by Russ Watts
THE GRAVE
Russ Watts
Copyright2013 by Russ Watts
For Karen – this is just the beginning.
May the nightmares keep coming.
PROLOGUE
The year 2185
“Give it up, they’re not going to tell you anything,” he said wearily. His wrists were sore from the ties, his legs were going numb, and he had been jostled around for hours. The flight had not been smooth; strong winds had buffeted the helicopter and he was thankful his stomach was empty; otherwise, he would have spilled its contents several times over. Like the other prisoners, Franklin Roach’s hands were tied behind his back, his legs were bound together and his feet were chained to the floor. He wore a dusty hood over his head. It had been placed there so he could not tell what direction they were going in, or see where they were flying. He knew though.
“I’m not talking to you, bitch,” came the muffled reply from the unidentified man next to him.
Roach had no idea who else was on the flight. The last year of his life had been spent in a maximum security prison of which the last six months were in solitary confinement. He preferred the solitude to the constant interrogations though. He had endured many since his arrest three years ago, all to no avail. He had nothing to tell them. Agnew had made sure Roach would not see freedom again.
Sixteen hours ago, before ending up in the uncomfortable seat he now occupied, Roach had been given an injection. Protestations and demands to know what he was being given had been met with silence. He woke up some time later with a filthy hood over his head. From the way the room tilted from side to side, he could tell he was on a ship. He could not see, but the sensation of tilting made it obvious that he was out on an ocean somewhere. He had asked for help, where he was, asked for a lawyer, his wife, anyone, but he had received no answers. Evidently, he was back in solitary. He stayed there for another six hours passing in and out of a restless sleep.
Three hours ago, he had been marched out of the bunk he had been kept in and taken up onto the deck of the ship. His captors never once responded to his questions and when he was taken out into the fresh air, with the smell of the ocean so fresh and powerful, he thought he was going to be thrown overboard. However, with his hands and feet bound, he had been walked up the loading ramp of a Mi-17 helicopter and strapped in. That’s when he had finally heard other voices and realised there were other people in the same situation as he was. For the most part, he kept silent and tried to listen to who was around him. He made out three different male voices and two female. Occasionally, a solider would grunt and tell them to shut up, but otherwise, he had no idea of who was surrounding him. The helicopter was transferring them somewhere, but they were being kept in the dark about it, literally.
“I can keep this going all day you know. Where the fuck is my lawyer? Hmm? You can’t do this. You can’t just move me from my cell without letting my lawyer know first. Answer me. God damn you, answer me!”
The voice that spoke was deep and gruff. Roach guessed it was from a male, probably of African descent, although it was blind guesswork at the moment. The speaker sat to Roach’s left.
“They’re not going to answer you,” Roach said. “If they were going to they would’ve answered you hours ago, if only to shut you up.”
“What do you know? Who are you? Are you one of them? I’ll fucking kill you, man, you can’t do this. I will fucking murder your family and...”
“Oh shut up, you’ll do no such thing. You’re a prisoner here as much as I am,” said Roach. He had listened to the pleading and the baiting for hours and could take no more. “It doesn’t matter what you say or what you do. I assume your hands and feet are bound like mine? True? Nice dark hood over your head so you can’t see, right? You might as well sit back and enjoy the ride. If I’m right, then it’s nearly over. I think we’re descending.”
“He’s correct.” A light female voice with a hint of an accent spoke from opposite the men. “The pressure is levelling out and the engine is slowing, you can tell. Wherever we’re going, we’re nearly there.”
Roach had decided this woman was American too, but not from the South like him. She spoke well, clearly, and surprisingly calm, considering the circumstances. He rolled his head on his shoulders, trying to loosen his muscles. If they were headed where he suspected, it would have been better if they had thrown him overboard. Drowning would be a far better way to die than this.
There was the sound of someone walking toward them and the footsteps stopped directly in front of Roach. “Right, we are almost there. Keep your seatbelts fastened, ladies and gentlemen. Turn off all electronic devices and put your seatback trays into the upright position.”
Roach heard laughter from toward the cockpit and then a different voice.
“Don’t you get tired of the same joke every time, Warwick?”
“Never. Now shut up and let me do my work, Brooks.”
Roach wondered why the men had been quiet for so long. The soldiers had hardly spoken for the whole flight, yet suddenly, they were chatting and laughing just as they were landing. They were using each other’s names too. It was as if they suddenly felt free; as if the usual rules of engagement didn’t apply.
“As I was saying before Brooks so rudely interrupted me, we are now entering neutral airspace. That means that from now until we get on the ground, which should be in about five minutes, we are effectively in a dead zone; so no radio, no satellites, no sexy phones, and no internet. That means nobody is listening, nobody is watching, and I am in charge. If you all listen to me and follow my instructions, then we can get this over with quickly and easily.”
“Get what over with, Mr Warwick?” asked the female voice opposite Roach. “We’ve been asking you for the past three or four hours but...”
There was the sound of something being hit, a thud, and then Roach heard the woman sobbing.
“That’s Sergeant Warwick to you, or Sir, if you prefer. Now let me just say this has been a very pleasant flight today. I personally have managed to have a good nap and I intend to be home in time for the lamb rack this evening. So, no more questions please. I’ve had to put up with your constant fucking moaning all the way here. Sit tight, shut up and all will be explained soon. Now buckle up, people, and we’ll have you on the ground in no time.”
Roach heard his neighbour protesting and shouting about his civil rights, but surmised that Sergeant Warwick wasn’t much interested in anyone’s civil rights. The woman was still sobbing and it wasn’t hard to guess that she had been struck with something, most likely a gun. Some of the other voices were shouting now. Roach heard two more men from further down the helicopter. One was gibbering away in Spanish and Roach had no idea what that man was saying. The other voice was Southern like his, but he didn’t recognise the voice as anyone he knew.
Roach stayed silent and waited for the landing. When it came, it was surprisingly smooth. The winds were much stronger higher up it seemed. It was going to be a relief to get the cuffs and hood off. He hadn’t seen daylight for almost twenty four hours now and it was going to be painful when they finally let him see again. What he was going to see was questionable. He had long ago given up hope of seeing his family again. Ever since they had dragged him out of his bed at three a.m. and separated him from his wife, Roach had not seen her or his children. He had never actually been formally charged with anything, but again, he wasn’t surprised. He had made some formidable enemies in his work and Agnew was as powerful as they came.
When they had safely landed, he heard the soldiers laughing and talking before they opened up the back of the helicopter. The chains around his ankles were unlocked as hands grabbed him, raised him up, and forced him down th
e ramp. Even though he wore the hood, he could tell they were in direct sunlight. His feet dragged across a hard surface that felt solid, like asphalt. The hood was sharply pulled off his head, and instantly, he shut his eyes. The sun was square in his eyes and it took a full minute before he could properly adjust to the light. Even then, it was painful and his eyes watered constantly. The air was cool and the sky blue. He had begun to lose track of time, but estimated it to be late afternoon. There were no streetlights or noise from engines or factories nearby. He could not hear any birds. The place they had landed in was lacking that general hum you get from walking down a busy street, and every second that passed, only reinforced his idea as to where they were.
Whilst he waited for his eyes to get used to light again, the soldiers busied themselves and he felt the ties around his wrists being cut. He heard the snips as his fellow prisoners were cut free too, although their legs were still shackled. They would be able to use their hands and shuffle slowly, but though he thought about trying, he was incapable of running. Where would he even run?
The helicopter’s blades had stilled and the engine was quiet. Apart from the soldiers working, Roach became aware of another noise. It was like a crowd of people talking in low voices, just murmuring and whispering. It was coming from all directions, but as he looked around through squinted eyes, he could not see a crowd. There were four soldiers ahead of him and one sat in the helicopter’s cockpit. They all looked quite relaxed. One was smoking and the others were idly chatting. All were armed to the teeth. The final soldier was silently reading a piece of paper. Roach looked to his left and right. The other prisoners had been lined up alongside him. There were five others: two women and three men. One of the women had a nasty cut on the side of her face and Roach assumed she was the one that Sergeant Warwick struck.
The lone soldier standing in front of the six prisoners slung his automatic weapon over his shoulder and held the piece of paper up. “I am Sergeant Warwick and I’m in charge of this detail. I am hereby legally sworn to read aloud this affidavit, under instruction of Resolution 59, Article 6 of the United Nations Decrees that stipulates that, as the present commanding officer, I am lawfully permitted to advise you that all charges against you have been dropped and you are now free to go. You are hereby released from the custody of the US government. The terms and conditions of your release will further be availed to you upon disembarkation of your transport. Congratulations.”
The four soldiers behind Warwick cheered and clapped. Roach looked on in disdain. Prisoners who were released were usually led out through the front gates and given release forms to sign along with a load of other paperwork. He had worked in an office for ten years and never seen bureaucracy take a day off. There were no legal representatives present here and it did not feel like a release. He looked around him. They had landed on the roof of a building. There was no airport or runway. There were no identifiable features as to their location, just a concrete wall on two sides and a sheer drop on the others. He could see the top of a fence with pointed metal posts and barbed wire running across the top and then nothing. The sunlight was still painful and he wiped the tears with his now free hands. They might have been released from custody, but they were not being given their freedom, not yet.
“So where are we? If we’re free, I want to go home. Where is my family?” The woman to Roach’s left had so far remained quiet. She had a strong physical presence and although Roach was six feet tall, she stood several inches taller than he did. She was dressed in standard prison uniform, but had striking features; a blunt nose and a thick accent that made Roach think she was not from the US, at least not originally.
“I do not recognise your power, Sergeant. I answer to one power only. After God, there is my people and the Ukrainians who voted for me. My name is Dagrzycksa Izliev and I demand to see...”
“You can demand all you like darlin’, but what you see is what you get,” said Warwick. “You see any Ukrainians here, Brooks?”
“Sir! No sir! I don’t see God either.”
Roach could see Brooks was sitting with the others, smoking and laughing. They were at ease and had obviously gone through this procedure many times before.
“What is this bullshit, man?” A voice from down the line spoke and Roach turned to see who it was. He recognised the voice as the same one that had spent the last three hours next to him on the plane whining.
The man was dressed in standard issue prison uniform, as they all were except for himself. The stranger was dark skinned and had a shaved head. His arms were folded in front of him and he shuffled forward to speak. “You say we’re free, but I don’t see no ride, man. Where am I? Who the fuck are you? This is whacked.”
Warwick laughed and turned to the other soldiers. “Who I am is not really very important, besides I already told you that. You, Mr Jackson, are much more relevant to what is going on here. You know what? I enjoy my job. It has its good days and its bad. On the whole, it’s a frigging breeze.” Warwick walked back to the helicopter and took a smoke from one of the other soldiers. He leant leaned back against the helicopter and took a couple of drags before continuing. “Mr Jackson, you are a homicidal maniac. Convicted on all counts, I hear. You killed three police officers in Boston before shooting two hostages, one of whom was a pregnant woman. You really think you can get away with that?”
“Whatever, man, I don’t have to listen to this.” Jackson flicked the solders the middle finger.
“Do you know who else is here, Mr Jackson?” said Warwick calmly.
“I don’t give a shit. Just let me go before I kill you. You said I’m free, didn’t you? I haven’t had a beer in three years,so just let me go, man.”
Warwick laughed once more and then flicked the cigarette away. “What do you say, Brooks, shall we fill them in?”
Roach watched as the young soldier stood smartly to attention and saluted. “Sir! Yes, sir!”
“Fine. At ease, Brooks. Mr Jackson look to your left and you will notice you are standing next to a fine chap by the name of Mr Dwight Emmerson. He has been convicted of first-degree murder on six counts. Six black people, Mr Jackson. Not just anyone either, but a whole family: mom, pop and the four kiddies. The youngest was only eleven months old. Mr Emmerson is what you would call a white supremacist, isn’t that right, Dwight?”
The man looked straight ahead and said nothing. Roach could see the tattoos covering his neck and bald head. Both Emmerson and Jackson looked as if they spent their waking hours lifting weights. Roach hoped that if there were any trouble, he would end up on their side. There was no doubt that he was in bad company though, and wondered why he had been put together with these people in particular.
“The man standing beside Dwight is Mr Leone. Originally from Mexico, he spent the last five years building up quite an impressive drug industry in the South West. It’s literally impossible to say how many people have died from the fucked up heroine he put onto the streets. In our little playgroup today, we also have a couple of ladies for a change.”
The soldiers behind Warwick cheered again, and then wolf-whistled at this. They were acting like schoolchildren on day release. When Warwick turned around to glare at them, they quickly shut up and he went on.
“Min Wang, the woman with a big mouth, is probably best described as...what...a political dissident? She sold state secrets to the Chinese. Ms Izliev is a guest here, courtesy of our friends from Russia. Whatever she’s done, I’m sure she deserves to get what’s coming to her. Finally, further down the line we have Mr Franklin Roach, something of a superstar. I almost feel like getting my autograph book out.”
Roach felt all eyes on him. The prisoners stared at him too and he could feel his face burning red. He knew what was coming next. He also knew there was no point denying it as he had spent the last two years doing just that. The fact he was innocent was irrelevant. Agnew wanted him out of the way and now he had found a way of doing it.
“You’re Franklin Roach? The on
e who did the bombings? I thought you were living it up in Paraguay or someplace. Fuck me,” said Emmerson. “I heard you took out twenty nine niggers in one go, that’s impressive.”
“What did you just say?” said Jackson outraged. “I should beat your white ass right now.”
“Settle down, boys,” said Warwick, bringing his rifle back around to his front. He walked up to Roach. “Mr Roach here organised the San Francisco bombings of 2180. Probably pushed the button himself, for all we know. You would have read about it all over the news I’m sure. You’re in special company today. This here is enemy number one.”
“I don’t get it,” said Min. “You say you’re releasing us, but why? Murderers, terrorists, and racists? I don’t care who these people are, they’re nothing to do with me. Where are we? Explain what exactly is going on, Sergeant.”
Warwick walked to face the group, and with a salacious smile, looked them up and down. “Anyone? Anyone at all?”
“I know,” said Roach. “I think I know where we are.”
“Where?” said Izliev. She looked at him scornfully, unaware that he had nothing to do with the bombings and the deaths of eighty-five people. She had seen the news the same as everyone else. Roach was a terrorist and a cold-blooded murderer.
“The Grave,” said Roach quietly. He felt disconsolate. They had won. Agnew had beaten him. The world had been fed a pack of lies and they had bought it all. Roach was going to die and he knew it.
“What’s The Grave?” asked Emmerson.
“Read a fucking book, you redneck, racist retard,” retorted Jackson.
Emmerson swung a punch at Jackson and the two men fell in a heap, punching and hitting each other as they rolled about on the roof. With their feet tied, neither of the men could stand up to fight properly. Warwick unleashed a volley of bullets into the air above them and the fighting immediately ceased. Both men scrambled to their feet, knuckles bruised and noses bloodied.
