Authors: Destiny Allison
CHAPTER 35
W
edged in the open back
of the army transport truck, Ramirez tried to still his pounding heart. Every time the vehicle belched its foul exhaust, the other captives eyed him with barely concealed rage, as if he were responsible for their plight. The uniform of a watchman was despised by most and his had the insignia of a ranking officer embroidered on the lapel. By late afternoon, the truck was full. Ramirez sweated profusely as it lurched and lumbered across the city.
He had been confident in his decision to surrender. Now, he regretted it. The grim faced militia had nodded when he explained who he was. Then they had grabbed his arms and hauled him to the rear of the truck. As he climbed the ladder, with their guns at his back, he had pleaded with them. Their only response had been, “Tell it to someone who cares.”
Now, Ramirez trembled as he contemplated his fate. The truck was headed to the Farm. Watchmen didn’t stand guard there and it was unlikely he would run into anyone he knew. If he did get lucky, and was offered a chance to explain himself, what would he say?
A renegade cop, he had forsworn his duty by aiding and abetting the Fallen. Some of his actions would have been caught on camera and explaining his consorting and disappearance would be challenging, if not impossible. Ramirez glanced at the ragged man sitting next to him and, for the first time, regretted his uniform. Under the circumstances, he would be better off without it.
The truck jerked to a stop before turning right toward the factory district. This part of the city was no longer inhabited. Even in its heyday, few people had lived in the industrial area. Since the rebellion killed manufacturing, the factories and supporting businesses had fallen into disrepair. Rusted smoke stacks, decaying metal warehouses, and crumbling brick consumed several blocks. Ramirez shivered in spite of the heat. As the truck neared the Farm, his breathing became labored.
The
NSO propaganda described the Farm as a place for the sick to heal, but Ramirez knew that wasn’t true. It had taken its name from its proximity to a fish farm that had operated for decades on the north side of the island. When pollutants from the nearby factories poisoned the fish, it had closed. Like that one, this farm specialized in death and disease.
The truck
’s brakes groaned in protest as it slowed to turn. At their approach, giant metal gates, housed in a high, concrete wall, swung open. The truck came to a stop in an enormous, paved yard. Ramirez barely had time to survey his surroundings before he was ordered onto the ground.
Heat shimmered off the blacktop. A long, disorderly line of people stretched around the building. Black-clad militia stood guard, their fingers trigger ready on the submachine guns in their arms. Everywhere, the stench of misery mingled with diesel fumes and hot asphalt in the still air.
In front of him, a little girl with long, black hair cried softly, tears trickling down her small, sweet face. None of the people around her paid any attention. Ramirez knelt down and extended a hand, but she shied away when one of the guards yelled. He stood and shuffled forward.
His uniform stuck to his back. The plant
’s high walls blocked any cooling breeze from the lake. Beads of sweat dripped from his temples and down his chest. Flies hovered over the line, buzzing incessantly. The little girl crossed her legs, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. After a few minutes, the smell of her urine added to the already unbearable odor in the yard.
Ramirez sucked in a breath. The girl couldn
’t have been more than four. Somehow, her accident was the most terrible thing he had witnessed yet. The small puddle forming at her feet articulated his futility better than any words. Like her, he was trapped in the terror of solitude and despair. Nobody cared.
A disturbance in the line made him turn. People protested loudly as they were jostled. Ramirez scanned the crowd, searching for the cause of the commotion. When he found it, his eyes opened wide. Chief Bowen was shoving his way through the disgruntled bodies, fury coloring his heavy face.
“Ramirez, what the FUCK are you doing here?” the chief bellowed.
“The savages took me
, Chief. They had me locked up. When the military came, I had my first chance to escape. Last thing I expected was to end up here. Bastards! You’d think they’d show some respect for the uniform, but they didn’t give me the time of day. I didn’t know what was going to happen. You’ve got to get me out of here.”
“Yeah, well, you can tell me about it later. Let
’s go. I don’t want to spend another minute in this shit hole.” The chief veered away from the line and guards, heading toward the plant’s main entrance. Ramirez followed mutely, grateful to have been plucked from the crowd. His situation was precarious. If he convinced his superior he had been captured and held against his will, he would presumably be allowed to return to the force, but in what capacity? They wouldn’t let him resume his duties as a detective. The wave of gossip and speculation surrounding his mysterious reappearance would be inevitable and disruptive to the ranks.
Bowen led them through a set of double glass doors and into a lobby decorated in putrid shades of green and brown. They passed a reception area where a stiff-faced guard noted them with barely a twitch of his jaw. At the elevator, the chief hesitated. “You
’ve got some explaining to do and it better be good, Ramirez. Some might be inclined to think you’ve gone rogue and I’m not sure I’d disagree,” he muttered, pushing the button to signal the car. Ramirez didn’t reply. He merely nodded.
Cops were funny, he thought. If you got hurt, you were everybody
’s hero. But if you got caught, you were immediately the object of suspicion. The situation implied one of two things: you were lousy at your job, and therefore not trustworthy, or you’d been turned and the concept of trust took on a whole different meaning.
Once inside the elevator, Ramirez did his best not to flinch under the chief
’s scrutiny. Self-consciously, he rubbed his jaw where a bruise from the kick he had endured still darkened his skin. Remnants of rope burn were also evident in the scabs that circled his wrists, though the marks were hidden under the long sleeves of his uniform shirt. He would have to find a way to reveal them, along with the road rash on his shoulder. The injuries he had sustained were minor, but they might be convincing.
The elevator door opened across from an industrial looking office on the fourth floor. Brown, bland, and non-descript, the furniture revealed little about the person to whom it belonged. It could have been any managerial office in any plant anywhere. In front of him, a half-empty glass sat on an end table next to a knobby, brown couch. Bowen gestured to his right.
Near a makeshift kitchenette, another table was encircled by four chairs. Ramirez crossed over to it and sat while the chief approached the couch. “Lewis, you awake?” he whispered. Ramirez was surprised. He had assumed they were alone in the room. Lewis rose from the couch and sat unsteadily. He reached for the glass and swallowed the remaining liquid. Then he held it to his temple, as if in pain.
Like a cartoon character, Bowen slunk around the couch, his movements incongruous with his bulk. When he reached the front, Lewis jumped to his feet and hurled the glass at the chief
’s head. Bowen ducked. The glass soared through the air, crashing against a row of metal filing cabinets on the far side of the room.
“What the fuck do you think you
’re doing? Fucking imbecile! Useless piece of kiss-ass crap! You sneaking up on me, Bowen? Is that what’s going on? Huh? You going to take me out while I’m sleeping? Is that it? You worthless slug! You ungrateful bastard!” Lewis yelled.
“No. No, Sir. I
’m just waking you up. I got my man out of the line. I brought him here to show you. It’s okay. You’re just a little groggy. I startled you is all.”
Ramirez was wide-eyed at the chief
’s groveling. Bowen had always been a bully – gruff, blunt, and crass. Usually, other people cowered against his rages. As Lewis continued to hurl curses, accusations, and objects at hand, Bowen backed away. His darting eyes suddenly fixated on Ramirez.
“Behind you, Sir. Look behind you. I
’m telling you the truth!” Bowen pleaded, pointing his finger at Ramirez. Lewis spun around, clenching his hands and quivering with rage. Ramirez did not move. Instead, he cast his eyes down, focusing on the beige carpet under his feet. As fast as the storm had arrived, it ended.
“I understand you had a near miss. The men can get a little carried away. Please forgive them, and me, for any concern they might have caused. We pay them to follow orders, not to think,”
Lewis said, revealing no trace of his previous anger. Ramirez tried not to stare at the multitude of raw wounds that crisscrossed Lewis’ face. Though not deep, the ugly cuts glistened with antibiotic ointment. In his tailored suit, Lewis was monstrous.
“Yes, Sir. In all honesty, I was pretty nervous when they picked me up, but also relieved. Without them, I wouldn
’t have escaped,” Ramirez replied.
“Hmmm. Escape. From whom, I wonder? I must say it surprises me that one of Chief Bowen
’s esteemed officers found himself in that sort of predicament. It’s highly unusual. Don’t you agree, Chief?”
By this time, Bowen had made it back around the couch. He threw an uneasy glance at Ramirez before answering.
“I was thinking that myself. Yeah. It’s about time you explain yourself. Go ahead, boy. Let’s hear it.”
“I was working on
the Vanessa Kovalic case. The captain told me you were dissatisfied with my initial report and wanted me to dig deeper. I decided to interview her directly. When I got to her apartment she let me in, but when I started asking questions about her relationship with a man named Isaac Cohen, she pushed past me and fled. I followed, but lost her in the park,” Ramirez lied. He paused for a moment, noting the glances between Lewis and the chief at his mention of the old rabbi, and then continued.
“I climbed a tree, hoping the height would give me a better view. I didn
’t see Kovalic again, but I had to wait in the tree for longer than expected. The Fallen were in the street below me. I didn’t want to risk detection. You understand. It was after dark and I was alone. Early in the morning, a different group of men appeared. Chief, I thought they were the cannibals. They sure as hell looked the part. They grabbed the girl below me. I couldn’t let them eat her. I know she’s one of the Fallen, but no one deserves that, so I chased them. As I was running, I got tackled from behind. I tried to fight, but they overpowered me. They tied me up and took me. When the soldiers came this morning, my guards got scared and ran. That’s when I ran, too. The soldiers picked me up when I called for help. The rest, you know.”
Bowen and Lewis shared a glance. Then Lewis smiled. “It sounds as if you
’ve had quite a fright. I’m surprised your captors didn’t kill you. Isn’t that what they would ordinarily do with a cop?”
“I don
’t know. Obviously, if they’d wanted to kill me they would have. Somehow, I got the feeling that the men who grabbed me weren’t in charge. It was like they were waiting for someone.”
“Lucky for you,” Lewis said.
“What do you mean, ’waiting for someone’?” Bowen interjected before Lewis could continue.
“Look. I don
’t know. They kept me alone in a room. Occasionally, I heard them talking, but I only caught fragments. You think I asked for this? You think it was some kind of party?” Ramirez stood and glared at his superiors. Lewis yawned and stretched his neck until it cracked. His smiling face showed no emotion.
“Well. Doesn
’t much matter now, does it? Since you’re here, we’ll let you stay. No sense letting you go back to your regular duties. You’re not very good at them anyway. Don’t you agree, Chief?”
Bowen frowned and blew a deep breath through pursed lips, hissing resignation like a balloon deflating. “Yeah. Can
’t really send him back. Bad for morale,” Bowen finally agreed.
“Put him to work in the plant,” Lewis said.
“Doing what?”
Lewis shrugged. “Chief, I really don
’t care what you do with him as long as he doesn’t leave. He’s your man, so he’s your problem. You solve it. Now get out here, both of you.”
He waved toward the elevator, dismissing them. The chief nodded and moved out of the room, beckoning Ramirez to follow. When the door to the elevator shut behind them, Bowen cursed, “Bastard!” Ramirez couldn
’t be sure, but he didn’t think the chief was referring to him.
CHAPTER 36
D
awn had not paled the
dark when McGrath woke. He had not slept well and a sense of foreboding compounded his cigarette craving. He lingered a moment, dreading the day. Rolling out of bed, he was careful not to wake his wife. For all the things they had in common, they did not share sleep patterns and, as much as he loved her, he didn’t enjoy the raging bitch she became on mornings her sleep was curtailed.
In the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee and stared out the window. His reflection in the glass taunted him. At 6
’2, McGrath was trim and fit, but the toll of years was evident in the gray streaks in his hair and razor stubble. The lines in his forehead were permanently etched and his wrinkles were so noticeable his wife teased him about looking distinguished. This morning, the purple tinge of stress and exhaustion shadowed his eyes. His mouth was sour, dirty, and dry.
The communiqué from the SEAL team weighed on his mind. The crazy mission was a pipe dream with almost no chance of success. He gripped the edge of the counter, feeling the power in his muscles. For all intents and purposes, his strength was useless. If the team failed, he failed. Then the virus would destroy everything and everyone he loved.
When the coffee was ready, he poured himself a cup and padded to his office. Since landing on the isolated base, it had been his routine to read every news article on Google in the mornings before his family awoke. The habit kept him connected with everyday occurrences and in touch with the world.
Reading
about movie stars, scientific discoveries, and financial reports was surreal. These days, the concept of Wal-Mart was about as foreign to him as the Eiffel Tower. His family occasionally made the thirty mile trek to the nearest interstate and got off the base, but the closest town was more than an hour commute each way. McGrath preferred to stay on the grounds.
He finished his coffee and glanced at the clock on his computer monitor. There was still about an hour before Beth staggered out of bed. Lacing his shoes on the small bench next to the front door, he stretched before stepping out into the crisp, dawn air.
Every day, he ran the same route, doing five miles in just under thirty minutes. He knew he should vary his routine, but his run was more about meditation than exercise. On autopilot, he allowed himself precious time to think about nothing. His best ideas came from this discipline and he knew how much it increased both his patience and productivity.
His well worn loop enabled him to take in the beauty of the base. First he ran east, reveling in the rising sun. At the end of the barracks, he turned and followed the tree
-lined path along the perimeter. When he reached the training grounds, he occasionally put himself through the obstacle course, but today he didn’t deviate. Instead, he turned north and ran until the path hit the beach.
The lead colored water was still this morning. A flock of birds rose out of the meadow to his right. His eyes softened as they soared into the lightening sky. By the time he reached the boathouse, his breath was ragged. On some mornings he picked up his pace for the last mile, pushing himself against the creep of age. Today, he was too tired. Maintaining an even stride, he focused on his breathing, counting his footsteps as they fell on the gravel path.
Just before the loop ended, it descended into a hollow that created a small bay. The night patrols would be returning soon, landing their craft on the beachhead in front of him, but right now, no boats were in sight. Driftwood mingled with grass and wildflowers in the aromatic depression, making it a haven for butterflies. His young children loved to chase frogs in the muddy water at the bottom.
He was climbing out of the hollow when he caught something strange out the corner of his eye. In the tall grasses to his left, a log was barely visible in the early morning light. He could just make out a lump on its craggy surface. While he watched, the lump moved.
Most likely, a young recruit had chosen this spot to bed down after losing his bunk to the refugees, but McGrath thought he had better investigate. The soft ground muffled his footsteps and he was well trained in the art of stealth. Circling the log, he cautiously approached it from the front. As he neared it, he crouched low, listening. When he peeked over the grasses, the honey-colored refugee looked directly at him, his wide mouth stretched in a bright grin. Startled, McGrath slid down. Then he stood and strode toward the log, returning the smile. The man had nailed him.
“Guess I need some practice,” McGrath said, extending his hand.
“I’m Michael Johnson. Excuse me for not getting up.” Michael grasped the outstretched palm and then gestured to the plaster cast that covered three quarters of his right leg.
“Sean McGrath,” the colonel replied. “Mind if I join you?”
“No, have a seat.”
McGrath wiggled to find a comfortable position next to Michael. He took a minute to study the man. Michael had an easy demeanor and casual grace. Last night, McGrath had assumed Michael was a punk by nature, insolent and cocky. This m
orning, he wasn’t so sure. Well-placed intelligent eyes shone in a young, good looking face. Michael’s smile was open, humorous, and sincere. McGrath took in the man’s long dreadlocks, comfortable clothes, and relaxed posture. A worn leather notebook, bound by a thick rubber band, rested in the man’s lap. If a punk, he was atypical.
“I
’ve been wishing for a spot like this,” Michael said, nodding his head at the hollow. “Peaceful here.”
“One of my favorite places,” McGrath agreed.
“Different from the city, that’s for sure.”
“I bet.” McGrath pondered the island, just seven miles beyond the shore, and the men fell silent, lost in their own thoughts. After a minute, Michael stirred.
“So what now?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What happens now we’re here? What happens next? I gather you can’t just let us up and go on? Right? So what are you gonna do with us?”
McGrath considered Michael
’s questions. Beyond their ability to provide critical intelligence, the refugees were a huge problem. Technically, they were dead. McGrath had been wrestling with how he would tell them they were not free to leave the base even after the crisis ended.
“What gives you that idea?” he said, stalling.
“Come on. Don’t be givin’ me coy. I know we don’t look like much, but we ain’t stupid. We’re a problem for you no matter which way you look at it. If we weren’t, how come your boy took us off the island? You couldn’t afford for us to be roamin’ around knowing the SEALs were there, and if you were just gonna let us go, you would have let us use the phones last night. Lots of us have people we’d give just about anything to talk to, but your boys said no. We gotta talk to you first.
The way I see it, you
’ve been spinnin’ a lie of your own. Otherwise, the whole world would have been knockin’ at your door. So, whatever it is, we ain’t supposed to be here. We can’t go back and now you’re stuck with us.”
McGrath sighed and shook his head. “I don
’t know what’s next. The situation’s precarious, to say the least. I’m hoping you and your people can help. Right now, stopping that virus, or finding its vaccine, is my number one priority. If we don’t, what happens next isn’t really up to me anymore.”
“Yeah, you
’ve got a point there. Thing is, I’m not sure what we’ve got to offer.”
“You lived there. You must know how they operate, who
’s in charge, where their facilities are, yes?” McGrath asked.
“No. It isn
’t like that. Nobody knows anything. All we’ve got are bits and pieces. We weren’t part of them. We’ve been tryin’ to figure out what they were up to this whole time, when we weren’t busy just survivin’ that is.”
“I don
’t understand.”
Michael looked at the colonel and then down at his lap. He picked a long piece of grass and twisted it into a knot as he told McGrath about the
NSO and how the cell had survived.
As the picture emerged in the colonel
’s mind, he was flabbergasted. He had assumed the supplies the base delivered fed the entire population, or what was left of it after the initial violence had taken its toll. It had not occurred to him that division existed in the city, or that people had been starving and cold. His blood boiled as he learned of the NSO’s treachery. Kneading a smooth, round rock, he pressed for details.
By the time Michael finished his story, the sun had risen fully. McGrath stood and reached out a hand to help Michael to his feet.
“After breakfast, I want to hear it all again – from each of you. We’re going to go over and over this until we find the NSO’s weakness. The heavy hitters from Washington are on the way for the formal interrogation, but we can’t afford to wait. Michael, will you help me?”
Michael adjusted the crutches under his arms and looked out across the lake. Then, meeting McGrath
’s eyes, he nodded. “Not sure we’ll make much of a difference, but we’ll do what we can, Colonel. We’ll do what we can.”