Shadow Moon

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  Quickly, efficiently, she removes the rest of her few belongings from the back of her old truck and throws them into the back seat of the red truck. She leaves the keys in the ignition of the old truck and the doors unlocked to make it easier to steal. She doesn’t expect it will last overnight in this neighborhood.

  Then she gets back into the men’s truck and drives off, putting distance between herself and the vehicle she has just abandoned.

  A few blocks away from the fairgrounds, she pulls over to the curb to get her bearings.

  Now that she is in her tormentors’ truck, she is not sure what she will do with it. Stealing it may have to be enough. She cannot keep it for more than an hour or two. But she has noticed many lakes off the interstate. It would be a pleasure to sink the truck in one of them.

  Not the level of damage the driver and his friends deserve, but it would be something.

  She reaches into her bag and pulls out gloves to wear, then begins a search through the console and glove compartment.

  The truck has a Garmin navigation system. She has seen them before in her teenage joyriding. Since the device’s introduction several years before, she has made a point of discarding them in any car she drives, in case her route might be tracked. Here it could be to her advantage to have the location of these men.

  She’s contemplating the device, when something makes her look up. And she spots a white van driving straight for her.

  In the driver’s seat is the round-faced man with wire-framed glasses. The one who threatened her, caressing the gun.

  His eyes are focused on the road. He doesn’t see her as he drives past.

  She is sure he is the same man. Right here in front of her. And that is never for no reason.

  Something hardens in her.

  In a pack, he’s very brave. With a gun, he’s very brave. Men in packs with guns are always very brave.

  Hunting an eighteen-year old girl.

  Very, very brave.

  Rage boils up inside her.

  She makes a U-turn, and follows.

  Chapter 30

  Richmond, Virginia - June 2005

  Matt

  Buzzing. Dark. Hurts.

  Hurts. Head hurts—

  Wake up. Now. Now.

  The voice in his head was so strong Matt jolted back to a hazy half-consciousness. He forced open his eyes, only to see—

  Nothing. Pitch black.

  Terror swept through him. He was wide awake now. Lying on a cold concrete floor.

  Can’t move.

  Try. Move your hands. Move your feet.

  His arms moved. His legs moved. But just that slight stirring brought a stabbing pain in the side of his head.

  He’d been hit hard, with some blunt object. He could feel the wound throbbing. He groped at the back of his skull… found sticky blood under his fingers and a lump through his hair. Touching it brought a wave of nausea.

  But that wasn’t the worst.

  The blackness wasn’t going away.

  I’m blind.

  He forced himself to breathe in, forced himself calm. You can move. You’re not bound. Use your other senses. What do you hear? What do you feel?

  There was a soft whirring from a… Fan? Ventilation system?

  Possibly. Probably.

  The air was very cool, and there was a musty, slightly damp smell. He turned his head, around, up…

  And far above his head, about a story high, he saw it. A thin horizontal line of light. Massive relief washed over him.

  Not blind. It’s just pitch black down here. No windows. But that line is light underneath a door. This must be a basement, and there must be stairs up to that door.

  He felt his pockets, searching for his phone… but of course it was gone. They’d have taken it for the photos.

  And everything else…

  He hoped none of his captors were tech savvy enough to open it.

  He felt his way slowly to his feet, swallowing back another wave of nausea from the throbbing in his head.

  He set his jaw and straightened to standing, then made his way up the narrow stairs, feeling along the rough wall. At the door, he ran his hand over the wall beside it until he found a light switch. He flipped it.

  A powerful fluorescent light went on, illuminating the basement in a brightness that seemed to scorch his eyes.

  He was in a deep, windowless space. The floor below was crowded with neat rows of metal shelving, stocked with an eye-popping assembly of dried foods, plastic bins of beans, rice. There were water tanks, a large generator….

  It was straight out of the survivalist books he’d seen at the gun show. Preppers stockpiling for the Apocalypse.

  That’s the kind of people you’re dealing with, he told himself grimly.

  He turned back to the door and examined it. It was reinforced steel, deadbolted. No possible way of kicking through.

  It’s someone’s house, though, he thought. And the men from the gun show had brought him here… why?

  On the plus side, they hadn’t killed him.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Another huge plus was that they hadn’t handcuffed or tied him. Which seemed like an enormous mistake on their part. Although they were probably thinking of him as just some stupid kid. They’d taken his wallet of course, and all they’d have found was a California driver’s license, his Cal Poly student ID, some cash and a credit card. Nothing at all connecting him with the FBI. So he could rack that and his obvious youth up as one hell of a huge advantage.

  Okay. Okay. Let’s have a look around. Assess.

  Moving as quietly as he could manage, he eased back down the stairs to the basement floor. At the bottom he glanced at the shelves around him and spotted a shelf that held camping equipment. He stepped up to it, grabbed a sleeping bag to examine it. It was sewn with a canvas label reading GILMAN, as if for some Boy Scout camping trip.

  He quickly checked the other bags. All labeled GILMAN.

  This was his house, then.

  Okay, so again—why had the vendors brought Matt here?

  The basement was an effective prison, that was a fact. And/or Gilman was the leader and would have the ultimate say as to Matt’s fate.

  There was nothing good about that.

  He’d noticed several boxes of Artic-rated tents on the camping shelf. Now he grabbed one, tore it open, and removed the aluminum spikes. He put a spike into every pocket he had, stuck another in his belt, kept one in his hand. Immediately he felt better.

  He turned from the shelf and continued his examination of the basement, walking slowly down one aisle at a time, looking for other weapons and a way out.

  The next aisle was cartons, tubs and boxes of food.

  At least I’m not gonna starve, he thought with grim humor. And helped himself to some protein bars from a 100-count box.

  Thanks for nothing, assholes.

  He bit into a chocolate-covered bar and walked on.

  In one wall there was another reinforced and padlocked door to an inner room which he highly suspected was the munitions room.

  What’s the point of an Apocalypse if you’re not stocked up with your favorite weapons?

  The wall beside the door was lined with propane tanks. Matt had a brief thought that he could start a fire with the fuel, burn the door down. Just as quickly he nixed the idea. He’d probably only succeed in burning himself alive, and he hated fire more than anything.

  He looked upward, toward the stairs and the door.

  He doubted Gilman was home yet. He’d driven off with that van, obviously with someplace to take those weapons. And if he was at the house, Matt had a feeling he would be being dealt with already.

  Suddenly he recalled Snyder’s briefing. “She hasn’t left for a week.”

  He felt a rush of clarity—and hope.

  He wasn’t the only prisoner in the house. If he had any possible ally in the situation, it was Gilman’s wife.

  I’m going to have to get her to open that
door.

  Could he do that?

  If she’s the one who called the Bureau on her husband…

  He struggled through the splitting ache in his head to remember her name.

  Jenny.

  Okay, Jenny. We’re going to bust loose today. Let’s do it.

  He went back to the staircase, climbed the stairs again as noiselessly as he could. He stopped on the top platform beside the door… and hesitated. If he called out, and the men who attacked him were still there, this might be the worst idea in the world.

  He focused on Jenny.

  He’d seen her photo, the hospital record of her injuries.

  You need this even more than I do.

  He took a breath, and spoke. “Ms. Gilman, are you there?”

  He listened hard, and thought he heard a faint, hurried scuffle outside the door. Then a sound like someone shushing someone else. He remembered there were children, a five-year old, a toddler, a baby in a jumper…

  Was he just imagining it? Hoping for such benign sounds?

  Snyder’s words came back to him.

  “The Bible says man shall have dominion over the Earth and all the animals. Dominionists take that to mean they also have dominion over their wives and children.”

  She can’t believe that, can she? If she does, I’m fucked.

  He squelched the thought.

  Look. We’re just going to talk to her.

  He cleared his throat. “Ms. Gilman, my name is Matt Roarke. I’m working with the FBI and this is false imprisonment. The men who assaulted me and left me down here are going to be going to prison for a long, long time. But that doesn’t mean you have to.”

  There was no response at all. He went on.

  “I don’t know if you know anything about me. But I know a little about you. Do you know…we’re the same age?”

  He paused. Again, heard nothing.

  “That’s how I know that none of this is your fault. I know you’re… you’re trapped.”

  He couldn’t hear her. But he could feel her. More than that. He felt like he knew her.

  “I think we’re both trapped. I made a mistake and now your husband’s buddies might kill me. Maybe it was a stupid mistake but… I don’t think I should have to die for it.”

  His head was throbbing again and nausea rolled over him. He felt his way down the wall to sit, leaning back against the door.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you made a mistake, too. No one should have to get married at sixteen.” He forced a laugh. “I was such a naïve kid back then. Just—unbelievably stupid. I’m not saying you were stupid,” he added hastily. “But come on, what did you know compared to a thirty-five year old guy?”

  He had no idea if she was listening to his rambling. But no one had burst down the door and shot him yet. That was a plus.

  “There’s something about that that just isn’t right. It would be like… like me marrying someone my mom’s age. I love my mom, but… no.”

  She wasn’t saying a word, and maybe he just desperately wanted to believe it, but he could swear he felt her listening. So he sat against the door, and he talked.

  “I’m sure you’re a lot smarter than I am. I don’t know anything much. But… I know I’m still too young to get married. I don’t even… I don’t even know who I am. I just broke up with my girlfriend last week because I knew we were too young to be serious—”

  He stopped. Whoa, where did that come from?

  Somewhere along the line he’d started to be honest.

  But it’s not like I have anything to lose.

  “You know what? It was more than that. I think… I think there’s someone out there for me. And she going to want the same things that I want… but not the way I want them. Does that make sense? She’ll have her own way of—everything. And I’ll learn from her.

  I don’t want to tell her who she is. I want her to be who she is and show me who I am.”

  He stopped again. Was that a sob he’d heard? Or was there anyone out there at all? He didn’t have a clue. He took a breath.

  “I’ll tell you something else. I would never hit her. Never. Or our kids. That’s not a husband. That’s a monster.”

  He touched the door, tried to will her to—not just listen, but to hear him. “I know he beats you up. If you let me out, you can walk out, too. You and your kids.”

  And then, a miracle. A shaky voice from behind the door.

  “He’ll kill me.”

  Matt was electrified. And terrified. He knew he had to play it just right. “You called, didn’t you? You called the FBI about your husband.”

  Only silence from behind the door.

  “We’ll get you out, I swear. You don’t have to live like this.”

  “You don’t understand.” Her voice was low, strained. She could barely get the words out. “He has police friends. Army friends. They’re always watching us. You don’t know what they’ll do.”

  She believed it utterly. And maybe it was true. He knelt close to the door and spoke firmly.

  “My boss… he’s a legend in the Bureau. I promise you, we’ll get you witness protection. You and your kids can start all over.”

  “I can’t…”

  Her voice stopped and there was a silence behind the door. A living silence. A thinking silence. Matt could barely breathe.

  “You can. I can tell you can. You can do this for your kids. You can do it for you.”

  More silence, possibly the longest silence of his life. And then the sound of a metal bolt sliding in the doorframe.

  He scrambled to his feet… and stepped through the doorway, out into daylight that seemed a whole world brighter than the fluorescent tubes of the basement.

  She stood in the front hallway of the house, a too-slender woman in a flowered dress. Looking ten years younger than he was, and fifty years older.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She was shaking, backing away from him even as he stepped forward…

  Then they both twisted around at the sound of pounding on the front door.

  Chapter 31

  I-95, Virginia - June 2005

  Cara

  She stays well behind the van as it heads for the interstate and takes the onramp, going north, through more green corridors. The freeway is well-traveled today, but it’s easy to keep sight of the shiny white vehicle in the stream of cars—and trucks just like the one she is driving. The ubiquity of them is effective camouflage.

  After forty minutes, the van turns off the interstate onto a state highway. Densely packed trees that can conceal any number of activities. She falls further back, now, slowing to stay out of sight as the van winds through the woods.

  In a few more minutes the van makes another turnoff to a smaller road, into thicker woods, past signs to a recreational area. She gets just a glimpse of a large body of water between the trees when they go over a rise.

  She drives even more slowly. When she rounds the next curve, she sees the white van stopped ahead with the driver’s door standing open and the man in glasses standing outside it, fiddling with a steel gate fixed between two posts marking a dirt road.

  She brakes softly. While he is occupied with the gate, she puts the truck in reverse to back up, driving backward around the curve.

  She stops on the road and sits behind the wheel with her pulse racing. She forces herself to be still for a good five minutes, waiting and thinking. She is fairly certain the chain demarcates a private drive. She will not be able to pass the gate. But wherever the round-faced man is taking the van is probably not that far from the road.

  She makes the decision to proceed on foot.

  She kills the engine, checks her knife, and reaches for a liter bottle of water. Then she gets out of the truck, stepping down into a wall of heat and humidity.

  She shuts the door behind her and walks the road toward the gate. A hundred feet from it she walks into the woods, moving parallel to the gateway, staying in the trees beside the dirt drive.

&
nbsp; Cicadas seethe in the trees around her, an alien and almost deafening sound which masks her footsteps through the underbrush. She swigs water and presses on.

  Within a quarter mile she comes upon a small clearing.

  The white van is parked outside a double-wide trailer set on blocks in the trees. The door of the trailer stands open, and a slanted ramp leads up to the doorway. There is a flat rolling cart at the top of the ramp.

  The van’s back doors are wide open, enabling her to see inside.

  The whole back of the van is crammed with guns. Long guns, automatics, boxes of ammunition.

  She backs behind a tree and has to swallow against the rising of her gorge. She stays put there, her heart rate elevated. After a moment, the round-faced man steps out of the trailer. She stiffens, and watches.

  He steers the cart down the ramp, returns to the van and hauls a crate out of the back. He loads the crate onto the cart and wheels it up to the trailer, up the ramp.

  When he disappears into the trailer, she moves further into the woods, back toward the road. If he’s unloading that whole van by himself, that means she has some time.

  Back at the truck, she gets in and reconnects the ignition and battery wires to start it up again. She drives to the gate at the beginning of the dirt road, and then a bit past it to a gap in the trees she spotted on her walk back to the truck. It’s big enough for her to drive the truck through. From there she drives slowly through underbrush to get onto the private dirt road.

  She knows that in this wilderness, the man will be able to hear the engine, the approach of the truck. So she stops the truck before the trailer comes into view, and waits there on the dirt road, idling, with her foot on the brake.

  Letting him come to her.

  Two minutes later he comes into view, armed with a shotgun. The same shotgun he had mimed stroking off.

  He sees the truck and stops in his tracks, then loosens his grip on the gun and starts forward toward the truck he has now recognized as his friend’s. “Hey. That wasn’t the plan.”

  She is silent, still, her hands gripping the steering wheel.

  Another step closer to the truck, and he sees her.

  “Who the hell—?” And then it dawns on his face. “Wait. Wait justafuckingminute. You’re the one. You ran us off the road—”