by Mike Nappa
I look at the locks on the door and see that they’s the double-cylinder kind. No flipping a switch on these. Got to have a key, whether you’re on the inside or the outside.
Truck presses his key into my palm. “When I walk outta here, you lock all three bolts on that door. Got it?”
I nod.
Now Truck makes his head level with mine, eyes boring deep into me, searching. I watch his nostrils flare when he speaks. “Don’t open that door for anybody, you got it? Not even me, not unless you hear me say the safe code. You remember the code?”
“Yes.”
Ever since I could first talk, on my birthday each year, Uncle Truck would give me a safe code, a catchphrase for emergencies. If one of us said the code, that meant things was okay, that he or she could be trusted. I remember the code.
He nods. “You’ve studied your German, right? You know German?”
“Ja,” I say, and this time he really does grin.
“Good. You’ll need that for the dog.”
Protect! I think suddenly. That’s what schützen means. Truck told the dog to protect me? But will the dog still obey that command when Uncle Truck is gone? I shiver in spite of myself.
“Truck, I—”
“Trust the dog like you would trust me. Understand?”
Trust that filthy, finger-eatin’ animal? Is he serious?
“Annabel.” His voice is urgent.
“Yes, sir,” I say out loud. But even I don’t believe it. Truck nods at me anyway.
“You’ll have to figure out the rest for yourself. At least until I get back.”
There’s a split second of silence, and I feel the weight of all the things Truck ain’t telling me. Then he nods again and stands to full height. A soldier now, ready for battle.
“I’ve got to go, Annie-girl. What you going to do.” It’s a command, not a question.
“Stay here.”
I feel the tears comin’ again. Sheesh, maybe I am just a baby girl after all.
“How long.” Again, a command.
“Until you come get me. Until I hear your voice say ‘love that was more than love’ at me through that door.”
He nods. He looks proud. And now I see he might be crying too. Not honest-to-goodness tears, no, but wetness around the edges of his eyes. That’s good enough for me.
He don’t say good-bye. He just turns and steps into the tunnel, pulling the heavy door behind him until it slams into place. The dog scampers to the other side of the room, away from the slamming door.
“Annabel.” I hear Truck’s voice from the tunnel, and I jump to obey.
It’s short work to slip that key into each of the three dead bolts that decorate this door. I listen to the tinny echo as each bolt turns snugly into its locked position. After the third click, there’s the sound of my uncle’s footsteps runnin’ away from me. I feel my legs getting jelly-like, and forget to care that I’m crying like a bitty baby again.
I turn away from the door and see the dog staring at me, staring hard, waiting.
A low growl rumbles across the room.
5
The Mute
Wednesday, September 2
It was well into the afternoon by the time The Mute made it to the main house on Truck’s farm, but it was just as well. He surveyed the scene and felt a pang of guilt about the passage of time, but he knew what Truck would’ve told him.
“Follow your orders.”
And that’s what he’d done. He still wore the same clothes from sentry duty, but now he was fully camouflaged—and fully armed. The SIG716 sniper rifle felt comfortable across his back, and the rounds of ammunition that crisscrossed his chest felt warmed by his heart. He carried a small pack now as well, filled with just enough dry foods to placate an emergency. Mostly he’d live off the land, hunting and fishing, finding water as needed. He didn’t expect to be in full survival mode for too long—maybe a few days at best—but he was prepared for the worst.
Hiding in the thick brush east of the long driveway up to Truck’s house, he felt that this was as close as he could afford to get to the big home. He couldn’t take a chance that he’d be seen, especially not now.
He’d have to confirm it with his binoculars, but The Mute was pretty sure that Truck’s body was the third corpse in the line of dead men stretched out across the front porch. The black-clad intruders were walking around in the open now, working to clean up the site of the recent battle.
The Mute counted five bodies on the porch, all adult men. He sighed and did his duty, using binoculars to verify that Truck was indeed dead. Amazing. After everything that soldier had lived through, The Mute had almost come to believe he was unkillable. But all dreams die sooner or later, even ones named Leonard Steven Truckson. He gave a silent salute to his commander and then turned his attention to the task at hand.
There were six Kawasaki ATVs in the yard now, side-by-side models like the Teryx 4x4s that could carry at least two people, and maybe a third on the back. At the attack on his sentry outpost, two ATVs had equaled eight intruders, so The Mute figured there should be at least twenty-four fighters on the premises. Apparently they’d hit all three sentry posts last night, probably simultaneously. After almost an hour of watching, he had only been able to account for twelve intruders, and that was a concern until he finally caught a glimpse inside the big red barn at the end of the driveway. It gave him some small consolation that Truck and his men had taken out twelve men before finally losing this battle. Correction. Eleven men and one woman. The Mute saw that the leader of last night’s incursion against his outpost was one of the casualties.
Now the remaining intruders were gathered around the ATVs, waiting. The air was warm today, nothing like that cool wind that had blown through the midnight hours before. The Mute didn’t bother wiping away sweat; at this point, he hardly noticed the discomfort. A part of him was tempted to look for opportunities to begin picking off the black-clad fighters, one by one, with his SIG716. But he knew that was just a lazy dream. There were still too many of them to confront directly.
He heard the sound of tires before he saw the black Mercedes GL-Class SUV glide down the long dirt driveway onto Truck’s land. The remaining intruders quickly stood, tamping cigarettes out beneath boots and generally presenting themselves as a professional fighting force once again.
When the Mercedes rolled to a stop, the driver exited first. He was Middle Eastern, with an Americanized style. Tall, broad, wearing what looked to be a thousand-dollar Italian suit and shoes to match.
A bodyguard? The Mute guessed. Wonder what he’s guarding?
Above the Arab’s neatly trimmed beard, The Mute could make out eyes that were clear, alert, and busy. He saw them roving the area, checking crevices, looking for threats. There was a slight hesitation while he made a final determination of whether the area was secure, then the bodyguard/driver swept open the passenger door, bowing his head slightly in deference.
A new man stepped out of the Mercedes and gave a quick survey of the scene. He was older, also wearing a tailored suit, brandishing a cane. To The Mute, he looked like a banker or lawyer, not the type to command a crew of mercenaries intent on taking out someone as formidable as Truck. Still, The Mute had learned the hard way not to judge any man by the clothes he wore.
He couldn’t hear what was being said but could guess at it. One of the soldiers, German, he decided, was apparently filling the old man in on the results of their raid. The old man asked a clipped question. In answer, the German shook his head, and his lips said something that looked like, “Not here.” The old man frowned, gazed toward the red barn, and then stepped away while the other man was still talking. The German followed him to the front porch of the main house, still saying things to the back of his leader’s suit coat.
The old man stopped at Truck’s lifeless form and looked annoyed. He paused then, and leveled a gaze across the yard. The Mute froze. Was this geezer looking for him? He watched as the man strafed the countr
yside with his vision and half-admired that the old guy took time to peer at the tree boughs high above his head. If his mercenaries had done that last night, The Mute might be another body spread out on that porch.
Finally the old man turned back to the mercenary behind him. He gave an order, then left that man standing while he and his bodyguard headed back to the black Mercedes.
The Mute started to let his eyes track the old man, but an inconsistency in movement drew his attention. The bodyguard, normally striding just a step behind his charge, took a hitch and hesitated. As he passed by the corpse that Leonard Truckson left behind, he bobbed his chin in that direction.
The Mute saw it happen almost in slow motion. A grimace on the face of the bearded man. A quick pursing of the lips. A wad of saliva flying free, floating through the opposing forces of gravity and inertia. The wet mess landing on its target, dripping down Truck’s chin and onto the dead man’s neck.
The Mute felt his insides clench at the desecration. He breathed deeply, held the breath, and telescoped his vision inescapably onto the bodyguard’s face. He memorized what he saw, the manicured facial hair, the cheekbones, the damp, surly lips, and most especially, the eyes. There would be a time when The Mute would find this man again. He would see to it, make sure that it happened. And when he found him, that man would pay. It was a promise The Mute made to himself, and to Truck.
A moment later the old man and his bodyguard were gone, leaving behind their foot soldiers to handle the dirty work to come.
The German stepped carefully off the porch and made his way to the troops waiting by the ATVs. He waved a hand behind him that clearly included the house and the barn and barked a terse command that was just loud enough for The Mute to hear.
“It is not here. Burn it all.”
Scorched earth policy, The Mute thought bitterly. If this farm is of no use to the old man, it’ll be of no use to anyone.
The black-clad fighters turned wearily toward the job. The Mute noticed several looking angrily toward the red barn where their fallen comrades lay, but no one faltered. Apparently their own men would be cremated at the same time as Truck and his men.
The Mute decided it was time to leave but worried that he was missing something. The good news was that, among all the bodies strewn around this farm, none belonged to a little girl. It was also good news that no child had been turned over to the men in the Mercedes. The Mute figured that was why the old man was annoyed at Truck’s death. Only Leonard Truckson would have known where the girl was hidden, and so his death had to be a loss for the attackers.
At the same time, she had to be somewhere nearby. Truck hadn’t had time enough to transport her away from here. So where was she? Hidden behind a secret wall in the house? Stashed in a secret basement in the barn? Where?
“Fade thirteen, option B,” Truck had ordered. “Unsafe.” That meant finding the girl, making sure she was safe. There was a backup plan for that, but that was the hard way. The easy way was the obvious one: Find the girl now and skip to step four or five. But there was no sign of her anywhere. And if he didn’t find her soon, he might not even have time for the hard way.
The Mute watched as the intruders made the necessary preparations to burn the buildings here at the main part of the farm. And he worried. Was he letting the hidden child inadvertently become added tinder for the fires? Or was she somewhere safe, somewhere out of reach of these deadly mercenaries?
The first flame took hold on the corner of the main house’s broad porch. The Mute noticed that this time the intruders showed no concern for the tree-laden surroundings. When the authorities made a tardy visit to this location, it was going to look like a wildfire sprung out of control. The whole countryside around here might be burning for days.
He felt torn, but when the mercenaries lit up the barn, he finally decided that trust was the key. He would trust that Truck had planned for this, had prepared for it. He would trust that the girl was alive, somehow, and was safe. And he’d be back to make sure of that, hopefully sooner rather than later. But for now, it was time to go. He was going to have to go with the backup plan, and that meant he had someone to meet.
He hadn’t done it in many years, but for some reason, The Mute mouthed the words of a short prayer before he slipped away. He hoped somebody was listening.
6
Annabel
Date Unknown
I think I might go bat-crazy in this locked-up place.
Or die.
Whichever comes first. At least I won’t need no funeral, ’cause I’ve already been buried deep underground. Truck saw to that for me.
I wonder regularly if that dog’ll eat me alive and leave only my bones to be discovered by some future adventurer into the nether regions of Truck’s property. But so far I’ve kept all my fingers, so that’s something at least. That dog and I have reached a truce of sorts. I don’t bother it and it don’t bother me. Works okay, for now.
I got no idea what day it is anymore, or even how long I been down here in this bunker. Sometimes I think it must be weeks already, but then I check the supply shelves and know that can’t be true. Too many bland, canned, dry foods still left to be eaten.
There’s no clock anywhere that I can find, and my watch is still sitting on the dresser in my bedroom in the main house. So now instead of thinking in days and nights, I think of “wake times” and “sleep times.” It’s arbitrary, I know, but it helps me feel less crazy cooped up in this empty place.
It didn’t occur to me to mark days or nights during that first wake time when Truck locked me inside here. I had other things on my mind, like particularly, a mean, finger-eatin’ German shepherd growling low and heavy in my direction.
I was standing at the door, listening to Truck’s feet run away up that dim-lit tunnel back to the surface. Across from me, next to the table that was the only freestanding furniture in the room, that dog was trembling beside the table, staring at me, growling, and flashing his dingy fangs from time to time.
Truck had said the dog spoke German. Well, that it understood German. I figured it was time to test that theory, but my memory felt scrambled. Usually I’m real good at languages—Truck says I’m a supernatural, or something like that. But at that particular moment, I couldn’t think of any German words except the last one Truck spoke before he left.
“Schützen!” I shouted at the dog. Protect.
The dog shuffled back and forward again. It let out a quick whimper, then resumed its growling.
I felt stupid. Had I just commanded that dog to protect the table? I breathed in deep and closed my eyes. I know German, I said to myself. Then, Ich kann Deutsch. It was comin’ back to me. I just had to make room for it in my head.
“Ruhig sein!” Be quiet! I said with my eyes closed. The response was almost immediate.
Silence.
I heard water runnin’ somewhere, softly, like a faucet left on in another room. But no growling. No dog at all. I was tempted to keep my eyes closed, to wish my simple command was enough to make that dog disappear. But even my ears knew better than that, so I opened my eyes and saw Truck’s mutt standing beside the table, staring at me hard and angry, like it had obeyed, but it didn’t like it.
“Sterbt,” I said—Die—just because it was how I felt at the moment.
The dog just stared at me.
“Sich hinlegen,” I tried, and this time the animal responded, lying down next to the table, just as I’d commanded. But it also started growling again, head raised, still watching my every move with its horrible yellow eyes.
Well, I’d figured out how to command it to “be quiet” and to “lie down.” It was a start.
“Immer noch warten,” I said. Be still.
The dog closed its jaw and stuck its chin on the floor. Good. Leastways, this was a smart dog. But I knew that already. Evil warlocks is always smart, ain’t they?
I finally took a moment to get a good look inside this bunker that Truck dumped me in, checking out m
y new home for who-knows-how-long. Judging by the way the tunnel outside wound around and back again, I started thinking I must be directly underneath the big red barn, or at least someplace close to that.
The place was mostly just one big, square room, I’d guess about twenty feet by twenty feet, with what felt like cement floor covered with low, purely functional gray carpet. Round light fixtures like the ones in the tunnel were attached to the ceiling in clusters, providing enough light to make it feel like a normal, everyday room. They wasn’t any light switch, though, no way to turn ’em on or off, which made me think they was powered by some sort of battery operation. I wondered how long the batteries would last, and if I’d find any spares down here.
Built right into the wall on my right was two sets of bunk beds, each with a rolled-up sleeping bag on them, and nothing else. Guess Truck didn’t figure people would need pillows down here.
At my left shoulder, built into the wall that shared the entry door behind me, was shelves stacked with all kind of supplies. Canned foods, boxed foods, military MREs, along with metal utensils and things like that. On the top shelf, above my head, was a row of books. I made a mental note to look through them books as soon as I could. Truck must’ve included them here for a reason, not just for pleasure reading.
The only freestanding furniture in here was a big wood table with four chairs around it, set smack in the middle of the room, like it was inviting people to eat dinner or play cards or something.
Except for the reinforced entryway I’d just come through, there was only two openings in the walls of the big room. No doors hangin’ on either of them, just open spaces cut out of the walls. One opening was smack in the middle of the wall to my left. The other was about ninety degrees away from the first, situated in the wall directly across from me.
I heard water running again and moved to check out the first opening on the left wall. I took a step to the left, and the dog raised its head. I took a second step, and the dog fluffed out a sigh through its nostrils, then set its head back down between its front paws.
