The Complete Atlantis Series, Books 1 - 5: Ascendant Saga

by Ellis, Brandon

  She gasped, hand over her heart, her fingers splayed. This can’t be happening. “How did...” She stood, pulling the electrodes off her skin, dropping them on the floor, her eyes vacant, her mind lost. “No more of these drugs.” She pinched the needles in her arm and slid them out of her skin, casting them aside. “Get me out of here. Now.”

  The doctors came running, ready to restrain her. She faced them and lunged at the first doctor, pinning her hands on the back of his neck. She pulled him down against her rising knee, connecting on his nose. A crunch of broken bones echoed in the room and blood splattered. The doctor crumpled to the floor.

  The next man grabbed her arm and she spun, twisting into a round-house kick. She landed her foot on the back of his head, instantly dropping him. She jumped over him, rushing through the doorway and into the hall. The drugs they had her on no doubt wore off.

  Her heart pounded. There had to be a way out of here. Rounding a corner, military guards lined the opposite end, waiting. Behind her, Slade, Donny, and a few more guards raced on her tail. In a matter of minutes, she’d be taken, handcuffed, and killed. She’d fight to the death, hopefully taking some to the other side with her.

  In a defensive stance, a bathroom across the way caught her attention. It would be easier to fight in a more cramped space, where people would have to come in one or two at a time, instead of twenty all at once. The small space would give her an advantage.

  She ran into the bathroom, but stopped mid-stride. A mirror. And she stared back. She touched just under her eyes. And then her chin. Her cheeks. “What?” Normal-looking, her skin toned and beautiful. In fact, she glowed. She blinked several times, waiting for the mirror to give a true reflection. The mirror didn’t comply.

  She placed her hands on the sink, looking more deeply into her eyes, then looked at the bridge of her nose and down to her lips. They were supple. She hadn’t had lips since the accident. She touched them and her eyes welled.

  No. This was too good to be true. The mirror was another trick, just like the rising metal box. These people screwed with her, showed her how much of a failure she was, like her dad promised she’d be when she grew up—a failure of monumental proportions. She was all grown up and his words had become her reality. And the Secret Space Program was right for letting her go, making her retire after her accident to live a life in solitude, her bad influence away from her leadership in the SSP.

  Yet, she couldn’t take her eyes away. She gripped the sink more tightly, her muscles shaking as she squeezed. The sink cracked, then exploded. Shards flew everywhere, but she didn’t take her eyes from the mirror.

  Slade entered first, then Donny. She faced them, arms wide. She bared her teeth, wild. She took in a deep breath and screamed. The mirror shattered.

  Rivkah stepped back. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him, but she was spent and her reflexes slow. The taser came up and the wires connected to her shoulder.

  She spasmed, her eyes rolled back and she fell to the floor.

  “Clean up on aisle three,” said Slade. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

  29

  June 5th ~ Unknown

  Drew woke with a start. He looked left and right, trying to figure out where he was. It was dark. Someone snored. Everything was quiet, other than a low hum and a soft vibration, and that snoring.

  The monorail. The air duct. It was early, late—who knew? He had no windows, no sky line, no way to tell the time. Regardless, people slept.

  Drew was stowed away on this monstrosity of a train, probably created by some government black ops program his conspiracy colleagues would have a hay day with.

  About now, he needed that blunt. But lighting it would be a dead giveaway. The military, and presumably their contractors, only availed themselves of any Babalacha broccoli when they were off the clock and away from prying eyes. They’d be able to sniff him out in a millisecond. Then he remembered the depressing truth, he’d given his last blunt to the guy who got him into the warehouse. Even if he’d wanted to get baked, he couldn’t.

  The monorail blared its horn. The drag of the brakes slowed it down. The snoring stopped.

  Someone came over the intercom, “Destination up ahead. Monostation 19. We’re behind the clock. Let’s load the supplies quickly and get back home.”

  Drew heard talking in the room, though he couldn’t make out what anyone said. Cabinets opened and shut—perhaps to grab their coats or fatigues?—then a door slammed in a hurry.

  The forklifts and jacks came to life, the monorail shook. More equipment loaded. If Drew could escape, this might be the best time to do so.

  He shimmied up the air duct. Slow going. The A-list body-doubles in the movies always made it look easy, but it turned out you needed a mite more upper-body strength than Drew had realized, to crawl up, rather than along, a duct. Pops and pangs from his elbows and knees placed dents in the duct. It freaked him out, but he had to get out of here, and now. If not for the racket outside, they’d hear him.

  The duct leveled out. He picked up some speed and made it to the outlet. He pushed the grate up and to the side, pulling himself through the boxy opening. The good news, and what he expected, the room was empty. The bad news, he didn’t know where to go from here. He placed the grate back over the vent’s opening and walked to the door.

  He slowly turned the doorknob and cautiously opened the door enough to peek through. A man walked down the hall, a rifle in his hands. Then another man walked out of a room and hustled down the hall. They wore camouflage fatigues, something that could come in handy. He needed to find some.

  Drew calmly closed the door and looked around. He opened a cabinet; a razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, and shaving cream. He closed it, going to the next cabinet.

  “Goddammit. Nothing.”

  Behind him was a closet. Skinny, but maybe someone had some military garb in there.

  “Dammit.” Civilian clothes. If he put them on, he'd stick out like a sore thumb. He might as well wear what he was wearing.

  He reached inside the closet, grabbing a camouflage hat, and placed it on top of his head, pulling it down snugly. He did his best to hide his face. He would need to find more military garb, if he was going to blend in.

  He opened the door slowly again. The guy with the rifle paced down the hall, his back to Drew. Probably on guard duty. If that was the case, Drew wouldn’t be able to get rid of him. He eyed the corridor. Dashing across the hall and diving into another room wasn’t an option. He might be able to sneak into one of the rooms on his side of the corridor, if he was stealthy enough.

  He walked as quietly as he could, reaching the next door. Entering the room, clothes were strewn everywhere. He closed the door and dug through them. He didn’t find anything he could use.

  He glanced at the room’s vent. His biceps hurt from that single eight-minute crawl. Who knew how far he was from an outside wall. Then it hit him. He might be miles underground. There were no outside walls. “Ain’t no question. I have to find camo.”

  He counted to three and eased the door open a tinge. The guard neared the end of the corridor. Drew snuck into the next room and opened the closet. A camouflage jacket—civilian, but passable—but no pants. He looked down at his own pants. Tan slacks. It might just work.

  He put on the coat, checked his hat, made sure the guard still had his back to him, then hurried in the opposite direction.

  “Sir?” yelled the guard. “Hey, Sir?”

  Drew put his hand up as he continued to walk. “I’m late. I have to get to my assignment.”

  “Sir, I need to see your ID.”

  Just as Drew reached the door, it flung open, nearly hitting him between the eyes. He stepped back. Another man walked in, full regalia.

  “Sorry,” the man said, walking past Drew.

  “No, Johnson. Check that man.”

  Drew pulled the door open and ran out onto the balcony. A forklift was below, carrying a large crate up a ramp and into the monocar. He dash
ed to the ladder, and took his first steps down. It might provide cover.

  Someone reached for him. “Stop.”

  Drew had no intention of following that order. He flicked a glance over his shoulder. His pursuer, strong, determined, military, square jaw, brown hair. Drew, on the other hand, figured he resembled a crazed monkey, scared out of his mind.

  “Stop.”

  Drew put his feet on either side of the ladder and slid to the floor. He ran toward a monocar ramp that extended into a warehouse. The guy slid down the ladder as well, and rushed after Drew, keeping at his heels.

  Up ahead, hundreds of military men worked, the sounds of metal against metal, beeps and buzzes almost deafening, the smell of rubber against concrete almost unbearable. This was an advantage though only a matter of seconds before everyone figured out he was being chased. Then he’d have an entire regiment of well-trained, fit, non-weed-smoking soldiers after him.

  He ran into the crowd, elbowing workers, pushing them out of his path. “Sorry, I’m late and in a hurry,” he repeated.

  “Late for what?”

  “My assignment.”

  Past the crowd, he ran up a flight of stairs. Two hundred yards to his right, he spotted several elevators. Behind him, the man in chase pushed through the crowd, pointing at Drew, trying to get his people to understand the situation.

  At the top of the stairs, Drew ran across a grated bridge that led to a line of elevators. Down on the monorail, the assembled workers had been alerted to the situation and were heading in his direction. Hunting human prey was more fun than stacking boxes, for sure.

  Drew reached the elevators and pressed the up arrow. “Hurry, hurry.”

  The elevator dinged. The doors opened. Drew stepped inside, pressing “1.” He had only two options, and since “B” obviously meant “basement”—where he supposed he was now—“1” would most likely take him to the top.

  He looked up and swallowed hard. A guy rushed across the bridge. Drew backed away in quick, jerky steps. He cursed the door for not shutting, sweat dripping down his face. In seconds, he’d be caught.

  A ding, and the door began to close. The man leaped and thrust his arm outward in an attempt to stick his hand between the doors. He missed. The doors shut and the elevator ascended.

  Drew let out a breath he didn’t know he held and took off the camouflage coat like it was an alien trying to suffocate him. He threw it on the floor, along with the hat.

  He leaned against the back of the elevator. His legs tingled. “Oh my God.” He wondered who’d be at the top waiting to meet him when the elevator opened.

  He checked his pocket, feeling his wallet. His eyes shot wide, “Where’s my phone?” He patted himself down. “What the hell?” His heart sank. Everything he documented, everything he did to escape, for nothing. He sat down hard and heard a crunch. He pushed himself up. He knew exactly what that meant. His phone was in his back pocket, and he’d just broken it.

  He fished it out. Relief washed over him. A cracked screen, but a functioning phone. His phone was everything. It was his passport to freedom and a long, healthy life. Or at least a life with a 78% lower chance of assassination. The remaining 22% was for future features; he was sure he’d uncover more top stories and find himself a target again. Who was he kidding. He’d never been in as much danger as he was in now.

  The elevator dinged and the panel holding the buttons jutted out, then flipped over, exposing buttons numbering one through nineteen. The “1” and “B,” gone. The doors opened and he stared into a lobby of a nice building, people coming and going wearing nice business attire.

  Mouth agape, he took his first steps out. “Where the hell am I?” he blathered to himself. He travelled all night, in a secret, underground monocar. For all he knew, maybe Ottowa, or Montreal, or Texas. The placards on the wall had English words. Still North America, but he didn’t know if in the United States or Canada. In either case, he had to get moving.

  30

  June 5th ~ Underfoot Black, Grenada

  Slade stared at his computer at the Tanner Springs Assisted Living Center website, the place where Drew’s mother had been living for years. Located in Charlotte, North Carolina, the facility was large and fancy.

  He didn’t want to ever use this against Drew, but he was out of time and couldn’t have someone screwing up his plans to Callisto. Knowing where Drew’s mother lived would be the best bargaining chip Slade had against Drew. Even if she was a fruit loop. Perhaps her vulnerability was a plus. Drew visited her every week, and for how many years? The kid was attached. If Slade needed to, he could put the smallest amount of pressure on mommy dearest and Drew would cave. He turned his head to the window, allowing himself a millisecond of regret for what he’d become, then dismissed it. “Needs must,” he said. “Duty first.”

  He scrolled down the website just as his phone rang. He clicked on the speaker. “Yes?”

  “It’s Donny. You might want to get down here and take a look at this. Mr. Jaxx is showing...uh...well...things.”

  “What things?”

  “I could explain, but better if you see it for yourself.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Slade looked at his calendar. Less than a month until they launched to Callisto. Anymore hang ups would need to be dealt swiftly. Jaxx better not be another hang up.

  31

  June 5th ~ Unknown

  Drew walked out of the building with his hands in his pocket. He made sure his stride was confident, comfortable, not some scurrying walk-run that would draw attention. He checked his phone for the time. 8:14 am.

  “Pacific standard time?”

  Was he in California? No, not warm enough. The street signs said 51st and Hawthorne. He looked up and down the building he exited. No indication of the city or the state. Or the country. The rest of the block had one to two story buildings, this one a skyscraper. “Way to keep a low profile, guys.”

  He needed to act as natural as posssible, having just run from the military. He had all the information he needed to expose the truth, and was most likely on a black ops hit list.

  They’re probably coming up the elevator now. I have to get out of here.

  He jogged down the street until he came to an open restaurant, Por Que. Bikes everywhere. Where the hell were the cars? A license plate would be nice. He shrugged and made his way inside.

  “One or two today?” asked the hostess.

  Drew smiled. “Can you tell me what city this is?”

  The server glanced around, as if looking for pranksters hiding in the restaurant. She leaned to the side, placing a hand on her hip, the other hand touching her lips. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Is this Sacramento?”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Drew gave her a serious expression, his hands sliding in and out of his pockets. “I’m sorry. I have a brain condition that causes memory loss. I just need to know what city I’m in.”

  Her eyebrows squished together. “Okay, well, you’re in Portland.”

  Drew flinched. “Portland, Oregon?”

  “Yes.”

  He flashed his teeth in another smile, holding back his surprise. He turned and left the restaurant. He had no idea what was in Portland or where he should go next. More importantly, he had to get off the street.

  Portland House Motel, a large, worn out sign stood high above the buildings a couple blocks down. Drew started to jog again, taking a gander over his shoulder every so often, then slowed his pace as he came to the motel.

  A quaint, two-story affair, a bit worse for the wear. The paint peeled from the porch steps and the windows hadn’t been cleaned in about a century. He wondered how bad a room would smell.

  At the desk, he asked the woman for a suite on the second floor. “I’ve got cash.”

  “We don’t have suites here.”

  “I’ll take whatever.”

  She took a drag on her cigarette, then walked to a side window and blew. She grabbed
a key and handed it to him. “One flight up, second door on your left. Enjoy.”

  The room stank of well-trodden carpet, old sheets, old everything. The walls yellow with green trim, and the lamps and bedside tables straight out of the sixties, though never refurbished.

  He pulled a chair up next to the window and shut the curtains, pushing one curtain aside so he could watch the sidewalk and street through the tiny slit.

  His phone rang. Sunset to Sunrise displayed on the caller ID. A national radio show, one of the most popular in the country. He’d been on the show about a year ago, interviewed about his life and a few of his documentaries. The show had a conspiracy slant to it, though unlike most conspiracy-type programs it was more credible with experts in the field.

  Drew answered.

  “I’m sure you are inundated with phone calls.”

  Drew scratched his cheek, one eye trained on the street below. “Robert May? Long time.”

  “I received your packet in the mail. Interesting, to say the least.”

  Drew sighed. “Good. I’m glad someone got something.”

  “So, you haven’t been inundated?”

  Drew pulled his phone away to see if he had voicemails. None and no missed calls. “I don’t have any. Should I?”

  “Your information is all over the news.”

  Drew about fell out of his seat. “Who broke the story?”

  “Tucker Frost of PointLine.”

  “The morning show? Is it on now?” Drew glanced at the sidewalk. Someone suspicious walked by. The guy held a phone, sun glasses, and moved his head in a way as if he tried to locate someone. He disappeared around the corner.

  “It’s not just on that show. It’s on just about every news network, even your own.”