“Hey Zac. Frank's busy at the Sanderson rally right now. We just brought him lunch. This is a new tenant.” Sanderson? Just my luck. At least it explains what this woman and her daughter would be doing on the streets. I do my best to contain a cringe. From what I understand, Robert Sanderson is the man calling the shots while William Chauncelor is incarcerated. The price on my head suggests he's not my biggest fan. Might be because I got him locked up.
“Nice to meet you, Zac. I'd offer to be more cordial, but my hands are a bit full.”
“I can see that. Theresa, Tamara, would you mind scanning in? We'll give you a free ride up this time, buddy. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Greatly appreciated.” I let out a slow sigh, careful not to show my relief, and watch as the girls exit the car and the guard personally scans their wrists. His hand hangs over a red button I can only imagine is the security release to get the elevator running again.
A door at the rear of the room opens and a man with graying beard and mustache steps into the room, holding himself high. “How are things, Zac?” he asks gruffly, then turns with a polite smile towards the mother and daughter.
“Good, sir. Things have been a bit busy today with the rally going on downtown.”
“I would imagine. Who is the man in the elevator and why is he not scanning in?” My pulse quickens. I don't like where this is going.
“New tenant. Thought I'd do him a courtesy since he's got those big bags.”
“There are no exceptions, Zac,” the older man scolds. “These security measures are in place for a reason. Relaxing on them creates laziness and an easy way for riff-raff to wander in.” I would appreciate his professionalism if I wasn't so busy cursing his existence.
“Of course, sir.” Zac turns his attention to me with much greater authority. “Please step forward to be scanned.”
Leaden feet drag me from the security of the elevator and I walk slowly towards the desk, eyes darting either which way for a quick way out, but ultimately focusing on the older man's holstered pistol. I suppose apologies and lies about being in the wrong building are out of the question at this point.
I make a quick check to ensure the girls have returned to the elevator car safely, then return my attention to the guards. “Gotta say, I admire your dedication to duty, sir.”
“Thank you, I-” I heft one of my bags directly at the supervisor, catching him full-force in the chest and spilling contents out over his head. The shock splattered across Zac's face is soon joined by the contents of the second bag before I lean over the desk and slap the red button.
The doors begin to close instantly, barely giving me any time to leap back through them, nearly colliding with the mother in my desperate attempts at escape.
Locked in, the car gives a jolt and ascends upwards at a much faster pace than before. I watch the numbers click up, willing them to raise even faster before anybody can manage an override. Theresa is backed into a corner, trying to shield her daughter with her body. She's probably wishing for faster speeds as well.
A new panic springs to mind with the thought of security locking down the skybridge. I slap the button again, delighted to see that the light disappears, then press the next button up, illuminating the 42nd floor.
“Hey Mister,” calls the young girl, voice surprisingly calm for the situation. I turn and gaze into wide, excited eyes. “Since you don't have your bags anymore, could you take my picture now?”
Eight
The doors open on the 41st floor and I spring out almost as quickly as I dove in. Dashing down the halls with a fire under my ass, I find a map of the floor.
There's no balcony directly above the skybridge, but apartments 4237 and 4239 come close. I take one look at the security lock beside the door and cringe. It's crackable, but it would take time and it's a safe bet that there's already an elevator loaded with security and gunning for my position.
Plan B. I knock.
A balding man with a thick, compensating mustache and steel-frame glasses appears with a face full of confusion. “Can I help you, sir?”
“There's been a security breach. I need to access your balcony.”
“Certainly,” he says with alarm and stepping back to clear room. “It's right back through there.”
“Thank you for your cooperation.” I dash through the room, pausing only for a moment when I spy a familiar stereo sitting on the shelf, then slide open the back door and step out onto the small, concrete opening.
“Is there anything I can help with?” he calls from inside.
“Lock your doors and do not, I repeat, do not open them for anybody. Scum from the street are posing as security officers.” Taking a step back, I leap forward, planting one good foot on the railing and pushing off hard, steering myself towards the roof of the skybridge.
My heart skips a beat in recognition of the horrifying drop in case I miscalculated. It's been a while since I've been up this high, and I can't remember ever pulling stunts like this without the drugs.
Feet plant firmly on the solid metal casing of the skybridge and I dash across, sparing only a moment to appreciate the view. From this high, I can see clear into neighboring districts. Though I've never seen it for myself, I've heard that the penthouse suites of the tallest towers can see across all of them.
Wind tries to steal my breath, but I fight back the panic, focusing only on my target less than five-hundred meters away. I'm only vaguely cognizant of the shouts behind me, muffled by the rushing gale and the dull thuds made from my feet on the steel beneath them.
Like the building behind me, there's no balcony directly above the skybridge, but there's one a floor up. My other options involve floating over a forty-story drop and, after my panic earlier, I have no desire to follow that route again.
The distance closes and I make a high jump against the flat surface of the building, planting my toe and kicking up towards the thin gap between the balcony railing. My fingers fall short by inches and I go tumbling back to the bridge. Memories of the view down grip my mind and my body locks.
The impact hits me harder than usual. I go rolling to the side. Hands and feet flail frantically with no sense of purpose beyond trying to stop the motion. I lay flat, prone, a good foot from the edge of the skybridge but clinging on as if I was dangling over it. Tremors run through my skin with every blast of wind and my eyes refuse to open.
I'm stricken with something I haven't felt in years: a fear of mortality. Wait a second. I'm not afraid of heights. This is all wrong. Something else is bothering me, something that's shaken me to my core. The same thing that’s had me acting up all day. But I can't think of anything.
Calm. I am calm. Now pick yourself up, Heath and get up that wall.
Back on my feet, I admire the ten foot obstacle and center my focus. Three steps back for a running start and I'm at it again, this time reaching my goal with momentum to spare. I kick up and over the balcony, test the glass door, then set to disabling the lock.
There's nobody in the main room, but I don't make it my mission to search the house. Just tiptoe across the tiled floor as quickly as possible, then make my getaway through the front door and down the hall. I find the elevators, five double doors and only two buttons, up and down. The fifth has a lock beside it. Probably for maintenance.
The elevator arrives and I head up to the 47th floor and rush down the hall. I've already wasted more time than I'd meant to and now security is actively hunting for me. So much for a quick look. I find the apartment and make short work of the main lock, then bolt inside to find the last thing I'd been expecting: emptiness.
The strong stench of paint and disinfectant makes my nose itch. White walls have been freshly coated. No furniture. Only a soft beige carpet and light beams from the windows offer any contrast to an otherwise drab area.
Just to be sure, I check the other rooms. Nothing. Whatever Molly Womack has to hide, she's already packed up and moved out in record time, leaving nothing behind to mark her
trail.
Slumping down on the carpet, I try to think. I could check the traps in the plumbing to see if anything was caught there, but what kind of evidence would she flush? It's only been a few hours, how could everything be so clean? The carpet should have indentions of furniture somewhere. Even the feel is off. For such an open, warm apartment, it feels dark. Cold. Hopeless.
Then I remember the tiled floors of the other apartments I'd been through. The carpet is soft and clean. I knock on it. There's give to my knuckles; a hollow thud and slight crackling beneath the impact.
Crawling to the corner, I fish out my knife and thrust the tip into the corner beneath the baseboards. The edge of the carpet pulls out with little effort. It's not even glued down.
Grabbing and ripping, I pull the carpet away from the floor, revealing filthy, stained tile beneath it. Dried blood and dark ink are marked all over the floor. There are smudges from where cleaning was attempted, but I can still make out enough to get a firm idea of what I'm looking at: arcane symbols, the language of the ancients.
I pull the carpet the rest of the way, double it over and roll it up, clearing the way to get a few shots. Just revealing the gruesome scene sends chills down my spine. The room feels darker and colder than before and I can almost feel grasping fingers at my shoulders and throat.
I snap as many pictures as I can, then move to other rooms and repeat the process, finding even more strange symbols. A loud buzzing fills my ears like tiny voices; thousands of them all calling out to me from some unimaginable distance.
Whatever Molly was into, she was in deep. But what does this have to do with me? And how does this link to Kimmie's disappearance? Or does it? I take a long look at the walls, almost wishing I had some turpentine to reveal any secrets there all while secretly pleased that I don't.
Packing my gear, I leave the carpets bunched in corners and head back out, moving to the maintenance elevator. Unscrewing the case, I rework wires until it summons the car, then replace the panels and step inside. As I'd hoped, there are sub-levels. Those mean underground access. Which means I can make it back to the streets and avoid security altogether.
I head down, hoping the best time to run into an ant colony is right after you’ve kicked a little dirt around it.
Nine
“Still weirds me out that you know how to drive,” Charlsie grumbles from the passenger seat of the hijacked supply truck. “You realize that you have a broad enough skillset to land yourself a legitimate career without much effort?”
“There you go again with that straight talk. I’m guessing your mid-life crisis endowed you with an itchy vagina instead of one of those full-wall vid-screens.”
“They’re supposed to do wonders for your eyesight.”
“Vaginas?”
“Take a left up here,” he says, motioning to an alley so thin it’s practically hidden. It’s a tight fit, but my practice from driving the loader through the war-torn landscape of the outlands has me cruising through with inches to spare on either side.
The alleyway dead-ends into a brick wall and a heap of debris, brought in by the wind and unceremoniously dumped into whatever crevice it could find. In this mess, it would be easy enough to miss the laundry chute hatch that opens to reveal a control panel. Charlsie hands over the delivery truck’s datapad.
Leaning out the window, I punch in the passcode across an alpha-numeric keypad. The speaker dings pleasantly after my final keystroke, then springs to life with static. “Hello Winston. Go ahead and read off the password from the ledger.” I shoot Charlsie a look and he points to a string of letters and mouths out the word NATO.
Clearing my throat, I do my best to emulate the guard’s twangy accent from before we knocked him out, gagged him, and left him bound in the back of the truck. “Foxtrot, tango, echo, delta, whiskey, whiskey, alfa, lima.”
“Thank you, sir. Pull ‘er on in to bay three.”
I quickly yank up on the parking brake as the ground begins to rattle, seemingly collapsing beneath us. Charlsie and I exchange similar alarmed expressions. What did we do wrong? The trash at the end of the alley begins to blow around in small pirouettes, then disappears down a crack altogether.
Upon closer inspection, the alley itself is descending. Or more specifically just one end of it, creating a ramp into some unknown darkness. “Guess it makes too much sense to have the prison underground where there are no windows to jump out of.”
“And too little sense to give convicted felons the penthouse suite.”
The earth stops shaking after an uncomfortable eternity. I throw the truck into drive and we take the ramp down through a dark, narrow passage that runs for a good three-hundred yards before opening up to a small chamber complete with a wall of loading bay doors.
Fluorescent yellow lines curve along the ground, marking guidelines to turn the truck around and back it to a dock. It only takes a moment to mark which path leads to the third bay. In a moment we’re backing up to the opening bay door.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Rob an evidence locker, release some prisoners, follow ‘em back to wherever they came from. Seems pretty straightforward.”
“Just feels like I should be playing a bigger role in this.”
“One of us has to be home by midnight,” I smirk. “Wouldn’t want you to miss curfew.” Pulling the parking brake once more, we slide out of our seats and head back to where a lone guard waits to greet us.
He looks up from his datapad and hands it over, his tired expression dropping to confusion. “Hey guys. Is Winston out today?”
I scribble a sloppy ‘Winston Hadyermom’ across the signature line, then place my taser to his throat. “Nope. He’s in the back.” The guard slumps into Charlsie’s arms and we drag him into the back of the truck, stripping him down and giving him a second dose of electricity before abandoning him in the loving embrace of an unconscious Winston.
“Heath?” Charlsie calls out as I finish loading up the pockets of my new outfit. “Did you just take a picture of our captives?”
“Maybe,” I call back, slipping the phone into a back pocket and securing the button flap. Never know when it might come in handy. Attaching the com to my ear, I adjust the frequency until the static clears. “Milton? Milton can you hear me?”
“Coming through clear.”
“Good deal. You got the blueprints up?”
“Yeah, everything’s ready to go. This place is some kind of crazy maze. Had to draw out a route for you to follow.”
“On the screen?” His silence brings up images of the poor guy doodling across technical equipment with a bright red crayon. I turn to Charlsie, already moving industrial-sized cans with the word BEANS printed across in bold lettering. Terrifying that the clear labeling system only makes me question the contents even more. “You good to go, here?”
“Pretty sure I had this same job fifteen years ago.” He stops in place, gives me a queer look. “Were you even potty-trained fifteen years ago?”
“The question you need to be asking yourself is which of us is closer to the age of diapers, old man.” A moment at the man’s wrist and I snag his identity. As a finishing touch, I secure the guard’s cap low over my head, making sure to tuck any stray hairs beneath. “We’re solid here, Milton. Lead the way.”
“Sure thing. Exit through the door on the south wall. That should take you into the kitchen. Then follow that all the way down and take the last door on the right.”
Despite my building anxiety, I force myself to walk at a casual stroll. I can feel the heat in my hands, palms becoming prematurely moist. Far too early to start freaking yourself out now, Heath. The lone door on the south wall has a single window and I can see the warm, orange glow of heat lamps reflecting off stainless steel surfaces and dark iron cookware. Even the prison makes my kitchen at home look like a dump.
My fingers grip the handle and give it a good tug. No good, it’s sealed tight. I glance around, but there’s no sca
nner, only a single button on the wall and the steel-thread grill of an intercom. It promises to cause a few problems. Apparently I’m going to need to capture a control room if I want to get anything done. I might need to call Charlsie in after all.
My finger hesitates pushing the button. Just in case of eavesdropping, my voice drops to a whisper. “It looks like all of the door locks are controlled from an outside location. This might hinder our progress a bit.”
“The map suggests four different control rooms,” Milton chimes in. “It doesn’t say what each controls.”
“Probably safe to assume that it runs based on proximity. How many of those are surrounded by a cluster of holding cells?”
“Umm…. Oh! It looks like three of them. That makes sense.”
Which means the doors I’m gonna need to access the evidence room will be the most heavily guarded. It also means I have nobody to control them while I look for the room. “I may need to call you in on this one, Charlsie.”
“Might have ya one better,” he comes back. “Remember how I said Barston’s been a bit slack on springing the new recruits? Think there are a couple stowed up in these walls.”
“A couple? Geez Charlsie, how many people you lost?”
“Damn near a dozen over the past six months. If you can get me a roster, I’ll let ya know who we know. They’d probably be willing to cooperate a bit, but how you’d spring ‘em without anybody noticing is another matter entirely.”
“Or maybe everybody noticing,” I mutter.
“Come again?”
“Nothing. Milton, take me to the closest cluster control and we’ll go from there.” My finger presses down on the button, but no sound is emitted. I stand for a moment before I hear the magnetic locks disengage, then pull the door open and step into the heat of the kitchen.
The room is empty save for myself and an elderly janitor filling a bucket in one of the deep sinks. He pays me no mind as I cross the room, busying himself by belting out a perverse love song to the ragged head of his mop. At the end of the room, I turn to the right, but find no door along the wall. There is, however, a door on the opposite wall.
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