by Tom Abrahams
“What is it?” Rick asked.
“It’s the middle of the day,” Kenny said. “We’re in a neighborhood. I haven’t seen anybody. No parents, no kids, no dogs or cats. It’s like a ghost town.”
Rick didn’t know what to say. His son was right. It was like a ghost town. They stood at the edge of the street and looked back from where they’d come. Rick imagined he was looking at the past and the future all at once. He swung back toward the open field at the end of the street. Two hundred yards in the distance the complex rose.
“Which way?” Rick asked his son. “Should we try to approach it from the field or the street?”
Kenny shrugged and squeezed his brow. “Why are you asking me?”
Rick put his hands on his hips and looked north on the road marked Doak Street. His eyes scanned west across the field. There was nothing but fencing and buildings. It was a wide-open grassy field with no protection. If they took that route, they’d definitely get caught. He was squinting, his hand over his eyes to block the late morning sun, and searching the fence line for some sort of effective approach when Kenny tugged at his shirt.
“Dad,” he said, his voice hushed. “Look! What are they doing?”
Kenny was pointing southwest to a spot fifty yards south of the fence. Right along the edge of a thicket of tall trees, there was a group of men digging with shovels. The men weren’t in uniforms.
“I’m not sure,” Rick said. “But those aren’t soldiers.”
Rick waved Kenny to follow him, and instead of running through the field or marching north on Doak, they jogged south. Rick clung to the edge of the street, his eyes constantly moving to watch for anyone who might spot them. They made their way a quarter of a mile south to the end of Doak Street before turning west. They were past the tree line and moving along Rio Grande Street. There were no houses and the grass grew taller, and there was more vegetation behind which to hide. They inched their way closer to the tree line and found a dry creek bed that snaked its way through the trees and toward the south edge of the complex.
They slowed along the creek bed and walked. Rick was winded and sensed Kenny was in worse shape. He was on the verge of wheezing from the dry, cold air they’d been forcing in and out of their lungs.
Rick whispered, “You okay? Can you keep going?”
Kenny rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, Dad. Don’t worry about me.”
Rick patted his son on the back and pressed forward. He led his son down a shallow embankment, crossed the dry bed, and then climbed a steeper incline to the other side. No sooner had they reached the north side of the bed than they could hear the men digging and talking. Rick held his finger up to his lips and motioned for Kenny to get down. Both of them squatted behind a thick oak.
“How many is this today?” asked a heavyset bald man that reminded Rick of a prototypical carnival strong man. The man was wearing a white tank top and dark sweatpants. He was leaning on his shovel.
“Four,” said a taller man wearing a baseball cap, who was thinner and less muscular. “Or five.”
A third man with a shock of jet-black hair and a matching lumberjack beard climbed out of a hole and tossed his shovel onto the ground. He grunted and then took a swig of water from a large plastic jug. Rick looked at the ground. He could see at least five large holes that sank shoulder deep into the earth.
“That’s not as many as yesterday,” he said. “I think yesterday was eight.”
“How’s it happen?” asked the tall man.
“Who knows?” said the strong man. “I don’t ask questions. I just do what they tell me.”
“Smart,” said the lumberjack. “I’ve seen them take people into rooms and those folks don’t come back.”
“They just pull ’em from the yard?” asked the tall man.
“That’s what I heard. I also heard some are from the raids, the people who don’t want to surrender.”
The tall man wiped his brow with his arm. “I heard a lot these are people fighting for rations. You know they’re not giving people enough.”
The strong man picked up his shovel. “I’m telling you,” he said, “you mind your business. Keep quiet. Do your job. You’ll survive.”
Kenny pressed his cheek to the back of Rick’s head behind his ear. “What are they digging?” he whispered. “What are they talking about?”
Rick put his finger to his lips. Now wasn’t the time for a conversation, however hushed. If his son hadn’t picked up on the fact the men were digging graves, there was no point in telling him. Not yet.
The men kept digging until an army green truck rambled from the fence, through a gate, and rolled to within a few feet of their work. Uniformed soldiers climbed from both sides of the cab. Neither of them acknowledged the men. They disappeared behind the truck. Minutes later they emerged with four more soldiers and a rectangular pine box.
Rick felt Kenny’s hand grip his shoulder and squeeze. His son had figured it out. This was a graveyard. These men were undertakers.
“Hey,” barked one of the soldiers, “all of these holes ready? They all dug to specs?”
The strong man nodded. “Yes sir,” he said. “All of them.”
“We’ve got two to drop,” said the soldier. “I need all of you in a hole so we can ease them into place.”
The men obliged without saying anything. One by one, the trio climbed into a hole. The soldiers eased to the side of the hole and then tipped the coffin at a forty-five-degree angle. They grunted and argued, and it took some effort, but they managed to get the box into the hole.
The soldiers marched to the back of the truck and appeared with a second, smaller box. They didn’t struggle as much to lower it into the same grave as the one before it.
The soldier who’d done all of the talking bent over at his waist and put his hands on his knees. He extended his neck to look down into the hole. He crinkled his nose. “We could get two more in there, I guess,” he said and stood up straight. “We’ll be back in a couple hours. Keep digging until then.”
The strong man climbed from the hole and wiped a dirt stain onto the belly of his white shirt. He helped the other men back to the surface before walking to the truck. “You want us to fill the holes, sir?” he asked the soldier. “You know, like a proper grave?”
The soldier opened the truck door and stood on the tread, hoisting his arm onto the roof of the cab. He surveyed the holes, counting them with his finger. “Nah. We won’t fill them until later in the week. People seem to be dropping like flies in there. Somebody got sick. It’s spreading fast. The elderly can’t take it. They’re dying of dehydration by the hour. We’ll need to fill those holes to the brim before we cover them back up. Too much work otherwise.”
The soldier ducked into the cab, slammed the door, and backed away. The truck spun in the dirt as he shifted into drive and sped back to the compound. The three men stood still, leaning on their pitched shovels until the tall one said what Rick figured the others were thinking.
“Disease?” the man asked. His head was cocked to one side and his eyes were nearly squeezed shut. His question had the tone of disbelief. “You buy that?”
The lumberjack shrugged. “Could be,” he said. “We’re all crammed in there like sardines. Somebody gets sick, everybody else is exposed.”
“Yeah,” said the tall man, “I guess. But I don’t know about—”
“Best stop asking questions,” said the strong man. “Just dig the holes like they tell us, and get your rations when we go in at night. Sleep, go back to work, and dig.”
The other two grimaced, grabbed their shovels, and started digging.
Rick motioned to Kenny and backed away from the men. They walked back to the dry creek bed and lay down along the steep embankment.
“I got an idea,” Rick said, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “We head back around to the front of the complex and surrender. We let them put us in the camp.”
The color leached from Kenny’s face. He ope
ned his mouth, his eyes filled with fear, his pupils shrank to pinpricks.
Rick put his hand on his son’s, reassuring him he knew what he was doing. “It’s okay,” he said. “They’re not going to hurt us. We’ll surrender with our hands up. Worse comes to worst, they rough me up a little looking for a weapon. They won’t find one.”
Kenny stammered, “Th-th-then what?”
“Then we find our friends,” said Rick, “and we get them out.”
CHAPTER 12
MISSION ELAPSED TIME
75 DAYS, 16 HOURS, 13 MINUTES, 17 SECONDS
DENVER, COLORADO
Clayton stared at the man in his cell. He was trying not to blink. It was out of principle. He wanted to show the man he wasn’t intimidated.
“So you had a visitor,” said Sergeant Vega, repeating himself. It was a statement of fact, not a question. He and Perkins had been in the cell for five minutes. Clayton hadn’t said a word.
Although Clayton’s eyes stung, he held his focus. He sat on the edge of his bed and gripped the corner of the mattress.
Vega glanced over at Perkins and rolled forward in the desk chair, closer to the bed. He narrowed his gaze. “Look, Perkins can do his thing if you want. We can head back to a place less comfortable than your suite and do this the hard way.”
Clayton blinked. “The hard way? Really? That’s laughable. You sound like an actor in a low budget Netflix movie.”
Perkins was leaning against the wall next to the desk. He sighed and stood up straight. “We know Dr. Vihaan Chandra came to your room,” he said. “We know he spoke with you through the door. We have digital recordings of the conversation.”
“And we know he wants to leave,” said Vega. “We also suspect you’d like out of here as well. So we put two and two together. You two are planning something. What is it?”
Clayton scooted back on his bed and leaned against the wall, pulled his knees up to his chest, and considered his lack of options. It wasn’t worth playing the game anymore. It also wasn’t worth being entirely forthright.
“Yes,” said Clayton, “he came here. You heard the conversation, so you know I don’t want to be here. I’ve asked to leave; you’ve refused. You’re treating me like I’m a criminal. Of course I want out of here. How is any of this a surprise?”
Vega leaned back in his chair and glanced over at Perkins. Both men crossed their arms, as if it were part of the drill. The sergeant looked back at Clayton. “It’s not a surprise,” said Vega. “But we need to impress upon you how critical it is for all of us that you not try anything, that you don’t collude with Dr. Chandra to attempt an unauthorized egress from the facility.”
Clayton smirked. “Unauthorized egress? You sound like my stockbroker when he tells me a big loss is just the market retracing gains.”
“As we’ve tried to make clear, for our security and yours we cannot have anyone leave,” Perkins said. “It puts everyone here at risk.”
“I still don’t follow that logic,” said Clayton. “If I leave, if Dr. Chandra leaves, who cares? We’re two fewer mouths to feed.”
Perkins stepped toward the bed and stood next to Vega. “We cannot have people outside this facility know it’s here. It’s as simple as that. You leave and people find out.”
“So what now?” Clayton asked, waving his hand around the room. “What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and wait for the world to end?”
“The world already ended,” said Vega. “We’re trying to rebuild it. We’re—”
Perkins put his hand on Vega’s shoulder. “Be patient. We’ll find a job for you. In time, you’ll understand why we’re doing what we’re doing and how, ultimately, it’s what’s best for all of us.”
“Does Dr. Chandra know all of this? Have you talked with him?”
“He’s our next stop,” said Perkins.
The two men left Clayton’s room. He checked the door behind them. It was locked. He pulled his DiaTab from his pocket and considered letting Chandra know what was coming, then decided against it.
“Better not,” he mumbled. “They’re tracking us.”
Still sitting on the bed, he extended his leg and kicked at the desk chair. He connected with his heel and the chair rolled across the floor, stopping once it hit the desk. The sound echoed in the cell. He fumbled with the device, thumbing open a series of screens. Clayton imagined the walls of his room were closing in around him. The space was getting smaller, more confining. Being patient, as Perkins suggested he be, wasn’t an option. He couldn’t sit around waiting for something to happen.
Chandra had promised a plan. He’d told Clayton they’d figure out a way to escape. Clayton, though, wasn’t going to wait for the good doctor any longer, not with Vega and Perkins on his trail. He had to figure out his own way out of the subterranean prison. There had to be a way.
“It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer,” Clayton said aloud, quoting Albert Einstein. “I can’t use the elevators, they’re guarded. Everything electronic is guarded. Every—”
Wait!
“Could it really be that simple?” Clayton bit the inside of his cheek, considering the right question to ask. What query was the right one, the one that wouldn’t arouse suspicion or set off alarms?
Clayton made certain the DiaTab’s tracking and recording tabs were turned off. He activated the keycard function, pressed the microphone, and activated the Telenet.
“Please show me the emergency exits,” he said, holding the device like a walkie-talkie.
The icon spun in the lower right portion of the Telenet’s display for a few seconds. Then a schematic drawing filled the screen.
Clayton’s eyes widened. “Bingo.”
It was a map of the entire complex. A series of exits and stairwells were illuminated by flashing circles that highlighted their locations.
He stood from the bed and walked to the screen. “Where am I?” he asked the DiaTab.
The icon in the lower right spun and spun. A message appeared on the screen and Clayton spoke the words aloud.
“Unable to locate. I guess that’s good.”
The schematic on the screen was equivalent to an aerial view of the underground complex. Clayton traced his hand along it, marveling at its size. There had to be miles of interconnecting tunnels that joined five rectangular buildings. In the center of the buildings, which were positioned in a rough pentagonal pattern, was the track system. Its overhead design resembled the meteorological symbol for a hurricane. In the center was the loop that ran to each of the five buildings. At opposite ends of the circle were offshoots that ran away from the main loop. The one at the northern end of the loop curved away and to the east. The southern track curved to the west.
Clayton pressed the DiaTab. “Show me the location of room 29-4 offal level.”
The icon spun for a moment; then the aerial schematic rotated away from Clayton, revealing a multilevel frontal view of the complex. It zoomed in on building four and highlighted his room with a flashing circular emblem.
“Where is the closest emergency exit to room 29-4 offal level?”
A second flashing circle highlighted an exit door on his level. It led to what looked like a tunnel and a stairwell. The tunnel appeared as though it led to building three, running parallel to the circular train track. It led to the stairwell between buildings three and two. He traced the path on the screen with his finger. He could find the doorway, the tunnel, and the stairwell. That would be easy. However, from the stairs, he couldn’t tell where he’d need to go to reach the surface. Clayton stepped back from the screen. He tapped the DiaTab against his chin, surveying the map in front of him. He needed to be careful about the question he asked next.
Even though his locator and tracker were off, and Big Brother likely wouldn’t know who specifically was asking the questions, he’d already mentioned his room number. How many people would be looking to escape a place they’d entered voluntarily a couple of days earlier?
Clayton shook his head. It didn’t matter now. He’d already showed his hand. If they were watching him, they’d already be in his room. He threw caution to the wind.
“Where is the surface exit?”
His eyes focused on the spinning icon at the bottom of the screen. He stepped forward, willing a response from the system. After a few seconds, the icon dissolved and a pair of flashing circles at the tops of two buildings strobed the locations of the complex’s surface exits.
There was one at what looked like the main airport terminal. Clayton traced his finger along a suspected path to that exit from the closest stairwell in building three. He’d have to get on a train to get there. That wasn’t going to happen.
The other exit was atop building five. There was no obvious path to that exit that didn’t involve an elevator and an escort. Clayton scanned the screen, his eyes dashing from one side of the schematic to the other. Although he didn’t see anything that looked like an analog escape route, he knew there had to be one. If for no other reason, somebody would need a nonmechanical exit to repair damage to the elevator if—
“That’s it!” Clayton exclaimed. “Where is the building five mechanical elevator access?”
The system hesitated. The schematic disappeared and was replaced with Van Cleaf.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t understand your question. Could you rephrase it, please?”
“Building five,” said Clayton. “Please show me building five’s elevator access.”
Van Cleaf’s image froze and she repeated herself. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand your question. Could you rephrase it, please?”
Clayton’s brow furrowed. He scratched the top of his head with the DiaTab.
“What can you tell me about building five?”
The system replayed the same message a third time. This time, however, it followed the nonanswer with a question of its own.
