by B. C. Tweedt
Greyson sighed silently. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
His thumb hovered over the clicker.
The doors swooshed open again and the sound of clattering metal and men’s voices swept through the group as they exited.
“Stay on,” Jarryd whispered, suddenly yanking on Greyson’s arm.
But there was something drawing him into the room. There was an odd echo to the place, as if it was extremely large or hollow, and Greyson had to see. And their only cover was leaving. They hadn’t gone this far for nothing.
“Come on,” he whispered, grabbing at Jarryd’s arm, pulling him to the doorway and back on the heels of the redhead.
And that’s when it happened. Jarryd ripped his arm free, and to Greyson’s horror, he felt the clicker slip from his grip. It fell back toward the elevator, clinked once, twice, and rolled to the crack in the doorway. Before he could do anything, it had disappeared.
They turned to watch the doors close behind them, mouths agape and hearts in their throats. He wanted to shout, to scramble at the doorway and dig for it, but it was gone. There was nothing he could do but keep up the charade. He pulled Jarryd around and faced the room.
Don’t panic now. Not yet.
Quickly scurrying up to the group, Greyson tried to take it all in at once. There were no rooms in this underground place, just open space filled with crates and racks and people. The room was some fifty yards wide, with brown, dirt walls exposed. Large work lights blazed toward the center of the room, from the corners, and from seemingly random places in the middle. Columns supported the dirt ceiling, but every now and then dirt would sprinkle or rain down from above, reminding the inhabitants of the fact they were in an underground cave.
The first person they saw was a cop. The second was a security guard. And the third was dressed in hunters’ camouflage, carrying an automatic rifle and enough ammunition to start his own war.
And then he realized it might be true. They were about to start their own war. Guns were everywhere – in crates, on racks, and in their hands. And there were dozens of soldiers. It was a small army.
The soldiers glanced at them, but largely ignored them. And the teenager had stopped talking. There were no smiles in this place. Everyone was busy – loading their guns, discussing, or putting on gear. This was full blown war preparation. And they were in the middle of it.
Don’t panic.
He breathed deeply and kept his wits. Panic won’t help. Keep focused on the edge of the present and the future. What next?
If they kept walking, they would eventually get to where the kids were going. But they didn’t need to take that risk. They’d seen what they needed to. All they needed to do now was to warn the world. If only I had the clicker!
But he had his phone. If he could send out a text, he could tell Kip what had happened.
The group had made its way to the middle of the massive room. Greyson examined his options. Finding an alley between two rows of crates in a dark area of the room, he made his choice without hesitation.
He yanked on Jarryd’s arm and pulled him down in a dive to the dirt floor. They landed hard, kicking up a cloud of dust, but they were hidden. They lay side by side for a moment, listening for signs of their discovery, but there was none. Finally working up the courage, Greyson worked his way to his knees and peeked over both sides of the crates. No one was looking in their direction. The group had kept moving, still oblivious to their presence.
“We’re clear.”
Jarryd pushed off from his chest and sat with his back to the crates. “How do you keep getting us into this stuff? What’s wrong with you?”
Greyson shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Well, now what? We have to get out of here.”
Greyson zipped open his fanny pack and found his cell phone.
Seriously? “No bars. No reception!” he whispered.
Jarryd rolled his eyes. “No hope.”
“No. Don’t give up yet. We get out the same way we came in.”
“How?”
Greyson was already thinking, scanning the area. Perhaps we could steal someone’s key card? Or sneak back on the elevator when someone leaves?
He searched through his pack. What use does a slingshot have against automatic weapons? Could he shoot out all the lights and sneak out? Or create a distraction big enough to give them time to use the elevator?
“I think I have a plan.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. Ready?”
Jarryd shuddered. “Sure.”
“Then follow me.”
Greyson watched the nearest terrorist. He was sitting on a crate, loading bullets into an ammunition magazine one at a time. They might be able to slip around him and skirt around the outside of the room. There was a path between the crates, and if they could avoid the spotlights, it would lead them to the elevator.
They scooted along the dirt, hunched as low as their spines would let them. Making it to the edge of the row, Greyson peeked again. The terrorist was still loading.
“Let’s go.”
Taking stops every few feet to peek again, they made their way around the terrorist’s back to another patch of good cover. And just in time. The terrorists, not only the one who had been loading, but every single one seemed to be migrating toward the back of the room. Perhaps it’s time for a meeting.
“Is it a bad time to say I need to go to the bathroom?” Jarryd moaned.
Greyson eyed him. “Hold it.”
Jarryd grabbed himself.
Greyson rolled his eyes. “Let’s wait here, until they all pass.”
They watched as the cop and a terrorist sauntered down the center path, nodding and talking to one another. There was something very odd about the picture.
“Hey, Greyson,” Jarryd whispered.
Greyson turned to find Jarryd rifling through some papers on a table against the dirt wall. There were also maps nailed to the wall, several computers, and a few other electronic appliances he didn’t recognize. All had been left alone.
“We can take these. Show everyone!”
Greyson sided up to him and scanned the papers. He couldn’t understand any of it. Most of one paper mentioned a news van, another had a picture of one with a giant antenna rising from it’s middle, and another listed what it referred to as “jamming frequencies”.
“It’s a map of Des Moines.”
Jarryd was looking at the map now, tracing a route where a red marker had drawn over the map. There were actually several routes. They all met at the fairgrounds. Or were they leading away from the fairgrounds? There were no arrows, so it was impossible to tell. Either way, it was obvious. Des Moines was the center of something big.
Duh.
Greyson glanced back. They were now completely alone on their half of the room. We have to go.
“Okay. Give me those papers.”
He stuffed as many as he could fit in his fanny pack. Jarryd shot a look around the room and then lunged for the computer. He snatched a thumb drive and held it up with a smile.
“Nice.”
Jarryd suddenly reached down into his underwear.
“Whoa!” Greyson exclaimed in a loud whisper. “What are you doing?”
“I’m storing it under there.”
“Under where?”
“Exactly. Where they won’t look.” He stopped to think. “I hope.”
Greyson smiled. “Just don’t lose it down there.”
Jarryd made a face.
“Let’s go.”
They made their way to the back of the room and hid at the last crate, only yards from the elevator. Faintly in the distance, cheers erupted from the crowd of terrorists. The boys tried to peer through the dark and could only catch flashes of a man standing on a pedestal before the mob. A camera was pointed at him from a tall tripod in back and speakers boomed his strong voice, echoing over and over throughout the room.
“Today, today, today…” came the echoing voice. “Is the d
ay, day, day…we have been waiting for, for, for…”
Greyson and Jarryd shared a look.
“A day of reckoning, ning, ning. A day of awakening, ning, ning.”
“We have to wait for the elevator,” Greyson said between echoes. “Or find a key card.”
“Pluribus is just a name, name, name. You are not Pluribus, bus, bus. I am not Pluribus, bus, bus. The people are Pluribus, bus, bus!”
Cheers erupted again and Greyson took the opportunity to search more tables for a key card, hoping in vain that someone had left one behind.
“For we are many, many, many. And today, day, day. The government will hear us, us, us. For you are the people’s voice, voice, voice. And you are their fists, fists, fists.”
Greyson stopped to listen. The voice, so loud and distorted, was familiar nonetheless. He recognized the inflection. The way the speaker spoke was obviously rehearsed, but despite the theatrics, it was recognizable.
He looked to Jarryd who had joined him in the search for a card. He wouldn’t recognize the voice.
“When you go, go, go. Know that you will be hated, ted, ted. You will be hunted, ted, ted. And they will do everything they can, can, can. To slander your names, names, names. To slander your cause, cause, cause. But know this, this, this.”
Greyson and Jarryd were hooked in. They had stopped searching, itching for every last word.
“After the storm, storm, storm. After the bloodshed, shed, shed. Your country will thank you, you, you. In history books, books, books. You will be heroes, heroes, heroes.”
Applause and shouts of acclamation rose again.
“Patriots, patriots, patriots!”
The cheers grew in intensity.
“Revolutionaries, naries, naries!”
The sound was deafening.
“MARTYRS, MARTYRS, MARTYRS!”
Ding!
Jarryd and Greyson froze, deer in headlights, and at the last moment ducked behind separate crates. The doors swooshed open, and the boys pressed hard against the plastic, hiding them from whoever stepped closer.
The footsteps clicked one after another, slowly.
The applause and whistles and cheers continued as the footsteps passed by Jarryd’s crate. He watched the cowboy boots crunch into the dirt, heel to toe, heel to toe. He tried to hold his breath, but it kept slipping out in thin whispers.
The door’s about to close. We have to catch it!
“So now, now, now,” came the voice again. The cheers died down. “You must do what is hard, hard, hard. For the good of our country, country, country!”
The boots passed Greyson’s crate. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
They couldn’t wait any longer. This may be their only chance.
“So, go, go, go!”
Greyson bolted from behind the crate and Jarryd was right on his heels. They skidded on the dirt, scrambled inside the open elevator and smacked the button for the first floor. Turning to see if they were clear, Greyson saw the man who had walked past. He was glaring at them. A red combat knife gleamed in his hand.
Close, close, close!
Jarryd smacked the button over and over as the doors finally swooshed toward each other. Greyson pressed the button as well, but when he looked back, the knife was already on its way.
Chapter 15
He could hear its noise as it sliced through the air, turning over and over, heading straight at his chest. He had no time to react. Barely had time to close his eyes, grit his teeth. And then it struck.
Clang!
Greyson opened his eyes and couldn’t believe it. The doors had shut on its blade, leaving the sharp point floating a foot from his thin t-shirt. He breathed in a deep gasp of relief, but it was short lived. The blade fell to the floor with another clang as the doors reopened, triggered by an emergency mechanism meant to prevent people’s limbs from getting crushed in the doors.
But this emergency mechanism had backfired, bringing them into a greater danger than they had ever known.
The cowboy – SnakeSkin – snarled and sprinted to the elevator. Before the doors could close, he was holding them open with massive, cracked hands.
“So close,” he muttered from deep within his throat.
------------------
Nick checked his watch. It had been ten minutes and still no sign of Jarryd or Greyson. The only person who had come or gone was an ugly cowboy.
Nick sighed. Could he really call 911 in twenty more minutes? What would I say to them? Why would they believe me? Maybe I should pull a fire alarm instead. That worked for us last time.
He looked to Liam, who had stationed himself fifty yards down the concourse on a different bench, and raised his hands in the air in a shrug. Liam nodded and shrugged back.
Checking his watch and phone one more time, he wondered what they had discovered.
-------------------
This was scary.
Sydney fingered open the curtains and peeked outside. Already a crowd was forming in the expanse of seats. Some had lingered after the end of the talent show, but most were here to see the governor and his son. It was making her nervous, and she didn’t even have to go out there.
She eyed Sam, who was seated backstage with her, getting powder put on his cheeks by a makeup lady.
Sam turned to Sydney and winked. “I bet this is attractive.”
She laughed and walked next to his seat, watching the makeup lady inspecting his face. As she examined his face along with the professional, she couldn’t help but think why he was needing make-up at all. He was perfect as it was. Long, dark eyelashes, high cheekbones, and not a blemish to be found. Except for the small mole.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
She shook her head. “What?”
“That I should cover up my mole.”
She had to laugh, but immediately felt guilty. “No, that is not what I was thinking. The opposite actually.”
Sam scrunched his eyebrows, much to the dismay of the woman who was trying to pluck a stray eyebrow hair. “So, I should feed my mole, get it fatter?”
The woman and Sydney both snickered. “No. I was just thinking you look good already. I don’t know why you need makeup at all.”
“Oh,” Sam said. “Thanks. It’s my mom’s genetics. She had great skin. Dad…not so much.”
She laughed, but descended into thought. “And your mom…she still around?”
Not even flinching, Sam shrugged. “Nope. She died when I was little.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. I don’t really remember her that much. But I have some pictures I can show you later. She’s the only half-Asian in a sea of white people.”
“Right. The only sea we have here is of white people.”
Sam laughed until the make-up lady grabbed him and cleared her throat.
“Hold still.”
--------------------
“Hold him still!”
Greyson groaned as they pressed him into the dirt, bare-chested. They had removed his shirt after they had scanned him with some sort of electric wand. One of the men had waved it all around his body until it lit up and beeped when it was behind his back. The man had shouted, “He’s bugged!” and thrown him to the ground.
Bugged? Greyson’s mind searched for an explanation. He knew what they meant, or at least he thought he did, but how could that be?
The dirt scratched and tore at his skin, rubbing it raw as two men put their knees into the small of his back and his neck. The pain was real and sharp. He wanted to cry and to scream, but he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to hear what they said.
“Hold still, or you’ll make it worse!”
“They got a knife, Nolan,” Jarryd groaned, being held down and searched to his left.
A knife?
And then he felt it. Cutting into him.
He jerked and every muscle froze tight as the pain shot through his bones. But the cutting was already over. Then, something tore at the wound, pulling
at his flesh; tears streamed from his eyes, beading in the dust below. His whole body shook as much as it could under oppressive knees, and he blew out air, struggling to breathe under the weight.
The tearing stopped and the knees lightened the pressure on him.
“Got it. GPS. Get a read on it, right away!”
There was a scramble of footsteps and whispers were spoken all around him.
Greyson’s mind raced. A GPS tracker in my back? How? Who put it there? His mind switched gears. What will they do to me? Will they kill me, torture me, or something else? How long will it take? What time is it? Has Nick called 911 yet? Please, let them come fast!
He managed to straighten his neck. He could see the elevator now, and his eyes landed on the crack where the clicker had disappeared. Maybe he could reach it. If they would let him go for just a second…
“Let him go.”
The men instantly were off of him. As if a miracle, he scurried forward in a mad crawl and thrust his hand at the crack.
Someone grabbed him from behind and flung him up to his feet. “Get him a seat! And tie his hands.”
A moment later he was thrust onto the chair and his wrists were lashed together. He felt the blood from his wound seeping down his back, sticking to the chair. The man who had been issuing commands stood over him, but he wasn’t looking at him. The man was eyeing a computer screen on a nearby desk where another man was typing feverishly and clicking his mouse. He had inserted the GPS chip into some sort of device that was connected to the computer.
“It’s active. FBI frequency.”
The man standing over him shot a look down at him. “FBI?”
And when Greyson raised his face to meet the man’s, a lightning bolt ran through his aching body. It can’t be.
The spasm of recognition shook through the man’s face and eyes. A look of surprise overwhelmed him, but the confusion erupted into anger. His hand shot to Greyson’s face and clasped his chin, turning his face to the left and the right.
“Who are you?” he yelled at his face.
Greyson gulped. He’s going to kill me. If he knows.
“N-Nolan. Nolan Schroeder.”
The man’s face wavered between anger and confusion until he dropped Greyson’s chin and reached down for Jarryd’s. “Who are you?”
