by Joe Hart
They wait for nearly ten minutes before continuing on, Merrill signaling Eli with a short blip of the horn. They creep around the bend and Zoey’s stomach tenses at the sight that meets them.
Riverbend lies at the end of a dirt road on the other side of what was once a river, the dry bed only a groove in the land that runs beneath a heavy steel bridge. Beyond the bridge is a tall chain-link fence, its top looped with razor wire. A gate sits directly beside an empty guardhouse that has been partially torn open. Inside the fence are dark domes set evenly apart before several squat buildings, the missile caps Merrill described before they left so much larger in real life. A narrow two-story tower dominates the center of the installation’s clearing; a figure mans the open space at the top.
“Here we go,” Merrill says.
The two vehicles cross the bridge, tires rattling on reinforced grating. Zoey glances into the backseat of the Suburban. Calm faces meet her. Even Rita and Sherell appear collected. She gives them a small smile that they return.
Eight months ago we would’ve been at each other’s throats, she thinks, readjusting herself in the seat. Now she would gladly die for either one of them.
The Jeep pulls even with the guard shack, stopping before the gate. She tenses, wondering if this is a trap. But her apprehension bleeds away as the gate snaps into motion, rumbling to one side with a growl.
They have electricity here. It’s a good sign. She allows a fraction of hope to slip through the armor she’s worn since learning of the missile facility. The information she’s craved, since before she can remember, might be inside at this second: where her home was, what her parents’ names were, what her name is.
Who she is.
Zoey swallows and regrips the H&K, keeping the weapon low and out of sight beside her seat.
They pull through the gate and it shuts behind them, the sound of it locking loud even with the rumbling engines. The tower looms beside them and she can’t help but glance up. The guard’s rifle follows their progress.
The Jeep comes to a stop and Merrill parks a car length behind it. Zoey’s heart quickens, adrenaline beginning to stretch its legs in her veins.
A door in the largest building ahead of them opens, and several figures pour out. She counts them.
One, two, three, four, five.
All of them are heavily armed. Submachine guns hanging from slings. A confident swagger to their walk. They are dressed in military fatigues and button-up shirts. Combat boots puff the dry soil with each step.
The man at the front of the group wears dark sunglasses below a straw hat, the brim curled up on either side. His shirt is open to his navel, revealing a chiseled physique. Dog tags jingle against his chest. He eyes Benny behind the wheel of the Jeep before peering directly through the windshield of the Suburban.
“Steady,” Merrill says. “Be ready to move if anything looks wrong.”
The man in the hat says something to Benny through the open window of the Jeep. Shakes his head and motions to the largest building. The other four men span out in a loose half circle around the cars. She can see Eli nodding in the front seat. The man in the hat tips his head back and laughs. He fingers his rifle and begins walking toward the Suburban.
“Steady,” Merrill says again.
The man comes even with the driver’s side and stops. He’s taller than Zoey originally thought, more powerfully built. Two deep lines engrave either side of his mouth, either from laughing or scowling. Wispy blond hair hangs down to his shoulders from beneath the hat. Zoey dips her head enough to obscure her face.
“Evening,” he says. “Name’s Ken.”
“Merrill. Nice to meet you, Ken.”
“Where you guys coming in from?”
“Washington. Our camp ran out of food about a week ago, so we headed east hoping to find something better,” Merrill says.
“Benny says you’re unarmed. That right?”
“Yes sir. Well, we do have one rifle for hunting. Actually had some luck yesterday and shot a mulie. Plenty of it left and we’d be happy to share it.”
“I understand one of you is a doctor?” Ken asks.
“That’s right.”
“Which one is he?”
“Up in the Jeep there, in the back. His name’s Terry.”
“We could really use a doctor’s expertise, to be honest.”
“Well then maybe we can strike a deal. Terry helps you and we rest up for a while here. Get our bearings.”
“That sounds good to me. Just one more thing. You in the passenger seat there, you’re making me awful nervous the way I can’t see your other hand. Like you to show it to me,” Ken says.
Zoey blinks, keeping her face averted.
Her fingers tighten on the gun.
She turns her head in Merrill’s direction.
“Oh, he’s a little shy. It’s okay, Steve, show him your hand,” Merrill says. His closest hand points to her, index finger out, thumb up.
Like a gun.
Zoey brings the H&K up, pointing it directly into Ken’s face. The skin around his sunglasses goes slack as Merrill whips up his own weapon, shoving it beneath Ken’s jaw.
The men surrounding the vehicles begin yelling but no shots are fired. Out of the corner of her eye she sees barrels appearing in the Jeep’s windows.
“Don’t move,” Merrill says.
“Sonofabitch,” Ken says. “Not you, Merrill, if that’s your real name. I’m speaking about my good friend Benny up there. I knew I should’ve put a bullet behind his ear the first time I saw him. Well, regardless, I guess we have some things to talk about here.”
“Yes, we do,” Merrill says. “Unclip your rifle and drop it on the ground. Tell your men to do the same.”
“Can’t do that, amigo. I said we’ll talk and see where it gets us.” Merrill pushes his handgun farther into Ken’s neck. “Okay, I’ll start. You—” But Ken pauses as he looks directly at Zoey, really seeing her for the first time. She stares back at him over the sights of her gun. Ken smiles. “You’re in a bad position here. See, you may have gotten the drop on us with old Benny’s help but I have a guardian angel in the nest behind me, and right now he has his crosshairs dialed in directly on your face. Wouldn’t be a problem for him to put a bullet through your eye.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t, but then you die at the same time.”
“Let’s be honest, in all likelihood we’d all die or, at the very least, get wounded. So how about we start over. You hand us your guns and we’ll get you something to eat and we can speak in a civilized manner over some dinner.”
“We both know that won’t happen.”
“No. No it probably won’t,” Ken says, sighing. “I knew today was going to be complete shit. It’s a Monday. Did you know that?”
“Should we waste them, Ken?” the closest man yells. Zoey glances around the clearing, wondering who to fire at first. She glances up at the tower.
The man there has his rifle trained directly on Merrill.
“Not yet,” Ken replies. “Me and Merrill here are having a little discussion.”
“Drop your guns,” Merrill says. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Got one word for you, cousin. Stalemate.”
The wind coasts across the installation, tossing dust into the air.
One of the men readjusts his grip on his machine gun.
A hawk cries mournfully in the distance.
There is swift whining and a sharp crack that breaks the tensioned silence.
Someone yells a curse and Zoey sees pieces of something fly out of the tower before the man’s rifle tumbles to the ground. A split second later the sound of a shot rebounds off the nearest hills and rolls away like thunder.
Ken’s men are screaming, shouting for orders.
Zoey spots the man in the tower, partially bent over, cradling his hand to his chest.
“Lost your angel,” Merrill says. “Now drop your weapons.”
Ken’s lips peel bac
k from his teeth in a snarl, their yellowness shocking. “Disarm!” he yells after a moment.
“Ken, I—” one of the men says.
“I said, disarm!”
Slowly the men do as he says. They place the weapons on the ground and step away reluctantly.
“Now you,” Merrill says. Ken hesitates then unsnaps the sling from his shoulder and drops the gun to the ground.
“You just made the biggest mistake of your lives,” Ken says, teeth still bared.
“Oh I doubt it,” Merrill says. “I’m sure we’ll make worse ones than this. Now let’s have that talk you wanted.”
7
As she steps inside the largest building, stale heated air rushes past Zoey, a warm exhale.
She glances around the space, gathering her bearings.
The building’s entry used to be partitioned in what looks like a holding cell. The empty door and window frames are solid steel, their glass absent. Through the entry is a wide hall with multiple doors branching from it, most of them open. To the right is an area she assumes used to house another guard station. A long desk covered with strewn papers is flanked by a row of computer monitors, all of them tilted downward at head height.
Her footsteps echo in the empty corridor, a mournful sound. Lonely.
She keeps her finger outside the H&K’s trigger guard but holds the gun tightly at her side, ready to bring it up at a moment’s notice.
“Place is creepy,” Tia says. The other woman steps to her left holding a sawed-off shotgun she’s taken to carrying. They move forward in tandem, weapons covering either side of the hall. Zoey moves into the first open doorway, scans the room. It’s a white box without windows, twenty feet square. The walls are barren except for holes that might’ve been made by screws or bullets. They check all of the rooms on the first floor. Some of them are occupied by old mattresses and body odor, but most are empty. They find a kitchen area at the rear of the building beside a stairwell that leads both up and down, and another short hallway ending in a steel door.
They stop to listen to the silence for a moment. Nothing breaks it.
“Benny said there were seven of them here and a woman,” Zoey says. “We got six plus the guy in the tower. Should be empty except for her.”
“Place is big. We’ll need to split up.”
“We go in twos,” Merrill says, striding up to them. Behind him, Eli, Chelsea, and Rita are ushering the men into the building at gunpoint. Ken is at the front of the group. His sunglasses are gone and his eyes are a deep brown that pin Zoey to the floor. Eli checks one of the first rooms and guides the men inside. Several minutes later he appears, jiggles the doorknob, and comes toward them, holding out a ring of keys.
“Their fearless leader was carrying this. Looks like it’ll open any door in here.”
“Is Ian back yet?” Zoey asks.
“No, but I saw him coming down out of the hills and left the gate open,” Eli says. “That was a hell of a shot. I bet it was almost a thousand yards and he blasted the guy’s rifle right out of his hands. Shrapnel tore his fingers up pretty good.”
“We’ll have Chelsea look at him later,” Merrill says. “First we find the woman they mentioned.”
“Place seems empty. I’d say they were telling the truth about how many they were,” Tia says.
“Regardless, we move carefully. Newton will stay and watch the door—”
Bang!
The entire group tenses. Zoey brings up her handgun, pointing it down the short hall at the steel door. There is a pause and then another quiet clanging of metal on metal.
She glances at Merrill, who nods in the direction the noise came from.
They move down the hall together, Eli searching through the keys as they reach the door. Zoey reaches out and tries the knob. It turns easily.
Eli rolls his eyes and puts the keys away, then counts down silently, his fingers closing into a fist.
Three.
Two.
One.
Zoey yanks the door open. Eli and Tia stream through followed by Merrill. Zoey goes last, covering the area inside the doorway.
They spill out into a massive garage smelling of wet cement and oil. The ceiling is high, patched with flickering fluorescent panels. Dirty light streams in through two long windows cut into dual overhead doors that she’s sure a helicopter could fly through. In the center of the space is a huge vehicle the likes of which she’s never seen before: oblong and armor plated, sitting high on four large wheels. Dark glass is set in reinforced squares along its front and sides and its bulk is the color of dark sand. Around the machine is a gathering of red boxes, their tops open to reveal glinting tools within.
And beneath the vehicle a short pair of legs pokes out, scuffed boots at their ends.
Eli and Tia cross the space swiftly, taking up positions on either side of the hulking machine. Merrill walks forward, handgun pointed at the figure, who grunts something. Another clang is followed by a quiet curse.
“Come out from under there,” Merrill says. The figure freezes, the sound of work stopping immediately. Slowly the man scoots free from beneath the truck.
He is older than Zoey expected judging by the ages of the other men, his hair streaked with gray, face round and flushed red from his work. He wears a pair of glasses, frames so thin they’re almost invisible. He sits up, grease-stained hands rising to shoulder level. His eyes flick around to all of them, hovering longest on Zoey.
“Who are you people?” he asks.
“Visitors,” Merrill says. “Stand up and turn around slowly.” The man does as he’s told, knees popping as he rises. After shuffling in a circle he drops his hands to his sides where they open and close spastically.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“That depends. What’s your name?” Merrill asks.
“Lyle. Lyle Partridge.”
“Are you alone in here, Lyle?”
“Yes.”
“How many people live at this installation?”
“Nine.”
“One of the others said there were seven of them and a woman. Why did they leave you out?”
“Because they don’t count me as part of the group. I’m not with them.”
“You said nine counting the woman?” Zoey asks.
Lyle’s gaze, watery and timid, flicks to her. “Yes, counting her.”
“Where is she?” Zoey steps forward and brings up the handgun so it’s level with Lyle’s head.
He cringes. “Don’t shoot me. I didn’t do anything to her.”
“Where?”
“The second floor. Third door on the right.”
“Eli, give me the keys,” Zoey says.
“Zoey, wait. We—” Merrill begins.
“Give me the keys,” she repeats, holding out her hand.
Eli glances at Merrill and sighs, handing her the jangling ring. “I’m coming with you.”
Merrill calls to her, but she doesn’t stop. A sinking sensation is growing in her center. She pushes through the doorway into the hall, not stopping when Chelsea yells to her from the front of the building, the words meaningless amidst the sound of blood thudding in her ears.
She swings right and climbs the stairway, taking the treads two at a time, Eli close behind. She covers her path with the handgun, hurrying, being reckless, she knows, but the inflection in Lyle’s voice set off an alarm inside her.
Zoey turns at the first landing and leaps up the next set of stairs, which empties out in a hallway much like the one below. To the left an open doorway reveals a tiled shower room, complete with a large, freestanding tub. The windows in the bathroom are clouded and covered with reinforced mesh.
She hurries forward, counting the doors.
One.
Two.
Three. She slides to a stop, tries the knob.
Locked. Brings the ring up and gazes at the multitude of shining keys.
Flipping through them, she takes only a split second to study each one. Th
e sixth one she examines is brighter than the others, its serrated teeth polished from use. She slides it into the door’s lock, feeling no surprise when it turns easily.
The smell is the first thing that hits her. The pungency of unwashed skin is so strong it almost makes her eyes water. The mingling of sweat and blood in the air turns her stomach, but it doesn’t make her nearly as sick as the sight.
A woman lies facing the wall on a ragged mattress stained brown and black in places. She is thin, her bones prodding beneath translucent skin veined blue. Blonde hair, scraggly and unwashed, forms a dirty halo around her head. Her shirt may have once been white but is now a dingy shade of yellow, its hem barely covering her waist. A steel cable fastened to the wall with a large bolt runs down and disappears near her shoulder.
Zoey swallows bile and holsters her gun. She walks forward, feeling as if she is in another fever dream. Sounds come from the hallway, voices and footsteps echoing up the stairs. They’re muted, unimportant. She kneels, the smell rising from the mattress and its occupant almost too much to bear.
Gently she reaches out and clasps the woman’s shoulder, which is cool, almost cold, rolling her partially onto her back.
A heavy manacle is attached to one delicate wrist and it is this that the cable from the wall is bound to, allowing only limited movement. As the woman settles into her new position, some of her hair shifts, revealing her face.
Time stops.
Disbelief rockets through her.
A hand touches her shoulder and she jerks, turning to look into Chelsea’s stricken features. Zoey shifts her gaze to the woman again, barely conscious of her words as more people fill the room.
“I know her. This is Halie.”
8
Zoey holds the cup, letting the heat sink into her hands, not drinking the tea within. She sits on a worn chair in a room on the second floor, two doors down from where—
From where Halie was lying. Lying in her own filth, barely alive.
Closing her eyes, she turns the cup around and around. Wind scatters a handful of grit against the window and she gazes out through the steel mesh. How long? How long was Halie in that room? What had she endured? The thoughts make her stomach seize with nausea, and for a brief second she thinks she’s going to be sick. She breathes deeply, trying to cleanse herself of the smell in the room, but it doesn’t want to go away. It clings to her like a parasite.
