Running into the Darkness

by D. A. Bale

  But Samantha couldn’t resist one last retort after Marcus had put the gun away and they started up their pace again. “Aren’t we getting appropriate enough hard bodies yet?”

  Marcus reached around as she jogged by and smacked her butt. She glared but kept running, his wicked smile never quite reaching his eyes.

  “That remains yet to be seen.”

  ***

  The park beckoned. Samantha felt drawn to the sunlight, the mist near the waterfall. Someone sat upon the gray stones surrounding the basin, her dark hair flowing in the breeze from beneath the white wide-brimmed hat. Curiosity tugged at Samantha’s heart. She knew this woman, sensed the connection they held. The lady raised her hand. A dove took wing and soared overhead as Samantha drew near. But as Samantha reached out, the woman turned to face her with the screeching image of Debrille.

  Samantha started awake as the ear chip zapped her from the edges of sleep. Her earlobe felt as if it were on fire.

  “Damn it, Debrille!” Samantha screamed to the coffered ceiling.

  She picked up one of the history books laying on the desk and threw it toward the door. It slammed hard with an echo, pages fluttering in the air like the wings of a flock of spooked geese before settling to the ground. What did White House history and its artifacts have to do with getting at Warner anyway? It all felt like such a waste of time.

  Tears pulled at the edges of her tired eyes at the thought of the dream. Her mother – she’d been sure. So why did she become Debrille? Did something in the microchip plant dreams in her head? Samantha pressed her palms to her eyes, no desire to give Debrille the satisfaction of breaking.

  Her stomach rumbled. At this late hour she could take satisfaction in locating a snack to stem the pangs of hunger without anyone knowing. The continual lack of sleep and stress was definitely sending her cortisol levels through the roof, spurring on her appetite.

  The door creaked as Samantha opened it and stared down the hallway from her three-room suite before slipping out, her bare feet padding along the cool tile. Granite columns lined most corridors in the never-ending complex, and they provided great hiding places from the sentries that passed. Debrille had a thing for architecture. Nearly every room she’d seen thus far had been built like a Roman coliseum, ancient castle, or a Mediterranean villa. Sometimes it was difficult to believe they were covered with earth and the aching weight of Chesapeake Bay. But she longed for the warmth of the sun to caress her face.

  After skirting more of Debrille’s goons and backtracking through endless halls, the commercial kitchen winked a stainless steel welcome as Samantha flicked on the light. Cookies and chips were a no-no on Debrille’s strict diet so finding several packages behind one of the pantry doors was a treat. She grabbed a jug of milk from the fridge before shimmying up onto the counter and leaning against the cabinets.

  Cold refreshment washed down the chocolaty goodness. Pure heaven. Strange that Debrille would keep such things around when they weren’t allowed. Of course, maybe they just weren’t allowed for her. Samantha gained a wicked satisfaction, as if she flipped him the bird each time she popped a forbidden cookie in her mouth.

  After downing half the package and three glasses of milk, Samantha brushed the crumbs into the industrial sized sink, leapt from the counter and hid the evidence of her dirty deed beneath the apples. Ugh, she used to love apples before arriving.

  The freakish obsession Debrille and Shades had with her body weight bordered on insanity. The workouts made sense, training for the mission they had for her to perform. But why the daily measurements with the weight checks? It was as if the two just got off on parading her scantily clad body around the facility for their own strange fantasies, no concern given for her sense of modesty. Had they treated her mother in such a way?

  Momma. The dream hung again on her mind. Did it mean anything? Samantha remembered how they used to walk together among the garden, Momma clad in her white straw hat with the wide brim to protect her dewy skin. Their Washington home had been so remote, surrounded by acres of trees, a river careening over the hills covered with verdant grass during spring and summer and crowned with snow in winter. Samantha closed her eyes and remembered the feel of the spongy grass carpet, the softness of Momma’s hand as it cradled hers so long ago.

  Samantha opened her eyes, but her mind continued passing through the dreams of what once was her life until coming to the realization that the passages she walked were no longer familiar. The halls no longer held the architectural beauty of the Mediterranean, but were clinical and white.

  After attempts at retracing her steps failed, Samantha pressed her earlobe to pull up the holographic display map. The blue lines glowed before her eyes in ever increasing detail until a red blip entered the screen. She had ventured into a storage facility unit. No need for fancy architecture there. A large, unmarked void appeared near the edge of the map like maybe an unfinished room.

  More twists and turns led her deeper into the complex, down a stairwell then up again until she came upon a riveted metal wall. There was no right or left, up or down. The hallway just stopped upon the unmarked void. Perhaps it was the outer wall of the whole facility, but if so no need for a manmade wall when the natural basalt stone would do. A tap to her earlobe again brought the holographic map to view. The unmarked room no longer appeared. Odd.

  For a moment Samantha pressed her ear to the wall and strained to listen. A low mechanical hum reverberated through the metal then something else.

  A voice.

  The emergency sirens blared like an ambulance careening through the hallways. The lights dimmed and red flashed as Samantha raced up the hall, down then up the stairwell as she followed the directional holograph. Her heart pounded in rhythm to her bare feet slapping along the tile, jogging right then left – no right again – until she came to familiar territory. She recalled the path to the surgical unit as they had drilled countless times. But as she slid through the stainless steel doors Samantha realized with stark clarity.

  This was no drill.

  Members of the unit had been shot to hell. Blood snaked along the floor as Samantha leapt into her scrubs and tore into the wash room before entering surgery.

  Dr. Marcus’ pleasant voice plowed through her head. “Where the hell have you been?” He was already up to his armpits in blood and flesh. “Clamp this artery before it drowns me, then open him up.” He nodded toward another gun shot victim.

  The nursing staff continued to wheel a steady stream of prepped bodies into surgical care as Samantha cut incision after incision and popped bullet casings as if she were dissecting cadavers. Debrille worked just beyond the window in another surgical care room specially designed for his short stature. The relentless beep of the heart monitors echoed in her head until the piercing steady whine shrilled across her frayed nerves.

  They lost twelve that night.

  Chapter 19- More Questions Than Answers

  Joe sorted through the endless reams of paper strewn across his desk – blueprints, phone records, utility bills. The questions only mounted. Why hadn’t he done this sooner?

  In the months since seeing the woman at the cemetery, something nagged at Joe’s mind like an irritating mosquito. It wouldn’t go away no matter how much he swatted at it, and a good detective never ignored evidence no matter how elusive. Countless nights over the last few months he’d lurched awake in a cold sweat, the dream evaporating before he could grasp it and pull it into reality. Was Sam trying to converse with him from the dead? No, he was too practical for such lunacy.

  Where to start – that always remained the million dollar question when he only had a hunch in his gut. The mess on his desk revealed definite anomalies, but now what? Nothing in the 1926 blueprints showed the elaborate storm bunker. If they’d built it later, no permit reflected the effort. Then the incredibly high electric bills: two, three, four thousand for a three bedroom airplane bungalow. Impossible Sam’s grandmother could have afforded such bills. Much less
there was no way an eleven hundred square foot house could use that much energy even if everything had been on and running twenty-four hours a day.

  The phone rattled. “Roberts.”

  “Hey Joe, it’s Proctor. You got a minute?”

  “Always for you, Bill. What’ve you sniffed out now?”

  Best friends since grade school, William Proctor had chosen to manage city affairs instead of following Joe into investigation, despite the fact the man had an instinct like a bloodhound. However, they still made a great team as they collaborated from their respective sides when the need arose.

  “You know the house explosion four months ago?”

  Joe appreciated the reference only to the incident instead of mentioning Sam directly. The memories continued to ache. Even though Bill hadn’t liked it when Joe and Sam had dated in high school, he’d remained considerate of Joe’s feelings. They would always be good friends for that one.

  “Working on those oddities with it right now.”

  “Same here. Well I went way back to when the house was built and went forward from there, searching the microfilm for copies of any checks to pay the electric bill. Looks like the Hendricks who owned it from ‘26 until ‘47 always paid with cash. Then the Gibson’s until ‘53.”

  “Cut to the chase, man. What’d you find?”

  “Starting in ‘68 there was that spike in the electric consumption – not enough to throw a wrench of suspicion into anything. Before that, the grandparents paid by cash too. Then by ‘72 they consistently paid by check. That’s when the consumption tripled, then quadrupled and went off the charts.”

  “You’ve already given me that information. What’re you getting at?” Bill always loved drawing out a good story, but Joe’s patience wore thin. They needed to start making some headway, anything really to make him feel like he was doing right by her memory. Then Joe could almost hear Bill smiling like a Cheshire cat.

  “I’ve got a copy of a check that I think you’ll find interesting. From the July 15, 1974 bill.”

  Curiosity coursed through Joe’s veins. Summer of seventy-four, summer of seventy-four – Sam’s grandfather had died in that construction accident working for Castor about six weeks before.

  “Are you scanning it?”

  “It should hit your email any second.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I’ll call when I find the connection.”

  “Thanks Bill. I’ll call you back when I need your nose again.”

  He set the phone in the cradle before checking his email and printing the attachment. The amount no longer surprised him, but the imprint at the top left more questions – Castor Concrete and Construction. The signature was none other than the owner himself at the time.

  Albert Castor.

  ***

  The October wind spit rain like needles against his face as Joe got out of the car. Four months and he’d refused to sign off on the demolition notice, convinced all along that more evidence only waited for him to find it in the rubble of Sam’s last known place of residence. The chief had fought him and threatened to sign off on it himself if he hadn’t discovered anything else by the end of the month. But now he had something tangible to back up his instincts. The connection to Castor only made it more curious.

  The company had originally done a lot of grunt work for the city. With those contacts, Jacob Castor built his father’s company from a family concrete operation during the Depression into a respected construction conglomerate by the end of World War Two, now employing thousands of employees across seventeen states.

  So why was Castor waiting on the sidelines to complete the city’s bid of final demolition on the remains of Sam’s house? Odd little job for a company with more important things to do.

  Joe had to tread the connection carefully. If the company had any inkling they were being considered in another investigation, however slight, whatever available crack they found to peek through would immediately be sealed shut. Also, he needed to be careful for Bill’s sake. They’d met earlier under the premise of lunch to chat like old friends and swap information. Bill continued to quietly investigate the Castor company in the city’s records while Joe dug through the information he provided.

  The remains of the storm bunker had to provide him with something tangible soon. If he held off on Castor much longer they’d get suspicious.

  Joe ducked under the yellow police tape and flicked on his flashlight as he once again went down the damp and slimy steps into the concrete shelter. The installed padlock gave him a bit of trouble before it yielded. With all the rain from the leaden sky, water again pooled on the floor but only a couple of inches. The night of the explosion water had been up to his knees.

  That night continued to haunt him. No DNA traces had shown up in the ash and residue, but no one could have survived such an explosion either. Sam hadn’t left the house. Matter of fact, a neighbor across the street had noticed her tearing into the driveway about ten minutes or so before. They’d located the remains of her bombed out car plowed into the side of the neighbor’s house. No registered traces of DNA there either. The only other place she could have gone was the storm shelter. In a way, he’d been thankful her body hadn’t been located under the water. He’d never have forgiven himself if she had indeed escaped the explosion and they’d drowned her.

  A chill crept up his spine. Joe flipped up his jacket collar to ward off the seeping cold air. The place just gave him the creeps. It still stank like fire even after all these months and the water washing down the stairs. Maybe the scent just remained permanently imbedded in his mind from when he’d first been on scene.

  Water gurgled. Without stirring too much, Joe turned toward the sound and shined the light along the top of the water. Nothing. He closed his eyes. No movement, no sound except water lapping against his boots. Only listening.

  There – again bubbling.

  The direction of the noise cleared off to his right. The explosion had probably created cracks in the concrete. Perhaps snakes had taken up residence to escape the fall cold.

  With the location clear in his mind, Joe snapped his eyes open and shined the flashlight toward the northwest corner. Intermittent bubbles broke the water’s surface. Careful not to disturb the water unnecessarily, Joe slunk closer and peered through the liquid.

  God, please don’t let it be a snake.

  He could see the headlines in the Wichita Eagle – Investigating Officer Killed By Deadly Snake Bite! But snakes would have to poke their heads up for air, and when the beam penetrated the water Joe could see nothing but the concrete floor.

  The bubbles stopped for a few moments but soon broke the surface again. No death by snake today. It sounded on occasion like water trying to make its way down a partially clogged drain. After removing his gloves, Joe drove his hand beneath the cold water and felt along the wall where it met the floor. Reminded him of the stories his grandfather used to tell about noodling along the banks of the Verdigris River. Dangerous business.

  Suddenly his fingers slipped into a smooth notch beneath the concrete. He searched for the end to the notch. Roughly two feet. A crack caused by the explosion? The exposed edge felt too smooth for that. It had to be man-made.

  Joe ran up the stairwell and retrieved a crowbar, screwdriver, and mallet from the car before making his way back into the depths. He adjusted the flashlight on the stairwell and shined it again toward the northwest corner. With a little elbow grease the crowbar slid into the slot and made contact with - nothing. No dirt, no concrete. His mind raced with anticipation.

  The crowbar wedged firmly under the lip of the concrete, Joe stood on the other end and countered the concrete with all his weight. Even though he expected to see something, he was still surprised when a fine line appeared along the wall. It hadn’t been there only a moment ago. Joe pressed his finger against the wall where the line revealed and whipped out his pencil to mark it in lead. The line marked, he eased off the crowbar and grabbed it to ut
ilize as a weapon against the concrete.

  All along the mark, Joe hacked with the tipped edge. Flecks of concrete flew like sparks away from the wall. He only hoped they wouldn’t cut into his eyes. After the mark was clearly scored he took up the mallet and screwdriver and pounded until his arms were sore. His face felt caked with sweat and grime but he kept at it.

  An edge increased in visibility just above his head. A few helpers and better equipment would speed things along. His legs were soaked and icy from the cold fall air, the concrete dust probably not good for him to breathe either. But no amount of excuses or mental reasoning decreased his efforts.

  The undertaking found pay dirt when the screwdriver broke through. Again there seemed to be nothing but air behind the concrete. Joe took up the crowbar again and slid it through the notch created from the screwdriver. He wedged his weight against it. The edge sliced into his hand as he slipped and fell into the water. The gash burned like hell but he couldn’t give up now, so he slid his wet gloves back on to cover the sticky mess.

  Joe didn’t need them. As he picked the crowbar back up and prepared to try again, he found the wall had swung outward with his last effort. So it was a doorway. A tunnel. Leading where?

  Joe snatched up the flashlight and shined it around the passageway. He forgot about the cold. He forgot about the pain in his hand. Concrete lined a tunnel angling downward. About fifty feet in Joe stopped.

  Dirt and rubble blocked further progress.

  Chapter 20 - A Glimpse

  No explanation of the dead bodies piling up. None offered nor given.

  Samantha fumed. “When am I to know what’s going on around here? What happened to all those men shot to hell recently? Did they die for some noble cause or just for the sake of Debrille’s sick and twisted pleasure? Then how is all this body building stuff getting back at Warner?” she asked in rapid fire as she followed Marcus down the hallway like an obedient doggie.