The Sinner King: Book of Fire

by D. R. Crislip

  The HOUNDS' cries were relentless. They echoed through the station and back again. There was so much of it that even the innocent were beginning to succumb to the awesome power. The MSF agents working the beasts recognized the negative effect and ordered their HOUNDS to cease. Within a second, the entire place went dead silent.

  Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut and her hands were over her ears. She was whispering inaudible apologies when her mind suddenly became her own again. She opened her eyes and looked around. No one heard me, she realized. Rebecca could hear some of the handlers mumbling about something and the station returning to its normal volume of noise. Then the door to the luggage hold hissed shut—extinguishing the remaining source of light.

  Both frightened and relieved, Rebecca knew she was probably safe for the moment. She only wished that the HOUNDS wouldn't be used again. Their cries were unbearable.

  *******

  After waiting for a few minutes and making sure she was secure, Rebecca felt down to her workbag and slid a hand inside. She located the stolen d-reader and pulled it out. She used her other hand to activate it. The digital display flashed to life. A pale blue light source filled the void, allowing Rebecca to examine her surroundings. There wasn't much to see, just luggage piled high and deep. Satisfied that she was safe for the moment, Rebecca turned the d-reader off and tried to make herself comfortable. It was going to be a very long ride.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  About an hour into the StreamWay's trip south, Rebecca mustered enough courage to turn the d-reader back on. She was nervous about the light being too bright and somehow noticeable to the workers onboard. Boredom, however, forced her to take the risk.

  Where she left off last, William and Fejzo were still at the café, waiting for nightfall. William had begun suspecting that the Bosnian government had something to do with Theoman's death. He unsuccessfully tried to contact Vermil in order to tell him about his theory and was left with the uncomfortable companionship of Fejzo.

  *******

  "William," Fejzo said, yanking me from my stupor. "It's getting dark. When do you want to go?"

  I looked around and saw he was right. The shadows of the buildings were growing long and the hill was becoming black. "I guess now is as good as any."

  We were already pretty far north of the Visočica Hill when we headed south. I noticed on the way that there were several streets that ran from east to west just north of the hill. I wanted to take one of those in order to see how close we could come without running into any opposition. Fejzo took us a little too far south and had to cut across a neighborhood that led us to a road that ran northwest, to the street we wanted. Once we arrived, Fejzo turned left onto it and took us into the country a bit. We were running directly parallel of the mammoth hill's northern plane and could see the light bouncing off the western part's over growth.

  We drove for about a quarter mile when we came upon a little strip of about six or seven houses with a tree line that seemed to run all the way back to the hill, about two hundred yards or so from the base—and where I presumed the perimeter fence to be.

  "Stop here," I ordered. "I'm getting out."

  "Here? Why here? Maybe we should try to get closer," urged Fejzo.

  I knew this was the best spot. "No, there's tree coverage from here to the base of the hill. I need that if I plan on getting close enough to the fence to cut my way through."

  "What are you going to do?" Fejzo asked quickly.

  I opened the door and jumped out. "Improvise."

  "Where am I suppose to meet you?" he called out in a panic.

  "Right here. Meet me here." I then slammed the door and ran into the tree line. My estimate of two hundred yards was looking right on. I turned and saw that Fejzo had pulled further down the road. My only worry was if he would still be waiting when I returned.

  I began walking south from tree to tree toward the hill. The sun was just below the horizon by that point and the thin wooded area was growing a deep purplish black, shadows were cast everywhere. I looked to my right and saw the houses had their lights on and heard a baby cry from inside another. It was weird, it felt just like the States and I was sixteen again, cutting through yards to get back home. The big difference was that instead of going home and trying to sneak past angry parents, I was going to a giant hill and trying to sneak past armed men. I preferred the previous.

  The dusk sky was filled with long rows of thin clouds and the air was becoming cool. I could hear the mating calls of a thousand locust as well as the occasional odd squawk from the local birds. I listened deeper for the sounds of humans but heard nothing that resembled chatter or walking. I felt a shiver run down my back and arms with the thought that men dressed in black might be looking for me, out there, somewhere in the fields.

  I could see the fence through the clearing. My hands grew wet with anticipation. The clerk warned us not to go west and that word of caution was replaying itself over and over in my head. I stopped behind a tree and opened my bag to retrieve the cutters. I wanted to leave my bag and camera behind; it would have made the whole breaking and entering aspect of the journey a lot simpler. But of course that was out of the question. It would have been pointless for me to go without them. I needed proof that the government was secretly continuing Dr. Theoman's work.

  I peered around the trunk of the tree and saw that the cameras were aimed at a forty-five degree angle and rotating in my direction. The idea was to go in-between two cameras, so when they faced straight out, I would have ten seconds to run up to the fence and make my cuts before needing to get back. I knew it took approximately forty seconds for the cameras to make a full rotation and so if I started counting as soon as it faced its furthest polar direction, I could—in theory—keep an accurate measurement of where they were facing pending on where I was on the count. It sounded simple but I knew it would be much more difficult than it appeared. Trying to keep a constant count in my head without anything to help regulate the pace as well as analyzing the number I was on in order to determine where the cameras were would prove to be pretty damn tricky. I tried to figure out a second option but nothing was coming to mind and time was wasting.

  The sun was now completely down, engulfing the entire area in blackness. The camera before me had reached its furthest point to my left side and so I began counting while making my way through the trees to my right. 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . I kept counting while slowly walking to the most central point between the two cameras. Conveniently the tree line from where I was standing branched closer to the fence . . . 38 . . . 39 . . . 40 . . . 1 . . . 2 . . . I kept the count going as I made it to the spot. I knew on the numbers ten and thirty I would have to quickly make my moves . . . 7 . . . 8 . . . 9 . . . 10 . . . I hesitated and forgot to get the cutters ready in hand. 14 . . . 15 . . . 16 . . . Once thirty came I would make my move . . . 26 . . . 27 . . . 28 . . . I ran for the fence . . . 29 . . . 30 . . . I grabbed one of the links and placed it in-between the weed cutters . . . 31 . . . 32 . . . I squeezed as hard as I could and with a lot of pressure the damn thing sliced through . . . 33 . . . 34 . . . I ran back to the tree and dove behind for coverage. It was close, real close . . . 36 . . . 37 . . . 38 . . . I realized I would have to do this song and dance probably ten times, enough to cut out a circle in the fence . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . I wondered if I would even find my last cut . . . 5 . . . 6 . . . 7 . . . I dashed out from behind the tree again . . . 9 . . . 10 . . . 11 . . . I made another cut in the general area as the last and turned back . . . 14 . . . 15 . . . They had to have seen something in their night vision as I rolled behind the tree again. I was convinced they saw my green blur as the camera swung back around. This is impossible, I thought . . . 20 . . . 21 . . . 22 . . . This can't possibly end well . . . 26 . . . 27 . . . I dashed again . . . 29 . . . 30 . . . I made another cut. I could tell the cutters were already beginning to dull after three cuts . . . 33 . . . 34 . . . Back to the tree . . . 35 . . . 36 . . . I took the next two roun
ds to sit and listen. I was sure people would be coming for me at any moment, but all I could hear were the bugs and nocturnal animals making their mating calls. I also feared that my count was off by a few seconds, which way I didn't know. I had only been doing it for a few minutes and was already out of breath . . . 24 . . . 25 . . . 26 . . . Off again . . . 28 . . . 29 . . . I then fumbled the cutters and couldn't find them in the tall grass . . . 32 . . . 33 . . . 34 . . . Cursing, I rolled back to the tree. Was I even making progress? . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . 6 . . . Go! Sprint! Find the damn cutters! . . . 9 . . . 10 . . . 11 . . . I have them! . . . 13 . . . 14 . . . Late return to the tree . . . 16 . . . 17 . . . 18 . . . I asked myself how many more times can I do it . . . 24 . . . 25 . . . 26 . . . Go! . . . 27 . . . 28 . . . Cut through damnit! . . . 30 . . . 31 . . . 32 . . . 33 . . . Finally! Get back! . . . 35 . . . 36 . . . I was cutting it too close, literally and figuratively. I needed to do a check. I was pretty sure I had made six slices but needed to see if I was making progress . . . 5 . . . 6 . . . 7 . . . To the fence where I slid to a halt . . . 9 . . . 10 . . . 11 . . . I pulled and tugged and felt a jagged section break loose . . . 13 . . . 14 . . . Back once again to the tree . . . 16 . . . 17 . . . That was promising. I still needed to make five or so cuts but at least I was making them in the same general area and didn't overlap. I needed to hurry though, my mind was growing weary of counting and I was getting sloppy.

  I went back each available time and made the necessary slices. On the last trip, I dropped the cut out section of fence to the ground before going back to my hiding spot. I kept the count going, however accurate it was, and gathered my bag . . . 40 . . . 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . I took off for the fence . . . 7 . . . 8 . . . I tossed my bag through first and it cleared . . . 9 . . . 10 . . . I hopped through one leg at a time and felt my crotch and nape of my neck snag . . . 13 . . . 14 . . . I jerked through anyway, tearing my pants loose, but my shirt wouldn't give. It pulled me back and nearly to the ground . . . 16 . . . 17 . . . Camera was on me. I grabbed my collar and tore it loose . . . 20 . . . 21 . . . With no idea if I was seen or not, I made haste to the tree line just up the hill and dropped behind the closest trunk. Thank God my bag didn't snag or else getting through the hole would have been impossible.

  As I stooped behind the trunk, I could hear the electronic buzzing of the cameras and the snap of metal as it completed a full rotation and started back again. I didn't know what I was waiting for, the sounds of an alarm or people assembling to fish out the intruder or was I waiting until I regained my strength? I guess you could say it was a combination of the three. I was waiting for a search party as I gathered my breath, but no one showed and I decided not to wait any longer.

  I walked through the foliage on the hill that seemed to climb up and bend to the left. The further up the more noticeable the foreign sound became. It was a low bass noise and unnatural. As I reached the peak of the tree line and crossed over a row of tall weeds I saw a halo of sorts just beyond the edge of terrain. The ground seemingly disappeared as I reached a hard-edged corner. There was no more tree protection, either. I was left with only tall grass to hide in.

  I dropped into a semi-army crawl and began working toward the source of the halo. The closer I crawled the more evident the noise and light became. When I finally saw the source, my heart leapt. Before me was proof of a cover up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  After some time of continuous gliding, the StreamWay came to a halt. Rebecca power saved the stolen d-reader and made herself undetectable amongst the luggage. She stayed that way for almost forty minutes while people departing at Sector 29 – District 12's station finished unloading and new passengers replaced them amongst the StreamWay cars. Rebecca didn't dare move a muscle until the StreamWay went into full motion again. The recognizable hissing of the passenger doors filled the luggage compartment, as did the alarm signifying the StreamWay's coming departure. They must think I'm not onboard, Rebecca realized with some relief as the MSF cleared the StreamWay to depart. She braced her body against the luggage around her until the large railway returned to its normal gliding speed.

  Rebecca went back to the stolen d-reader and the translation. She had just finished reading how William snuck through the security fence and crawled his way around to the west side of Visočica Hill. He apparently found the source of all the noise as well as the halo of light:

  *******

  The rumbling noise came from a series of generators. There were tall work lamps producing a halo of light. The place was lit up like midday, making it damn near impossible to sneak in without being noticed. There were loud voices calling out in the center of it all. Apparently there were workers everywhere—and I couldn't see a single one. There was a thin smoke cloud lingering over the lit area at the base of the hill. A loud shrieking sound had come screaming from deep inside the hill, the sound of metal on rock. Then I spotted what must have been several dozen men wearing hardhats working away at what looked like a large excavated trench that led directly into the hill. It definitely confirmed my theory that they were restoring the front of the hill while secretly excavating the rear. I pulled off my camera and switched it on.

  While waiting for it to power up, I looked out further from the hill, and saw an encampment that had several access roads leading to it. There were four small military style buildings there, kinds seen in Iraq called Mahaffeys, and two older looking structures that appeared to be permanent fixtures. The camp looked like it might have been the main headquarters for the operation as well as where the workers were staying. The Mahaffeys were a bit of a surprise though. They were fabric-based structures used primarily as barracks for soldiers. Easy to assemble and breakdown, they made for a great temporary installation. But I had always associated them with the U.S. military—even though in this instance I knew it couldn't be the case.

  My camera was ready for action and I began locking in on the camp for the first burst of photos. There were trucks making way from the base of the hill back to the camp, hauling what looked like rock and dirt. There was another truck already parked at a growing dirt mound and two guys standing beside it. I took pictures of the trucks and the men. There was one man in particular that stood out to me. He was tall and wearing a black suit with a wide brim hat. I took photos of him before turning my focus to the excavation going on about a hundred yards south.

  *******

  Rebecca pictured Jonas at that moment. When he visited her, he wore a black uniform and hat.

  *******

  I took pictures of three men walking down into the gradual trench that led into the hill. They were wearing bright yellow hardhats and orange vests, much like a road crew from The States. The lights made everything crystal clear down there. They formed a crescent shape around the excavation, spanning out at a half radius of two hundred yards.

  I saw what looked like a jackhammer crew making their way into the trench and wondered what the hell kind of excavation was going on there. According to National Geographic, men and women working in the field used dental picks and toothbrushes, not giant pick axes and a thundering metal hammer that could break two tons of rock in no time flat.

  Suddenly, about twenty yards away, there was a figure struggling to climb out of the ground. I dropped down into the tall weeds and laid still.

  The figure called out to someone: "Yeah! I'm here!" He was a heavyset man with a hardhat and vest like the rest of them. Strangely, he appeared to have formed from the ground. The main excavation site, where the bulk of the people moving in and out with tools, was another hundred or so yards away from him.

  "Taking a break, over!" the man shouted into something he was holding, I assumed a transmitter of sort. "Taking a break!" he shouted again and then dropped it away from his mouth. "Jesus, these things suck out here."

  "It's not the reception," said another voice from out of nowhere, "it's all the hammering. Forget about it, let's just have one and get back." Then the other man pulled himself out of the
ground, like the guy before him.

  I waited for a few seconds before growing the balls to snap off a few shots. God only knows how long it took until it suddenly struck me that those guys were speaking English—American English at that!

  Are they all Americans? I wondered. The clerk at the hardware store said that they "no hire, no buy." But why would the Bosnian government hire American workers? It occurred to me that maybe the Bosnian government didn't hire Americans but allowed them private access. But that didn't make sense either. Why would they do that? The only conclusion I came to was that something larger was at play—something that I couldn't understand yet. There were missing facts. Maybe my original theory was still correct and the Americans were nothing more than workers living in Bosnia. It sounded like a long shot, but then again anything was possible.

  The heavy man and his buddy clambered around the hole and took off their gear. They both laid down their hardhats and tool belts. The thinner one produced a pack of cigarettes and shook out a stick. The heavier guy took one and the thinner man shook out another for himself. I snapped five shots of the guys as they headed down the hill and away from the hole.

  Then an idea came to me.

  I crawled down the hill and toward the spot they rose from, all the while trying to keep an eye on the two men as they lit their cigarettes. The closer the hole became the louder the noise from within. I couldn't wait to see what the hell was going on inside. Anticipation destroyed any desire for self-preservation.

  The two men couldn't be heard any longer as they circled around in the clearing, bullshitting about God knows what.

  There was a cleared out patch and a five by five square hole cut into the surface of the hill. Also, there were hardhats and tool belts belonging to the two smokers. I grabbed one of each. The hard hat was sopping wet along the brim. I picked up the other hardhat and tool belt and flung them into the tall grass and took a couple of pictures of the hole, which led to me noticing a rope ladder that led deep inside. The hole opened into a massive chamber with three electrical lanterns lighting the area and two tunnels leading out.