause, then the door slammed again. Muffled this time, the guy said, “Probably nothing.”

  “Damn straight. We’re in the middle of hell and gone.” The smoker barked a laugh. “Night like this, who’d be out there?”

  Noa winced as Peter grabbed her hand, that hand. She shook him off, ignoring the puzzled look he threw her. She motioned for him to follow, then turned and ran for the next building.

  It seemed to take an eternity to reach the fence. Noa kept listening for a pursuit, expecting someone around the bend of every building. She couldn’t get up and over the fence fast enough. The barbed wire snagged the leg of her pants, but she yanked it free. She heard a rip and felt a sharp pain in her calf. She ignored it and dropped down, stumbling a little before regaining her footing. Noa kept her arms clasped to her chest as she ran for the safety of the woods.