Marla regained her balance and yanked her blindfold off. Even with it off, she could barely see a thing. A flashlight clicked on behind them, taking her off guard.
“Just keep moving,” Brant said. For some reason, he didn’t mention the blindfold. Maybe he hadn’t noticed.
She could only see his silhouette, and the light went right in her face. She glanced to her side and saw prison bars. Beyond that, she saw an empty cell. Next to it was another cell and another one after that, reaching toward the end of the white-tiled floor. There were cells on the other side as well, and stairs that led up to another floor.
“Take them off,” he said. “We're almost there.”
Marla helped Carol with her blindfold as they paused and looked at the prison cells around them. He pointed the flashlight up the stairs. “Keep going.”
Marla and Carol turned toward the stairs and began walking up each step at Brant's urging. Marla stayed close to Carol as they climbed the steps together. Brant's footsteps followed their own, close behind, and they eventually reached the top. Walking ahead, they soon reached a set of double-doors alongside a long Plexiglas window.
An unlocking mechanism sounded and the doors opened, revealing several men dressed in correctional officer uniforms and armed with weapons. Marla was about to rush to them and beg for help until she saw their tattooed, gleaming faces. They were nothing more than inmates dressed as guards. Past them was a long hall of offices on both sides. Candles sat on ledges and shelves around them. Their flickering flames provided just enough illumination to see by. Brant circled to the front and led them through the furnished lobby as the men stared and followed them with their eyes.
Marla and Carol followed, anticipation and fear in their hearts. They continued past offices, with unoccupied desks and filing cabinets in each room. The hallways darkened the farther they moved away from the lobby. Marla could see that it was still nighttime through the windows of the offices they passed. Brant turned on his flashlight and pointed it toward a door at the end. They approached the door, and Marla saw that the title “Warden” had been crossed out and replaced with another name she couldn't read.
A man sitting at a shadowed desk outside the office cleared his throat and Marla jumped back, startled.
“Good evening, Brant,” the seated man said. “Visitors?” He paused and lit a cigarette, illuminating his scruffy face.
“Two to see Julian,” Brant said, flashing his light on them both.
The man at the desk studied them as he chiseled away at the desk with a knife. “Julian's busy. Bring them back tomorrow.” Brant didn’t say anything, but in the tension that followed, it was clear something hostile was going on between them. Brant stared him down. The man blew out a long puff of smoke as Brant moved like lightning and struck him in the neck with one chop of his hand. The man gagged and fell back in his chair, choking with violent spasms.
Marla backed up, pulling Carol to her side. With the temporary distraction, she imagined an opportunity to run and try to escape. But she had nowhere to run to. Brant stood over the choking man as he twisted and thrashed on the ground, arms flailing and papers flying in the air.
“What did I tell you about talking to me that way, Devin?” he asked like a parent scolding a child. “We have order here. Respect is an important part of how we operate.”
The man crouched over his knees, breathing heavily as his flushed face gradually drained of color. Marla placed her hand on Carol's arm and nodded toward the offices down the hall with urgency. As they stepped away in that direction, Brant suddenly spun around and shined his flashlight on them.
“Don't go anywhere yet, ladies. Julian will see you now.”
Marla and Carol backed into the wall near a tall filing cabinet and froze.
“I'll let him know that you're here,” the man named Devin said in a wheezy voice.
Through the door glass, Marla could see a line of candles glowing from inside. Whoever this supposed inmate leader was, he had taken the warden's office. But what of all the staff and guards? She wondered where they were all being held.
Devin opened the door partly and slipped inside. Brant remained in place, not foolish enough to leave Marla and Carol unsupervised. She made one last attempt to bargain, knowing full well that Brant’s reaction could end with a lightning-fast chop to her neck as well.
“You've got to let us go. Please,” she began. “The entire country is under attack.”
Brant seemed to stare through her but gave a slight nod. “Doesn't much concern me what's happening out there. All that matters is what happens in here.”
The door opened and Devin stepped out, still holding his throat. “J-Julian will see you now.” He bypassed Brant and the desk and the flipped chair and headed straight for a nearby restroom.
Brant glanced back at Marla and Carol, excited. “Shall we go in?” He opened the door for them and stepped aside.
They walked inside and saw more candles on the desk and tables and shelves around them. Old music crackled from a record player in the corner. Brant approached a desk in front of them, which had a large window beyond it, overlooking what appeared to be the prison yard. A chair was behind the desk, facing the window, and they couldn't see who was seated. Marla glanced around the room and saw newspapers lying everywhere spread out along the carpet. The office itself had a bizarre aura to it, increased by the presence of its new, mysterious occupant.
“Mr. Julian, I've brought you guests,” Brant said.
The chair spun around to face them, revealing an older man with a long neck and bushy mustache. His large, searing eyes stared at them, unblinking. He had sideburns and gray hair parted in the middle, glistening with pomade. He wore a green fatigue jacket with a dress shirt underneath, buttoned at the collar. His hands were folded in front of him, displaying an array of rings on several fingers. There were markings along his neck, tattoos that were barely discernible. He appeared to be in his sixties, with leathery skin as evidence of hard living.
Marla squinted ahead to get a better look at him in the glowing candlelight of his desk.
“Welcome to the New Sanctuary of the First Order,” he began. “My name is Julian Monroe.” He leaned back in his chair and grabbed a lit cigar from its ashtray on the desk, puffing on its end.
Marla recognized the name and was alarmed when she made the connection. Monroe was a cult leader who had been convicted in the early 1980s of multiple murders. He had brainwashed his followers to commit the murders that had long plagued the area outside Rockford, Illinois. Monroe had run a commune in the remote hills of northern Illinois, where he pressed followers to prepare for a civil war.
When the war never materialized, Monroe then ordered his members to embark on a killing spree. He had aged considerably from his pictures in the newspaper, and for a moment Marla doubted whether the man before her was the same person she was thinking of or if the name was some strange coincidence.
“Julian Monroe?” she asked.
“Yes,” he stated confidently. His eyes seemed to warm up. “You've heard of me?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, stepping forward. “New Sanctuary of the First Order? I knew that sounded familiar.”
Julian took another puff of his cigar and set it back into the ashtray. He then gestured toward two fancy leather chairs in front of the desk. “Please have a seat.”
Marla and Carol hesitated for a moment as Brant made his way to a liquor cabinet in the corner. Marla walked over to the first chair as Carol followed, neither saying a word. Both wore calm expressions on their faces. Inside, Marla was screaming for a way to escape. She then made a request, encouraged by their captor's initial politeness.
“Could we have these removed?” she asked, displaying her handcuffs.
“Yes,” Carol added. “I have arthritis, and it's really starting to hurt.”
Julian narrowed his eyes, studying them as his fingers pressed together. “All in due time. I'd like to get to know you first. Tell
me where you’re from.”
Carol looked at Marla to speak. “St. Louis,” Marla said.
“Really?” he said with an arched brow. “What brings you all the way out here?” He then held out a hand, closing his eyes. “Wait. Don't tell me. You're fleeing the annihilation and certain doom? The reckoning I've long discussed is finally here. You're lost with nowhere to go, cut off from the world around you.” He opened his studious eyes and waited. “Am I close?”
Marla nodded with a feigned smile. “Yes. But this is no accident. We were attacked with an EMP that disabled the power grid.”
He took the cigar and began mashing it inside the tray, staring downward. “From what I hear, it's not just electricity. Technology has become obsolete, just as I prophesied.”
Marla nodded again, not wanting to argue the point. Monroe was psychotic, a master manipulator and something of a notorious celebrity as well.
“Mr. Monroe,” Carol began. “Why are we here?”
Silence followed as he glanced to Brant in the darkened corner. “I thought you had explained that to them already.”
Brant turned around with a glass of whiskey in hand. “I did. As far as I know.”
“We were hoping you could elaborate,” Marla added.
Julian returned his focus to them as he took a deep breath. “You know, taking control of this prison wasn't easy. The actual plan was in the works for years. But I knew the day would come, and we have made it so. I've spent considerable time influencing the prison population to my vision. And in that time, I've built quite a following.” He paused and then held up a jagged knife that glistened in the candlelight. “Control is not an easy thing to maintain, in here and out there. There are rival gangs to contend with. Everyone wants a piece.”
He then flipped the knife down and drove it into the desk with a sudden thrust, startling them. “You have to take decisive action once the time is right and don't stop until order is once again established.”
“Where are all the police and guards?” Marla asked, almost not wanting to know the answer. She looked behind Julian to a bookshelf against the wall. A framed picture sat on one of the shelves, with a round-faced smiling man in his Sunday’s best, surrounded by a family.
“Blood was shed to secure this compound,” Julian said. “But it was no murder spree. Those who surrendered were spared. I was more concerned about rival gangs than anything. We had to dispatch most of them immediately. But the guards and prison staff are different. They’re not going to give their lives for this prison. No way.”
“And the warden?” Marla asked.
Julian shifted sideways and then looked back to her. “Warden Russell? His death was more of a symbolic gesture. The inmates needed to know who was in charge. Since then, the transition of power couldn't have been clearer.”
Marla suspected as much. Julian and his followers had probably slaughtered anyone who stood in their way. And the massacre had been on-going for the past week.
“How are you keeping everyone here?” Carol then asked. “Why don't they all leave?”
Julian's attention shifted to her. “You're speaking of the inmates?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Many have,” he said. “I keep no one here by force. But those who listen, those who have taken the word of the First Order understand that this is our home. And this is where we will extend our influence for years to come.”
Carol said nothing more as Marla tried to think of a way out of their situation, something that she could tell the psychotic cult leader that would secure their release.
“Mr. Monroe, we've seen a lot of things this past week,” she began. “But one thing is clear, the power grid will return. In the meantime, the military has been dispatched all over the state. The authorities will take this prison back eventually. Probably within a matter of weeks.”
Brant walked over to the desk with a smirk on his face and handed Julian a glass. Julian thanked him and took a sip as though Marla's comments meant nothing to him. “Warden Russell left us some excellent brandy. Would you ladies like some?”
Both Marla and Carol shook their heads as Marla politely declined.
“Very well,” Julian said. He took another drink and then leaned back into his chair, staring at the ceiling. “I am aware of the powers that be. They'll surround these walls soon enough and demand our surrender. Our limited weapons and ammunition will put us at an obvious disadvantage. And with each day here, we run lower on supplies.” For a moment, he seemed to speak reasonably with full understanding that their prison takeover was short-lived, but he then offered a caveat that further explained why she and Carol had been brought there. “I do not make light of our hostages. They are a crucial commodity, so when the day comes when they attempt to take back what we've built, we will launch bodies from the walls to keep them at bay.”
Marla leaned forward, barely masking her disgust. “You mean to kill the hostages?”
“Only enough to show that we mean business.” He leaned forward suddenly and finished the rest of his brandy in one long gulp. “Of course, this is all theoretical. The world has changed, just as prophesied. We are in the age of the First Order. We are protected here, and we will continue to grow far beyond this town, and one day secure our true place in this world!” His head was tilted up, his hands raised high in the air like some impassioned orator.
“Do you really believe that?” Carol asked, astonished.
Julian lowered his arms and sat up straight, staring at her in the tense silence that followed. “Let's get to why you're here,” he said abruptly. “For the past couple of days, my men have been exploring the countryside and gathering supplies. We're stocking up for winter, you might say. Word got back to me today of a troublemaker, a real cowboy, who killed three of my men.” He turned and glanced at Brant with admiration. “Brant here knows the area very well. And he trailed this man, this cowboy, to an isolated cabin up in the hills of Willow Creek.”
Marla’s eyes widened in fear at how easily they had been found, but she was even more fearful of James's fate. “James is my husband. He traveled to Winslow today to find a vehicle, nothing more. He didn't kill anyone. He wouldn’t.”
Carol turned to her, confused. “You knew he was doing this?”
Marla sighed and tried to look at Carol, finding it difficult. “We wanted a working vehicle. That's all. We didn't want to ask for Larry's or yours. It wouldn't have been right.”
Sadness spread upon Carol’s face. “You led them right to us...”
“No,” Marla said, holding up a hand. “This whole thing is one big misunderstanding.”
“I want to speak to Larry!” Carol shouted, fists balled. “What did you bastards do to him?”
“Ladies, please,” Julian said in the tone of a moderator. “My men were given clear instructions to bring back hostages, not to kill or maim.”
Brant turned around from the liquor cabinet. “I can assure you that both of them were left alive.”
“So there you go,” Julian added. “You might even be able to see them someday.”
Brant filled up another glass for himself and walked over to where they were sitting, joining the conversation. “But if they step out of line again, they won't be so lucky.”
Marla was immensely relieved to hear that James was okay, but she was equally worried as to her own fate. She also didn’t know if she could believe at word that they said.
“Thank you, Brant,” Julian said, turning to face Marla. “This man looking for a car was your husband?”
“His name's James Weller,” Brant said, eating from a bowl of peanuts. “We’ve got his wallet and ID. They're from St. Louis, all right.”
“Yes, he's my husband,” Marla said, stunned by how much they knew already.
Julian folded his hands together over the desk. “Fascinating. What else can you tell me?”
“We'd like to leave,” Marla said, trying hard not to beg or cry, though she knew their chances were next to n
one.
“Leave?” Julian said, laughing. “Look, I'll make this easy. You’re here at my behest, safe from the general population. That’s the best I can offer.”
Neither Marla nor Carol seemed to know what to say. They certainly didn't want to be at the mercy of the other inmates. Brant paced closer to them with a baseball bat in his hands. “Or we could knock your heads in.” Marla and Carol gasped, looking at each other in fear.
“Enough, Brant,” Julian said, rising from his chair. He had a tall skinny frame and wore oversized clothing. “You're far better off here with me. You'd stay in the day room down the hall. No one will bother you.”
Marla remained suspicious of his generosity. “What would we be doing each day?” she asked, as though they had a choice. At least they wouldn’t be in a cell.
“Well,” Brant began as he put down the bat and slowly approached with his hands in his pockets. “This particular ward could certainly use a woman's touch.” He laughed to himself and then backed against the desk, sitting on the edge. “You'll be doing clerical work, logistics, and things of that nature.”
“And you can guarantee our safety?” Carol asked.
Julian looked at Brant and smiled. “I'll try my best, but you have to do your part too. Trust must be earned. Lies and deceptions will be punished.”
My God, Marla thought. It is a cult.
“Do we have a deal?” he asked. He stared them down, his eyes like saucers with the reflection of flickering candlelight. All Marla could think about was escape, but she did her best to keep such thoughts to herself. She looked at Carol, and they nodded in unison.
“It sounds fair enough,” she said.
Satisfied, Julian clasped his hands together. “Wonderful. We have so much planned for the future, I can't wait to share it with you both. That is, when the time is right.” He paused and signaled to Brant, who set his glass down and walked over, arm outstretched toward the door. “I'll take you to your room.”
Hideaway (Book 2): An Emp Thriller Page 4