by Olah, Jeff
“I’m good… considering.”
“How are you really doing? I know you’re trying to be strong for Eleanor and it looks like whatever you’re doing is helping.”
“I don’t think I’ve had time to let it out. I still haven’t been able to sit at the graves and say goodbye. I want to, but I don’t know what to say and I keep thinking Mason will see me.”
Laying his hand on her shoulder, Randy smiled for the first time that she could recall in days, possibly weeks. “Do what you have to, but I think Mason would be honored for you to pay them your respects. Do what feels right to you. I think everyone is trying to find their own way. I’m sure you will too.”
She pulled him in again and this time he reciprocated the gesture, not leaving any question as to his affection for his cousin. “Randy, what are we doing next? Is this it, are we staying here?”
“These people need us and right now we need them. For better or worse… this is our family now. Are you ok with that?”
She didn’t have to think twice. “Yes, I’m done running. I want to stay here… with them.”
137
She winced with every fourth step as the blinding pain along her left side threatened to halt her forward progress. Sean helped Megan to the front door of the house, although she asked him not to follow her in. She returned less than thirty seconds later with the remaining handgun they’d brought from home and handed it to her brother. “I’m going to find the keys so we can get out of here, please go look for that woman. We can’t leave her out here alone.”
Sean moved quickly from the porch and to the perimeter of the field as Megan reentered the home. Heading for the most likely place he’d leave the truck keys; she moved through the dining room and had to instantly look away. The savage that held them captive for the better part of seventeen days, had used this room to brutalize the others he’d captured. The bodies had been removed although the story remained.
The table, turned on its side was where he’d kept the woman bound since their first night in the cellar. The shackles were pulled away, as she obviously upended the table before exiting the front door.
A closer look around the room revealed the newspaper clippings that littered the floor were from the days this man escaped prison. Two years prior, he’d slaughtered his neighbors, a family of five, while they slept. At the sentencing, he spit in the relatives’ direction when asked for his last words. He was sentenced to die in jail, although three weeks ago he and another inmate escaped. The last clipping she tossed to the floor must have been a trophy for the deranged individual. It detailed his escape and a warning from the local authorities of his possible presence in society. He used a red marker to draw a smiley face over the picture of his victims.
As Sean returned to the door, his sister had already found what she came for, sitting two feet away on the kitchen counter. “Megan, I’ve searched everywhere. I can’t find her and there’s a pretty big crowd of Feeders heading this way. We have to go.”
He helped his sister slide into the passenger seat and climbed in behind the wheel. Sean had driven many times before today, although most of the time it ended with the two of them at each other’s throats for one reason or another. Today, Megan only wanted off this property and out of this city. Buckling her seatbelt as Sean sped down the long dirt road, she handed him the map, leaned into the door frame and watched as the mile markers moved into the distance.
“Sean, are you OK?”
He didn’t answer and just stared out the windshield, pushing the truck along the vacant two lane highway parallel to the growing foothills.
Pointing to the map she said, “Make sure you don’t miss this turnout. It’s not too far off; I’d say you’ll see it within the next half hour. I’m gonna close my eyes for a few minutes. Wake me up when we get there.”
He said nothing…
“Sean, you got it?”
“Yes.”
. . .
Exiting the basement, Mason headed for Building One and upon reaching the rear door, he stopped and backed away. He’d been attempting to go about his day and separate the thoughts of his family from the work that needed to be done. So far it had worked, although the images of days gone by brought him back to that dark place he’d been fighting to leave behind. Hand on the door handle, he squeezed tightly and turned to William, looking for an answer. For what he was supposed to do.
“Mason, I’ve got tons to show you. Let’s get into the Command Center and I can give you the run down.”
“You know I’m not really gonna understand most of the techy stuff you’re gonna show me. So keep it really basic, I only care about the things that are keeping us safe and what our weaknesses are.”
“You got it.”
Moving behind the main terminal with Mason in tow, William powered up the monitors and opened up the corresponding programs to fill each of the four screens. “Just give me a minute,” William said as he adjusted a few of the video feeds. “Just a quick overview of some of the things this facility can do.”
“OK, but will I be able to use any of this?”
As he finished loading the last program and moved to the side, giving Mason a better view, William pointed to the screen that held twenty individual windows, each showing a different area of the facility. “These are the surveillance cameras around Blackmore. You can call them up individually one at a time. Just double click on the one you want and it will go full screen. To go back to the others, just double click anywhere on the screen.”
Sitting back in his chair and rubbing his temples, Mason said, “Why do I need to know this? I thought you were going to handle it.”
“You never know, I think it may be good for us all to be familiar with this place.”
“OK, sure, but I think our first priority is that corridor and where it leads. Is there anything on these computers that references it?”
“That’s the other reason I brought you here. Almost every one of the programs on the tablet are duplicated on the servers here within Blackmore. Even the filing system and the way things are named. My guess is that Marcus Goodwin had it built that way for easy reference. His men could access this place remotely any time they wanted to and it appears they were doing so without being tracked.”
“What do you mean?”
“Even when the tablet is logged into the system, I can’t trace it from the computers here. It’s like a ghost program.”
“I think you’ve officially lost me,” Mason said.
“Basically I believe Goodwin knew one day he’d come back here and wanted to do it without being seen or heard. He wanted the element of surprise… and one other thing.”
“Yeah?”
“The only way to access the tunnel from this side is through the tablet. I think it was Goodwin’s fail safe. There is no sign of it or any if its video feeds on the servers here.”
Standing, Mason moved to the corner of the room. “Is there a way to secure it so it can never be…?”
Before Mason could finish, their attention was turned to Savannah standing in the hall waving them both over and from the frantic nature, it appeared urgent. Mason reached the door first and moved into the hall. “Hey, is everything alright?”
Clearly out of breath, Savannah said, “You’re needed at the front gate. Randy said we have company.”
. . .
The sun rapidly escaping the day, Mason and William moved quickly and cautiously across the courtyard, weapons in hand. They were keeping one eye on Randy who stood atop the stack of pallets he’d assemble as a makeshift observation tower. Without turning, he addressed Mason. “We’ve got a truck with what looks to be two survivors. They pulled straight up to the gates like they knew someone was already here.”
“Who are they?” Mason asked.
“Don’t know, you wanna check it out?”
. . .
"Megan, I think we're here."
Pulled away from the flashbacks her mind was generating, Megan realize
d she was dreaming. The false images from months after the infection upended reality. She dreamt of sitting with her father discussing the likelihood that there were areas safe from the infection. As her memory began to fade, the voice of her brother brought her back to reality. "Sean, where are we?"
"At the end of the map, I think I got us to the right place, although it doesn't look like we're very welcome."
Her eyes began to focus, her head pounding as the gate came clear. "This is it. Why didn't you wake me earlier?"
"Doesn't really matter, especially with that guy pointing a rifle at us.
. . .
Handing his weapon to William, Mason made the short climb and with one look at the truck he instantly laid his hand over Randy’s rifle, motioning for him to lower it. “Randy, they’re kids, open the gate and let them in. I’ll make sure they aren’t a threat.”
Guiding the truck onto the grounds, Sean lowered the driver’s window and came to a stop twenty yards from the gate. Mason approached and introduced himself. The siblings assured Mason and more importantly Randy, who held tight to his weapon, that although they had a pistol in the truck, they had no intention of even removing it from the bag it rested in.
“One at a time,” Randy told Mason. “Bring them out one at a time.”
Moving to the driver’s door, Mason asked Sean what they were doing at Blackmore. “There is no way you ended up here by accident.”
Megan spoke before her brother had a chance, “My name is Megan and this is Sean, our father sent us here. Sean, give him the map.”
Looking over the hand drawn map, Mason gave it to Randy and was interrupted by Sean. “Sir, can you help my sister, we’ve been through hell over the past two weeks, and she’s been shot.”
“Not really shot,” Megan said. “More like grazed. I’ll be fine.”
Glancing back at Eleanor, who’d decided to forego meeting the new arrivals, Mason then hurried to the passenger side and opened the door. Her left side from hip to ankle was covered in dried blood. She left out a whimper as Mason helped her to her feet and nodded for William to ask the young boy to exit the truck.
The group helped the newcomers into Building One and Savannah tended to Megan’s injuries as Mason showed Sean to the kitchen. As the others filed in, Megan plowed through the meal placed in front of her and only slowed momentarily to ask for seconds.
“Your father sent you here?” Mason asked.
“Yes, he told me to find Mr. Daniels… that he would help us.”
The room went silent.
“What’s the matter?” Megan asked.
Putting aside the bottled water, Mason said, “Major Daniels is gone. How did your father know him? Did he work here?”
“I think so,” Sean said.
“My father told us we’d be safe here. Can we stay?” Megan asked.
Pulling a chair up at the opposite end of the table, Mason sat between the brother and sister. “Megan, who is your dad, what did he do here?”
“My father is Eugene Lockwood; I don’t think he’s worked out of this location for some time. According to the second map we have, he’s in Nevada at some place called Silo Nine.”
Randy nearly dropped the plate of fruit he was working his way through. “Your father is Dr. Lockwood?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
Mason interrupted. “Wait… Randy I thought you said that Lockwood wasn’t really his name. That it was Trite or something like that?”
“That’s what Goodwin had told everyone that was involved with the project. I think he was attempting to make sure that no one ever found the Dr. and if we did, we’d all just assume that he’d lost his mind. I was pretty confused for a lot of years, but it didn’t matter to me what his name was, only what he stood for.”
Turning back to the brother and sister, Randy pressed on. “How on earth is it possible that he’s in Silo Nine? I thought he died over four months ago.”
“Excuse me sir, but I talked to him on the phone the morning that all this went down. He said Mr. Daniels would know what to do, that he would send someone to get him and bring him here. He said he could fix what happened to the world.”
Turning to Mason, Randy nodded in agreement. “I knew he wasn’t gone… Sean, I’m going to get your dad and I’m going to bring him back here.”
138
He never quite understood why the memories from his past often revealed themselves in a tragic blur of black and white images. Was it the devastating nature of the events from his childhood or had his mind decided to file these horrific memories so far into the darkest recesses that absolute recollection was all but hopeless? As days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months and years, he began to consciously forego the person he once was and instead turned inward to the man he willed himself to become. Over time, the rock hard exterior he portrayed to everyone solidified his existence and darkened his every action. By the time he was conscious of his new identity, the lasting effects were permanent and he actually took pleasure in it. Marcus Goodwin had become the worst possible version of the man who killed his mother. He had become his own father.
Standing at the entrance to the tunnel, he pushed his way through the head high underbrush until he reached the oversized metal door. Sixty feet from the cabin he’d spent the last few days recovering in, Goodwin tossed aside the few remaining fallen branches and removed the keycard from his coat pocket. Using a shredded handkerchief, he cleared the debris from the delicate card reader sitting along the left side of the door and swiped his secure card. Nothing… three more passes and with no indication that the unit was even functional, he leaned forward and exhaled forcefully into the narrow gap.
“Incompetence at every turn.”
Shaking his head, he forced his card through the reader a fifth time. The light blinked green for less than a second and if he hadn’t been staring directly at it, he would have missed it. The grinding of metal on metal as the locks disengaged was unmistakable. The ascent of more than a mile through the tunnel back to Blackmore would take every ounce of energy he had left. With the lone trout he’d caught the day before as his only source of sustenance for the last three days, he was weak and agitated. Calculating for distance and the rise in elevation, Goodwin figured he’d reach Building Six by nightfall. He grasped the handle and pulled the door open. “Let’s go home.”
Looking into the camera mounted along the right wall of the concrete tunnel, he smiled. He could imagine the reflected image being very similar to that of his father the day he praised Marcus for bringing home a perfect report card. The fleeting moment of joy he felt hours before watching the coroner walk through the archway and into the living room, where both of his parents found their final resting place. His father killed his mother while Marcus sat on the sofa, not ten feet away. Goodwin’s father then turned the weapon on himself before addressing his son. “People will tell you that this is not your fault. That you are only ten years old and that you are innocent in this whole mess… they will be lying to you.” Knowing the camera’s video feed would be sent directly to his office in the city and that he’d likely never again see that part of the world, he reached for the camera and ripped it from its perch.
Within twenty feet he found the electrical panel along the left side and powered on the overhead lighting that made clear the route he was to navigate. Another thirty minutes into the tunnel and Goodwin came to the first of three stairwells. As he climbed, he pictured the many relatives that never once came to visit him and had decided to allow the judicial system to decide where he was to be placed. He lost what little security he felt, upon being placed in one foster care home after another. His frequent stress induced fits of rage assured that Marcus Goodwin never stayed with one family more than a few months at a time. He embraced the assessment from the court ordered psychologist, labeling him “Too damaged for Standard Foster Care” and sought to prove them and his father right. In his final act of defiance, Marcus Goodwin pushed a twelve-year-old g
irl out of a moving vehicle. She was the daughter of his last foster family and sustained multiple injuries, spending three weeks in a medically induced coma. He never apologized or showed any remorse as he was removed from the home and placed among the many children of the state.
His remaining years as a youth were spent with people who never once cared for the reasons he’d given for being placed among the rest of the broken juveniles. Their only focus was rehabilitating each individual as swiftly as possible, and often times, the more unconventional the means, the better. He met Nadine on the eve of his thirteenth birthday. As she walked through the chaos of the facility’s rec room, the silence that befell the room was almost hypnotic. Every eye in the room watched as the five foot two inch woman strode confidently to her office, without once acknowledging that there was another soul in the room. Her shoulder length jet-black hair and squarely set jawline very subtly hinted at her mixed Asian and Italian heritage. For the first time since the tragedy that ripped his family apart, he felt something. At the time he was unclear what it was, although within days of their first session, Marcus knew this woman would be the person to finally mold him into something that resembled a human being.
For the first hour they spent together, she let him do the lion’s share of the talking. She had no interest in detailing her credentials to the boy that sat six feet away, slumped back in his chair, and she knew he had no interest in hearing it either. His file, detailed as it was, left no clues as to who he was, other than trouble. Nothing about his interests, his challenges, his goals… if in fact he had any. Marcus Goodwin was a brilliant young mind wrapped in a thousand layers of barbed wire. She needed to unravel the damage and desperately wanted to find out who he was and why. She would start with the question so many others wanted to know, but were afraid to ask.
“Marcus, I want you to tell me about the last time you saw your parents and I also want you to tell me about the boy you were before that day.”