Refuge Book 5 - Bonfires Burning Bright

by Jeremy Bishop

  The journal discussed Ellison’s anger over DARPA pulling out of the project, but then he had decided to continue on without them, and in secret. The project itself was referred to as J.L. Winslow couldn’t figure out what those initials referred to yet. The only other details about the purpose of the project were oblique, like with Ellison constantly referring to himself being on the ‘straight path’ with regard to the project.

  With each page, Winslow’s frustration mounted. He felt sure he would have all the answers if the middle of the book wasn’t missing. Plus he was getting really tired. He’d stopped trying to keep track of Earth days and nights, because the hours on these other worlds didn’t correspond. All he knew was he felt exhausted, and stressed, like he hadn’t felt since leaving JPL. His body ached and his thoughts grew loopy. He’d even started to think of the journal as a big paper donut.

  He ran a finger through his messy gray hair, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead as he did so.

  “Anything new, Joshua?”

  “Well,” the boy scribbled furiously in a document. “It’s a lot of technical terms for parts of the pylons—what these documents call ‘Repeater Elements.’ I only understand about half of what I’m reading and writing. None of these things is a clear instruction manual for Jacob’s Ladder.”

  Winslow’s eyes snapped open. “What did you say?”

  “I said there’s no easy operation manual. Everything is really technical—”

  “No, no,” Winslow cut the boy off. “That name. Jacob’s Ladder. What’s that about? Was that written somewhere?”

  “Yeah, it’s the name of the project. Where is it?” Joshua started looking through the stack of pages.

  Lisa, seated next to him, found the page in her pile. “Here it is.” She handed the paper to Winslow. It was a memo from someone at DARPA authorizing the start of Project Jacob’s Ladder, and requesting an update after a period of five months. The document was dated five years ago.

  Winslow grabbed the two-way radio from the desk and sat on the edge of the surface. He thumbed the toggle switch and called for Griffin.

  After a few seconds, the man came on the line.

  “What’s up, Winslow? Over.”

  “We have it,” Winslow said. “The why. You’re not going to like it. I think I have the theoretical how, and we have enough of the technical how to maybe shut it down, but I’m not sure we can get us home yet. I’m being vague like you told me, but you need to get back to the station now.”

  “I’ll be right there. I’m just across the street.” Griffin said. “Out.”

  “What is it, Mr. Herman?” Lisa asked. “What did you figure out?” She pulled a long strand of her blonde hair away from her face and sat forward to hear the answer. Joshua was also paying rapt attention.

  Just then a louder wave of the shrieking and screaming from outside town came over the breeze, causing everyone in the room to cringe. They sound like tortured souls, Winslow thought, and given the newly discovered why, that might be exactly what they were. “I know where Renford Ellison wanted to go, but I think he found the other place.”

  10

  “I still can’t believe he had an elevator in the gardening shed of the church,” Griffin said, looking back at the weathered shed on the edge of the church’s rear parking lot. The doors to the elevator inside the shed had been cleverly concealed by a fake wall, with a bunch of rusted gardening tools and a lawnmower in front of it. Those things were easily moved by the wall itself, which moved on well-oiled, recessed hinges.

  Turkette nodded, still looking dejected. “He was sneaky. And he has more money than God. That’s how he got everything built, I guess. I haven’t been here that long. I knew about the elevator and the bunker under the church, but like I told you, I didn’t know what all of it was for. I assumed it was a fallout shelter. That the guy was just crazy and security conscious. One of those survival nuts.”

  “And when he didn’t come back you figured he went underground to his shelter?” Avalon asked.

  Turkette nodded. “Obviously, I suspected he was involved in all this once the first shift happened. When I couldn’t find him after the lizard incursion, I knew where he went.”

  They walked through the parking lot, serenaded by the sounds of distant squeals and shrieks. As they crossed the street toward the station, Turkette fell silent. Sullen.

  Guards let them past the bars and into the station. Only a few lights were on inside, most people gathered in the main room trying fitfully to sleep, while the hellish lullaby of tortured voices slipped through the air. Carol Herman, looking tired and frazzled, her gray hair a mess against her deeply tanned skin, came rushing up to Griffin.

  “They all want to know whatever they can to ease their minds. The soundtrack to this place isn’t helping keep everyone calm.”

  “I’m sorry, Carol. We don’t know much about this world yet, but we’re not taking any chances. Better to keep them all inside for now. Try fans.”

  Carol was thrown by his last comment. “What?”

  “Box fans. I think I saw a few in the storage closet. The white noise from a few of them should drown out the...” He pointed into the air.

  “That should help,” she said, “but we can’t stay in here forever.”

  Griffin knew she was right. They might end up stuck in this hellscape for another week. Maybe more. There was no way to know how long they had between shifts. “Winslow radioed that he’s found something that might help us make sense of all this. We might know something solid soon. For now, just try to keep them calm.”

  The woman nodded, and Griffin patted her back as he passed with Avalon and Turkette in tow. As he approached Frost’s office, his arm started itching again, and his shoulders felt sore where he had been attacked two weeks ago.

  “Dad, I’m gonna go lie down for a bit. I’m wiped.” Avalon yawned.

  “Sure,” he hugged her and whispered in her ear. “Don’t go anywhere on your own. Probably best if you stayed at the station.”

  She nodded and walked off. They had put her with Joshua and Lisa in a small office on the second floor, that they could all call their own. He’d brought a cot and sleeping bags over from the house. If nothing else, he’d feel better knowing she was safe in the station, while his alternate self was running around out there.

  He looked at Turkette. “You know of any other ways into that bunker? Any other places he might go if he leaves it?”

  She shook her head as they moved into the office, where Winslow studied the punctured journal. The man looked worse than Carol did. Haggard, with red rims under his eyes.

  “Winslow. You remember Jennifer Turkette.” Griffin said, taking a seat in the chair usually filled by Radar.

  “How could I forget? One part polite hostility, one part Dukes of Hazard.”

  Turkette smiled, and sat next to Griffin.

  “So spill it,” Griffin said. “What did you find out?”

  Winslow stood and stretched his arms back, groaning like a man far older than he was. “We need to talk fast. You didn’t hear the radio traffic before I called you, did you?” Griffin shook his head. “Helena is on her way with Cash. He’s been shot.”

  “What?” Griffin sat forward. “By who?”

  “Julie Barnes, apparently. Kyle and Helena are bringing him in, and then she’s heading back out to Green Meadow.”

  “So it was her.” Turkette said.

  “Who?” Griffin asked.

  “Ellison was concerned that one of the town’s residents might have been here undercover, sent to spy on him. He wasn’t sure who it could have been.”

  Griffin looked at Winslow. “Is Cash going to be okay?”

  “No idea yet.”

  “What happened?”

  “Apparently, there’s a tunnel of some sort out at Green Meadow farm. They think it might lead to wherever Ellison has been hiding, and based on what I’ve read, I’m inclined to agree.”

 
Griffin turned to Turkette, and the woman held up her hands. “If it’s another way in, I didn’t know about it.”

  By way of explanation, Griffin turned back to Winslow and said, “We found a tunnel from the mansion that ran under the lake and ended beneath the church, if you can believe it. He has a bunker down there with a door like a bank vault. No chance we’re getting in that way.”

  Winslow gave a quick nod, as if that information dovetailed with what he knew. “Barnes shot Cash and then went into the tunnel.”

  “Barnes.” Griffin shook his head, mentally cursing her, but holding his tongue in front of the kids. “Cash said she was acting weird, and he suspected she was more than she was letting on, but to pull a gun and shoot him? I should have seen it coming.” Griffin scratched absently at his shoulder.

  “It gets stranger. Charley Wilson showed up. Saved Cash’s life. He’s the one who called it in.”

  Griffin just raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “The drunk?” Turkette asked.

  Radar frowned at this, but didn’t correct her. The kid was getting thick skin.

  “This whole thing is more complicated than we suspected,” Winslow said. “Joshua cracked the code. We’ve been deciphering the contents of that safe all day. If—and it’s a big if—what’s happened to our town parallels the Gila-monster world’s Refuge, then this was all a DARPA-funded project. They got cold feet and pulled out before the implementation stage. Ellison was furious and went on to fund the last stage himself. The pylons are connected to whatever it is that shifts us to new worlds. The church bell is a warning system. The actual machinery is underground.”

  “So you’re saying one man did this? That Ellison high-jacked our town? On his own?”

  “He had help at first, from DARPA, but it was all his design. He’s a genius. And money to complete the project was no problem. There were certainly other people involved. Scientists. Laborers. But they wouldn’t have known exactly what they were a part of. And none of them lived in town. So none of them came with us.” Winslow looked at Turkette. “Well, almost none.”

  “But why?” Griffin asked, exasperated. “What’s it all for?”

  Winslow rubbed his temples, then looked at Griffin. “Renford Ellison is trying to find Heaven.”

  11

  Charley Wilson knew something was deeply wrong with this world. He felt drunk, but that was impossible. He’d been sober for over a week. He knew the crisp focus of the one and the soft blur of the other, the way every New Englander knew the Yankees and the Sox. You went in for one or the other, but never both at the same time.

  This is wrong, he thought. Something about this new world must be making me feel this way. Even if I had tossed some back, I’d remember it. But I haven’t looked sideways at a single can of Coors.

  He had made it a long way into the pitch black tunnel, following after Barnes. At first he had been concerned that she would be lying in wait for him in the dark. Her icy glare filled his thoughts. He’d heard her far ahead of him in the echoing chamber, when he’d first come in, but then her sounds had receded, moving quickly. She was far off. He was pretty sure of it. And she had no idea she was being followed.

  He wondered where the tunnel went, as he felt his way along the wall with his hand in the dark. He had the keychain light, but he didn’t want to use it, in case it gave him away. The sounds of screaming had been left far behind him, outside the entrance with Whittemore. He’d given the poor man the shirt off his back—literally—and called for help, but that was the best he could do. He was a lot of things, but a medic wasn’t one of them.

  And only one person could get to Barnes before she did whatever it was she was after.

  So he had charged into the tunnel like a hero. The hero he wanted to be. He had thought his days of drinking were all behind him. But now, he felt the smoothed out feeling of having started to tie one on. A slight stagger to his step. He could walk, but he needed to keep a hand on the wall. He wondered if it was the sensory deprivation—he’d been in the dark for close to twenty minutes.

  As far as he could tell, the tunnel just kept on going. And he felt like he needed to sit down. Or lie down. Or at least have another beer. Except he hadn’t even opened his first one.

  He was getting cold without a shirt on, and despite the comforting presence of the gun in his pants, he was concerned that whatever Barnes was up to, he might not be in shape enough to deal with it. Doubt chewed at his mind like a terrier with a rawhide. Was he sober enough? Was he feeling some kind of delayed withdrawal effects from the years of alcohol in his system? Was cold turkey the way to go? Maybe he needed just a few to steady his nerves.

  No, he thought.

  Whatever else happened, he wouldn’t take a single drink. He’d decided that, and he’d stuck to his decision. So where was this feeling coming from?

  Then an idea struck him. It was logical, and realistic, all other wacky world-changing aspects to the side. He was deep underground. A place he’d never been, and from the looks of the lock Barnes had shot out…a place no one had been in a long-ass time.

  Gas.

  Some kind of natural gas pocket or leak, making him feel like he was drunk. That could be it. It was possible. It gave him the excuse he needed to shed his heroic attempt and turn around. Someone else would have to deal with Barnes. He could barely walk. He wanted to do the right thing, but if he asphyxiated down here and no one even knew? How would that be helping Radar—Joshua.

  No, he would go back and inform Frost about what Barnes had done. He’d leave the tunnel to Griffin, and he’d find another way to help. There would be a way for him to be a hero, without risking his already damaged relationship with his son.

  He didn’t see it as cowardice. He’d charged into the tunnel, hadn’t he? When no one else was around to even see it, he’d chased down that homicidal whore with nothing but a .38 and a damn keychain light.

  But gas was gas.

  No one could ask more of him.

  He staggered back along the dark passage, hoping that when he got to the end, he’d see some kind of ambient light at the door, before he bashed his drunk face into it.

  If nothing else, he knew he would hear the screaming as he got closer to the door.

  But it wasn’t screaming he heard first.

  It was the flapping of those wings. Whatever had chased him across the field was in here with him.

  His blood grew cold and he could suddenly sense things with clarity. The adrenaline dumping into his system sobered him right up. The heavy beat of wings filled his ears, but he was still blind.

  With the .38 now held awkwardly in his broken and still partially splinted left hand, he pulled the keychain LED out of his jeans pocket, and slowly raised his arm up in front of him. His finger fumbled to find the button. Drawing a deep breath, he depressed and held the rubber nub down.

  The corridor was suddenly awash in a harsh white-blue light, throwing everything into a hideous high-contrast.

  And Charley Wilson screamed.

  12

  Frost and Laurie rushed into the station. Kyle followed close behind with Cash, who had an arm slung around Kyle for support and looked like he might keel over. Dodge, who had followed the cruiser in Cash’s car, came in behind them. The whole group hurried to the conference room, where they laid Cash down on the table. Kyle quickly went to work cutting off Cash’s torn t-shirt.

  Laurie stayed and helped Kyle, as Frost and Dodge withdrew from the room. Griffin waited for them just outside the door. Their abrupt appearance and race through the building had wakened several of the people trying to sleep around the room, despite the loud hum of several box fans. A sea of expectant faces greeted them.

  Frost spoke to them, but in a hushed voice, so as not to wake those who had managed to sleep through the calamity. “We’ll make an announcement soon, but for right now, Cash Whittemore is hurt, but not dying. The Doctor is with him. Best thing you can all do is get some rest. I’m waiting to hear bac
k from the scout teams on what kinds of dangers this new world contains. When I know, you’ll know.”

  With that, she took Griffin’s hand and pulled him with her toward the office, and Dodge went with them. Winslow had moved to the small loveseat-like sofa in the room, and was sleeping, stretched out on it. Frost left him where he was and went around the desk to sit. Griffin and Dodge remained standing.

  “We need to go back out to the farm,” she was talking to Griffin. “Julie Barnes went down that tunnel out there after shooting Cash. And, apparently, Charley went after her. I think that must be where Ellison is hiding.”

  “Yeah,” Griffin said. “We found Turkette. She’s here in the building. Ellison bailed on her and locked himself in the bunker. But I’ve got bigger news.” Griffin turned to look at Dodge, then back at Frost behind the desk. “Ellison is trying to get to Heaven.”

  “What?” Dodge said. “That’s not possible... How?”

  “According to Winslow, the journal explains the project, moving the whole town through wormholes in space, from dimension to dimension. Ellison thinks one of them will be Heaven.”

  “As in ‘Our Father who art in’?” Frost asked. “That Heaven?”

  Griffin nodded.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Dodge said. “Even if Winslow’s idea of different dimensions was true, Heaven isn’t a place you can just hop on an intergalactic bus to. It’s—”

  Griffin held up his hand to cut the pastor off. “I get it. Christianity teaches that there is only one way to Heaven. But Ellison apparently believes—or at least the alternate world version of Ellison believed—that by cycling through dimensions, he can eventually hit the right one. Heaven with a capital H. And honestly, I’m not sure I see a flaw in his reasoning. If Winslow is right, and there are an infinite number of dimensions, then why can’t one of them be Heaven? Maybe someone, like the Biblical prophets, somehow got a glimpse of the place, the same way I somehow painted this world without ever seeing it.”