by Steven Bird
“Uh-huh,” the voice grunted, letting me know he did not believe my first attempt at identifying myself.
“Well then, Hank, what brings you to our neck of the woods?”
“I’m just passing through,” I replied. “Do you mind if I roll over? The circulation to my left arm is getting cut off in this position.”
Without even the slightest verbal response, the person’s boot pressed against my right arm and rolled me over onto my back, allowing me to thrust my weight to the right, now lying on my right side.
“That’s all the favors you get for now,” the voice declared.
Looking up, I saw a man with a medium build wearing a mismatched outfit of camouflage and an OD-green face shield concealing his identity. A Kryptek camo-camo patterned ball cap was pulled down tightly against the face shield, preventing even the slightest identification of hair color, if the man even had any hair.
“Just passing through, huh? To where?”
“Away,” I replied. “As far away as I can get from anyone else.”
“Well, you did a lousy job of that. Can you tell me why it is that the OWA seems to have an interest in you?”
My heart nearly skipped a beat when the interrogator uttered those words. My mind raced with the possibilities of what might be occurring. Was this the OSS in some sort of clandestine disguise? I’d heard of OSS operators carrying out false-flag operations while acting as a civilian militia in order to turn the survivors that might lend them support against them, making the OWA out to be their savior once again.
I remembered back to when they first captured me, and how they didn’t seem to be at all afraid of me possibly being a carrier of the virus, but then remembered their fear of the drone. The drone would have clearly been an OWA asset. Was their fear of the drone part of the elaborate ruse?
My head pounded with the hangover induced by whatever it was they had used to rob me of my consciousness, making it difficult to piece the puzzle together in my mind.
“What do you mean? I asked. “About the OWA having an interest in me, that is?”
Kneeling down before me, the man said, “Don’t play with me.”
“I… I just don’t know what you mean. I’ve not seen any OWA or OSS personnel. Why would they appear to have any interest in me?”
“Sit him up,” directed a female voice hidden in the darkness.
Almost immediately, two large men picked me up from underneath my arms and sat me in a chair directly under a light. “Are you kidding me?” I asked.
“Kidding about what?” the female voice inquired.
Looking around, I said, “This is a little cliché, don’t you think? I mean, it’s straight out of a cheap Hollywood movie. The dark space, voices hidden in the darkness, sitting me under a light with my hands tied behind my back while you try to intimidate me? It’s literally something you’d see in a B-rated movie script.”
Reaching up and taking hold of the low-hanging light that dangled from its wires above me, the female shined it in her own face and said, “There, is that better? Now, cut the bullshit.”
The light revealed the attractive woman that I had seen earlier. She was dressed like the others, but stood out in the crowd with her tuft of reddish-brown hair hanging out beneath her cap. I must admit, I was taken aback by the sight of her. She was very well kept, and, well—a sight to behold for my weary eyes, if I may be honest.
Releasing the light and allowing it to swing back and forth in a very disorienting manner, she said, “Now, tell us why the OWA has such an interest in you.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to clarify that. I really don’t know what you mean. I’ve not seen any OWA.”
“The drones,” she replied. “We noticed a shift in the routine patterns of the drones that patrol the area. The pattern they have been following indicates a grid search is being performed. We’ve calculated the probable location of their target of interest and narrowed it down to the area where you were apprehended. The rotary-wing drone was confirmation of that. They were getting close. Those are short range, low-level drones that are used only once their target has been acquired for confirmation.”
That threw me for a loop. If this was true, how could I not have noticed the drones overhead? Then again, I had traveled mostly at night, which would have prevented me from getting a visual on them if they ran without lights of any kind, and the newer generation of drones can fly at altitudes that would prevent me from hearing them. I supposed they could have been using thermal imaging to track me, isolating me somehow from the other targets in the area, such as random survivors and wildlife.
“I’m sure it wasn’t me,” I replied. “They’d have no reason to be looking for me. You must have just missed the person or persons they’re really after.”
No sooner did I utter that lie than one of the men standing in the darkness grabbed me by the arm and jerked my shirt sleeve up so quickly that it tore.
“Then tell us where you’ve been getting your Symbex,” the woman demanded.
Looking to my arm, I realized that while I was unconscious, they must have found the tell-tale signs of frequent and prolonged use of Symbex injections. When an employee or supporter of the OWA reported for work, they’d get their daily injection of the drug via air gun in order to save on needles. Over time, a noticeable mark would be present around the injection site. It wasn’t overly obvious, but could easily be found by a trained observer.
This only deepened my concerns about who my interrogators were. If they knew I had been receiving Symbex injections, then they knew I was a carrier. If they knew I was a carrier, they would know their proximity to me would be life-threatening to them, unless, of course, they too were receiving the life-saving drug.
Playing to the idea that they may have access to the drug, I said, “I’ll make you a deal.”
“I don’t think you’re really in a position to be making deals,” the woman said.
“I think I am,” I replied smugly. “If you give me a dose of Symbex, and promise me that you’ll give me access to a continuing supply, I’ll tell you anything and everything. If you don’t, I’m as good as dead anyway, so what good would talking do me? I mean, you’re clearly carriers, or there is no way on Earth you’d be standing in this confined little space with me.”
From all of the interrogation training I had received during my career in law enforcement, I could see on her face that her hand had been revealed. She either had to put her cards on the table or fold. She knew I was right. She knew I understood that I would die without access to Symbex and that I must have figured out they would too without access. So, what did I have to lose? Any method of execution would undoubtedly be preferable to the slow, agonizing death the Sembé virus would cause if not suppressed.
As she began to speak, a heavy metal door swung open as several men rushed into the room. Looking at the door and how it swung from metal hinges on what would be the corner of the room, I thought, what the hell is this, a shipping container?
“We’ve got a breach!” the man said with excitement in his voice.
Before she could respond, I could hear the muffled sounds of gunshots in the distance and oddly, above me.
Without saying a word, everyone around me sprang into action, with two of them jerking me off the chair and rushing through the room and out the open steel door. It appeared I was in what could only be described as a series of connected shipping containers, though the low light made any sort of hasty mental investigation difficult at best.
Sliding an old, well-worn sofa out of the way, the woman said, “Go! Go! Go!” as one of the men opened a makeshift door or hatch cut into the floor by use of a cutting torch.
They quickly lowered me down through the hatch and then followed closely behind. There were at least six of them with me, the woman and five unidentified male comrades of hers. Beneath the shipping container, there was a small, cramped tunnel that was lit only with the headlamps that my captors immediately donned.
This was something they had clearly drilled and trained on; as they each carried out the process of what seemed to be an emergency evacuation without a single word being spoken between them.
It was challenging to navigate the tight confines of the tunnel with my hands tied behind my back, and my tripping and falling was clearly slowing them down.
“Cut him loose,” the woman ordered.
Two of the men responded, with one of them holding me still while another cut the ties used to bind my wrists.
The man cutting the ties whispered in my ear, “I dare you to give me a reason to see you as a threat.”
Once my hands were free, the group continued through the tunnel, and we could now hear gunfire coming from inside the maze of shipping containers above us as it echoed through the structure with a hollow, metallic sound.
After what seemed like a hundred yards, the group stopped, and one of them began opening a crudely-made overhead hatch, allowing the crisp, fresh night air to wash through the tight confines of the tunnel. Each of them immediately turned off their headlamps as the first climbed up and out of the tunnel, motioning for the others to join.
As I exited the tunnel with them, the moonlight revealed that we were in some sort of industrial area, in what I could only assume was Chattanooga, but then again, I had no idea how long I had been out or where they had taken me.
Using hand signals only, the group began to work their way quickly along the shadows of the buildings as a helicopter flew at a high rate of speed directly over the rooftops of the metal warehouse-style buildings, causing everyone to duck and cover.
“Let’s move,” one of them said as shots rang out from the alleyway just across from us, taking the man off his feet with what I could recognize from the report as a CX91 carbine.
Chills ran up my spine when I realized it was the OSS who was upon us.
With the realization that I must be with some sort of resistance militia, I took cover as they immediately returned fire, only to have two more of them be cut down before my eyes.
With only the woman and one of the militiamen remaining, the woman shouted, “Move! Move! Move!” as an OSS operator rounded the corner, taking a shot at her sole surviving companion, striking him directly in the throat, and sending me crashing backward and onto the ground. As her friend fell, she had managed to raise her M4-style AR15 carbine, engaging the threat, striking him several times in the abdomen and pelvic area.
As the man writhed in pain on the ground, I pulled his CX91 from his bloody grasp and began to raise it as the woman’s barrel now bore down on me.
As she prepared to fire, the threat that had engaged us from across the alley emerged into the moonlight, giving me more than an adequate target. I pivoted to my left, took aim with the CX91, and sent several of the 6.2mm rounds flying, taking him off his feet and out of the fight.
Ensuring that I didn’t turn the weapon back toward the woman, I turned my head to see her still pointing her weapon at me, seeming to be in disbelief as I said, “You can kill me later. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Chapter Eleven
It felt like we had been running for hours, but with several massive blasts that I could only assume were OSS airstrikes on the woman’s allies behind us, she was relentless. I hadn’t run that long and hard in as long as I could remember, or possibly ever. She led me into a heavily-wooded area just south of what appeared to be an old, abandoned and overgrown baseball field complex.
Crashing through the brush, she led me between two large evergreen trees, feeling around through the fallen needles and cones on the ground. Finding what she had been searching for, she said, “Help me,” as she began to pull on a handle to lift what appeared to be a door.
Slinging the CX91 across my back, I took hold of the handle and pulled hard, revealing a vertical ladder that descended into the darkness below.
“C’mon,” she said, slipping the sling of her AR15 around her back and climbing down.
As I climbed down the ladder, I paused and looked around for a moment, and then closed the door above me.
Reaching the bottom rung, I was pleased to see that she had switched on a small LED lamp.
“We’ve got loads of solar rechargeable batteries for these things,” she said as she placed it aside, attempting a smile.
I tried not to stare, but I could tell she was anguishing inside. She turned away and wiped her face to hide a tear that trickled down her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, feeling totally useless at the moment.
Waving me away, she dug deep to regain her composure and said, “Any of us would have gladly given our lives if need be. And although I’m not lying back there bleeding out from a bullet wound, they’ve taken my life as well. It will just happen over days or weeks instead of minutes.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Snapping her head toward me and making eye contact, she said, “You know good and well what I mean. I don’t know where you’re getting your dosage, but my link to survival is gone, now.”
“Did your friends have access to Symbex?” I asked, half wondering aloud.
“Who the hell are you?” she snapped. “You were spying on us from the ridgeline, and now that your friends arrived, every one of us you were spying on are dead or dying! And now you’re asking questions like that!?”
I could see her hand squeezing the grip of her AR15 tightly as rage began to build within her. Her eyes glanced to the sling around my neck and she slowly began to stand. “Just how the hell did you manage to fire that weapon?”
I immediately knew where she was going with that. I had been chipped for what seemed like forever and had fired the CX series of weapons for so long as an ODF officer that it was second nature to me. But to someone on the outside, the fact that I could fire the weapon at all with its smart weapon technology was an indicator of my affiliation with the OWA and ODF.
“It’s a long story,” I mumbled as I watched her raise her weapon to the low ready position. “If you give me a chance to…”
“A chance to what? A chance to get more information on us?”
“Look, I don’t even know who ‘us’ is,” I assured her. “Besides, you saw me use their own weapon against them. I could have easily turned it on you.”
“Acceptable losses,” she growled. “The OWA wouldn’t mind eating a few of its own to advance an agenda. That’s been proven again and again.”
She had me dead to rights on that one. That was one of the most accurate statements ever said. “I defected. I’m trying to find the resistance, whoever that is.”
She scoffed at the suggestion and said, “No one would walk away from a steady supply of Symbex, food, shelter, and safety to live like a rat in holes underground, to be hunted day in and day out by their former comrades.”
“No one sane, that is,” I rebutted.
“No, I’ve got you figured out. We’ve seen a sharp increase in ODF activity and patrols, as well as a radical shift in observation-drone flight patterns. That’s how we calculated your approximate position on the ridgeline. We’ve learned the ins and outs of their practices. Without a technologically-equipped foe, the OWA has gotten a little sloppy with their tech-based ops, allowing us to pattern them and gain useful insights into their operations as a whole. I’ve got you pegged. You were an undercover forward observer, with drones tracking your progress. You were probably feeding information back to the drones above. That’s how they found us. That’s why my friends are dead,” she said as she raised her weapon, pointing the rifle directly at my chest.
“No!” I insisted. “They’re after me. They probably only found you because you captured me and took me back to your facility.”
“Why are they after you? They wouldn’t put all of that effort into a defector.”
“They would if that defector had a large supply of Symbex, and intended on delivering it to someone in the resistance who could replicate it and begin to produce it outside the OWA’s grasp.”
At that moment, she and I both had the same epiphany. I could see it in her eyes, and she could see it in mine.
“I was the cheese,” I declared.
“And we were the mice,” she said, lowering her weapon.
At that moment, I realized how I had managed to successfully travel as far as I had, with little resistance once I left the zones. They were watching me from above. They were tracking me, hoping I would lead them to whoever it was out there that I was planning on meeting. I mean, I really didn’t have a plan. I had no idea who I would find or where they would be. I only knew I needed to try.
They didn’t know that, though. No, I’d imagine at first, what Ronnie and I had done was a shock to them. I’m sure those ODF officers who engaged us were doing their jobs and truly trying to stop us, but once the higher-ups got involved, the order was probably given to let me go, but to keep a close watch on me in order to catch a bigger fish, and hopefully, an entire school of fish. I felt like such a fool.
I looked to her and said, “It’s Tamara, right?”
Taken aback by my statement, she hesitated and said, “How…”
“When you found me on the ridgeline, someone called you Tamara.”
Rolling her eyes at the realization of the lapse of OPSEC, she reluctantly said, “Yes. Yes, it is. And you are?”
“Joe. Joe Branch,” I said, reaching out my hand.
“So, Joe Branch,” she quipped, returning the handshake before turning to sit down on a small fold-out camping chair. “Tell me everything, Joe Branch. How exactly did you get yourself into this mess?”
I felt conflicted inside about telling my story. Was this too soon? Was this the right person I needed to be sharing this information with? I still had many questions that needed to be answered, like where she had been receiving her supply of Symbex? I was curious whether everything I had been told about life on the outside was true. I mean, they’re obviously still healthy.
