Backland: Insecurity (Book #2)

by Jeff Shelnutt

  “Hey, Mr. Bennett. Are you okay?”

  The color had drained from Kyle’s face. He felt as if his legs could no longer hold up his weight. His head spun; his mind was numb.

  Markus watched him carefully. His suspicion aroused, he asked, “Do you know him, then?”

  Kyle didn’t hear him. He pushed past the security guard and rushed toward the front door.

  Markus followed him with his eyes and then keyed his walkie-talkie. “Main entrance to security.”

  “Go ahead, main entrance.”

  “I’ve got eyes on a possible suspect.”

  “An employee at ATS?” the voice on the other end crackled back.

  “Affirmative.”

  *****

  Hailing an auto pod, Kyle gave it the address for his apartment. He knew he would be wanted for questioning, but for the moment that would have to wait. The desire to make sure the journal would be safe had just increased exponentially. Mentally running through possible solutions, he still had not come up with anything by the time he reached his building.

  The journal was where he’d left it, in an end table drawer in his bedroom. Opening the drawer and bringing it out, he thought about something he’d read the night before. It was the last entry. Sitting down on the side of the bed, he turned to it.

  We are never promised tomorrow. Perhaps above all else in this journey, I’ve learned we have to make the most of today. Life is so very precious, yet so very fragile. The daily routines and habits of my old life lulled me into lethargy, a dullness of heart and mind that I never even noticed. I became careless with my time and failed to seize what I then considered trivial moments to spend with Kim and the kids. These are lost forever.

  But, thank God, in spite of it all, I’ve been given another chance. Though, I surely don’t deserve it. I am paying dearly for my sins of neglect. But the process is purifying. It touches upon those areas far beyond my ability to fix on my own.

  “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose.”

  Kyle heard the unmistakable sounds of military-issue boots pounding down the hallway outside of his apartment. The footfalls fell harder and heavier the closer they drew—omens of the future, demons from every past. Clutching the journal to his chest, he heard the steps abruptly halt in front of his door, followed by the click and whoosh of the door lock being overridden.

  There was no announcement, no shouting, no threats. Kyle simply stood and waited as the men moved through his living room and one walked into the bedroom.

  “Kyle Bennett?”

  Kyle nodded, staring at the soldier who had his pistol drawn and trained upon him.

  “You are under arrest.” The man stepped aside as another came in and snatched the journal from Kyle’s hands. He then proceeded to secure his wrists with zip ties.

  “You want his ACAD, sarg?”

  The man near the doorway nodded. The soldier pulled the device out of Kyle’s pouch. The picture of the suspect still adorned its window, like a dark screen-saver deriding the moment. Throwing it to his superior, he commented, “So it’s his brother, huh?”

  “Yep,” the sergeant said as he caught the ACAD and glanced at the photo. “Bad enough that this guy turned traitor,” he sneered, inclining his head toward the screen. “But then to involve his own kid brother…” he paused, glaring at Kyle. “It’s just sick.”

  10

  “Is he cooperating?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you been able to obtain any useful information from him?”

  Baines gazed across the holographic image of the desk. Sighing, he said, “Honestly, sir, I don’t think he knows anything.”

  “What about that book they found him with?”

  “It doesn’t seem to be related to the incident. Apparently he got it from an old sub that used to work in the kitchen. But he’s since been retired.”

  “Hmmm,” the general pondered, tapping his fingers in succession on his desk. “Where’s the book now?”

  “I had it archived, sir.”

  Nodding, the general said, “That’s good. It might be useful to us yet.”

  “What’s our next play, sir?”

  “With Cam still on the run, we really need to get the suspect to talk.”

  “They still want to go ahead with charges?”

  “The public demands their pound of flesh.”

  “If I may, sir,” Baines requested.

  The general raised his thick, white eyebrows.

  “What if Kyle really didn’t have anything to do with it?”

  “Your job is to convince him that he did,” the general coolly responded.

  Baines inhaled deeply, his voice unsteady. “Is there really no other suspects?”

  “Oh, the usual list. But running down every lead, as you know, is going to be a long, drawn out process. In the end, it might yield nothing.”

  “But an innocent man could be taking the fall for something he didn’t do.”

  The general’s eyes flashed with anger. His tone dared Baines to contradict him. “Whether the suspect is guilty or not is beside the point. The order has been disrupted and the state has received a wound. That has to be atoned for—even if…” the general narrowed his eyes, “… the victim happens to be innocent.” After a brief pause, he calmly added, “In fact, a good citizen like Kyle Bennett should be willing to take the fall. It’s for the greater good.”

  *****

  Katelyn gazed intently out of the cabin window. She had been assigned a seat right behind the wing. A churning sea of cumulous clouds rolled across the horizon far below. She had never been on a plane. Only those who needed to go back and forth between Free Zones enjoyed the privilege of air travel. The whole experience had been exhilarating, but the take off was so far the most thrilling part of it all.

  She had wanted to shout with glee as the jet rapidly gained speed on the runway, exerting a force upon her body unlike she had ever felt. And then, though she knew it would happen, she was shocked to see the landscape beneath her rapidly shrink, its objects becoming miniatures of their former selves. She’d gripped the armrests as her heart leapt at the abrupt gain in altitude.

  Now, two hours later, she was used to the movement of the craft—the occasional sudden pitch or yaw, and the fact that they were traveling at a speed beyond her ability to conceive. Before they’d entered the clouds, she peered down curiously at the Backland spread out before her like an old, dusty tapestry. Deserted suburbs and the occasional vacant town were evident. Parts of it reminded her of footage she once viewed that revealed the aftermath of the Middle East War, filmed from a drone high above. The only difference was in that part of the world the gutted landscape and rubble lay in the midst of deserts, while here the damage lay amid large swaths of forested land.

  But for the all the excitement of the journey mingled with the anticipation of what lay ahead, her thoughts were never far from Kyle. She didn’t know his brother, so she couldn’t speak for him. But she certainly knew Kyle, and she refused to believe he’d been in any way involved with the bombing. However, she did have to acknowledge to herself that he had been acting strange, especially the last week or so. Several people had commented on it. And then there was that journal he’d gotten from who knows where.

  Perhaps Cam had tried to recruit Kyle. That could explain the latter’s odd behavior. He had felt torn between his obligation to his only kin and his loyalty to the Republic. CENTGOV agents had immediately started questioning all of Kyle’s friends and acquaintances. She knew she was high on their list, but since she was already scheduled to fly out, she’d left before it could happen. But it wasn’t like they wouldn’t catch up to her at her destination.

  As she continued to feast her eyes upon the way the sun’s rays created breathtaking shades and shadows in the contours of the clouds, she was surprised when suddenly the mountainous ranges of water vapor morphed into eerily simila
r looking ranges of rock. They must be getting close. Here were the famed mountains of the west, piercing and slicing up through the land far below. She shivered as she thought about being lost within them, especially on one of those snow-covered peaks. She didn’t even allow herself to think about the plane crash landing into the unforgiving terrain.

  Attempting to take her mind off of such dismal meditations, she tried to remember the old name for this area. She was a girl when she saw a pre-war map. It was the only time she ever did. She could still recall a few of the names of the states on it. This one, where many people use to go on their winter vacations, was called… she tried the word on her tongue: “Color.” No, that wasn’t it. “Cholera,” she mouthed. That was closer.

  Ah, yes, “Colorado.” There it was.

  *****

  The elevator dropped into the subterranean depths of ATS. Coming to a halt, the door opened into what appeared to be a service hall. In contrast to the cheery whiteness of the upper levels, these corridors were merely composed of exposed cement blocks with water mains running the lengths of the ceilings.

  Baines turned left out of the elevator. The doors he passed were labeled “ARCHIVES.” Below these were listed the years that the documents within the respective rooms covered. He kept walking. He passed the war years. And then he stopped in front of a door that held the records for the years just before it.

  Fairly high clearance was needed to step inside. But he had that. Peering into the recognition scanner, the door clicked. After glancing in either direction down the hall and assuring he was unobserved—not that it mattered—he turned the door handle and walked in. There was a beep indicating that he had ten seconds to close the door again. Confirming, as far as he could, that he was also alone within, he softly shut the door behind him.

  Rows and rows of ten foot tall shelving lay stretched out before him. The shelves were loaded, representing a decade of literature, newspapers, periodicals and even personal correspondence. The Purge had resulted in countless tons of written material, both fiction and nonfiction, being confiscated and expunged.

  There was, of course, way more paper around before the war than could ever be completely disposed of. One thing the twentieth century knew how to do well was produce paper. But now all printed material was closely regulated.

  Here before Baines were records of the past—the good, the bad, and the ugly. After all, there had to be some fountain in which the state intelligentsia could swim so as to learn from history’s mistakes and determine what was suitable for public consumption. This was one such facility in which to do that.

  He pulled out his ACAD and punched in an access code. A search engine displayed a blank box with a flashing cursor. It was a black site—way off the books, but accessible to certain individuals. He mentally tried various combinations of pertinent words until the information he needed fell into his thoughts.

  Making his way down the end of the long rows, he eventually found the right aisle. He turned into it, his eyes tracing the numbered file boxes sitting side by side upon the metal shelves. Locating the box he was searching for, he was relieved to discover he could reach it and wouldn’t have to go find a ladder.

  He pulled the box out far enough that he could open its lid and peak in at the contents. There, right on top was what appeared to be the object in question. He lifted the book out and checked the tag. Tucking it under his arm, he lowered the lid and slid the box back into place.

  He casually strolled back toward the main entrance. Having noted the probable position of the cameras, he deftly slid the journal down the front of his shirt as he crossed in front of what he assessed to be a blind spot in the surveillance. It was no crime for him to read the journal. But it would be a highly questionable action for him to leave the room with it.

  As he stepped back out into the hall, he told himself he wouldn’t keep it. It was only part of his personal investigation. Perhaps it might give him some insight into what Kyle was thinking. Baines wanted to try to help him if he could.

  *****

  He was laying on his back in the mud—sticky, black, fetid mud. Flies buzzed around him, landing on his lips, his eye lids, his wounds. He opened his eyes and observed the tops of trees towering above him. It was dusk and already fairly dark beneath the forest’s canopy. He tried to move. The attempt sent a quake of pain through his body of which his head was the epi-center. Groaning, he forced himself onto one elbow and ignored the continual protests of his limbs.

  There were voices. They were low and distant. Two, maybe three people. It must’ve been what woke him up. He cast his gaze toward the sound and caught the flicker of a small fire through the brush. Whether they would prove to be friends or foes, he needed to find out.

  Quietly crawling, his knees and hands sunk into the mud beneath him. He finally made it to harder ground and with the aid of a low branch, managed to pull himself to his feet. By now he was certain it was only two people—a man and a woman. He moved in closer, using the trees as his cover.

  “Are you hurt?” a small, soft voice asked from behind.

  Startled, he spun around to face the unexpected presence. But the move was too quick for his damaged body and compromised equilibrium. Slipping, he involuntarily cried out as he fell back onto the earth.

  “Sarah, honey? What is it?” a man’s voice called out.

  Cam tried to focus, tried to keep himself from losing consciousness again.

  “How many times have I told you not to wander off like that?” The man said, his concern evident in a voice that was much closer now.

  Cam heard his approaching steps, but he didn’t have the strength to turn his head.

  “Look, poppa. He’s hurt.”

  “Come here, Sarah…now.”

  “What is it, Pete?” the female voice chimed. “Did you find Sarah?”

  “Yeah. Stay there, Evelyn.”

  Pete grabbed Sarah’s hand and pulled her to himself. Looking down at the man lying on the ground, he saw that he was indeed injured—and covered in mud.

  Despite his warning, his wife came to stand beside him. “It looks like he needs help, dear,” she said.

  “Yeah, poppa,” Sarah chimed in as she tugged on his pants. “Let’s help him.”

  “It ain’t our problem,” Pete returned testily.

  Cam caught a glimpse of the man. He wore a fedora that shaded a face covered with a bushy brown beard. Taking in his plain worn coat and corduroys, Cam knew he had made it out.

  “As if we ain’t got enough to do takin’ care of ourselves,” he heard the man mutter. Still, he sensed these people would help—and his senses rarely betrayed him. Cam finally let go and allowed unconsciousness to once again lay its claim.

  A Note to the Reader

  Consider this excerpt from a source document predicting future trends written for the development of UK Defense Policy:

  Broadcasts to the Brain

  By 2035, an implantable information chip could be developed and wired directly to the user’s brain. Information and entertainment choices would be accessible through cognition and might include synthetic sensory perception beamed direct to the user’s senses. Wider related ICT developments might include the invention of synthetic telepathy, including mind-to-mind or telepathic dialogue. This type of development would have obvious military and security, as well as control, legal and ethical, implications.

  -The DCDC Global Strategic Trends Programme, 2007-2036

  The future is certainly closer than we tend to think…

  1

  The four rode in a travel-weary silence, each nursing private thoughts as the lulling effects of the trotting mare tapped out the passing time. Round-topped mountains ascended in the distance, their sides alive with fiery, autumn foliage and their tops obscured by what the original inhabitants of the land assumed was smoke. The road had forgotten the sensation of regular maintenance. But the wagon rolled languidly over the asphalt, its pneumatic tires and leaf springs cushioned the occa
sional buckle or rut in the surface.

  “In another month or so it’s gonna be down-right cold,” the older man driving the wagon suddenly chirped by way of rhetorical observation.

  Cam grunted his agreement. Sarah nodded, unconsciously pulling her gray shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  “Especially if we end up in those mountains ahead,” Slip offered.

  “I’m ‘fraid we’re gonna find ourselves smack-dab in the middle of ‘em,” Pete parried.

  “I guess freezing to death is better than bleeding out,” Slip returned with a grin.

  His smile quickly faded as Cam turned his head and cocked a disapproving eyebrow in his direction.

  “I think we’ve got at least four or five more days of traveling,” Sarah remarked in a tactful effort to divert everyone’s attention away from Slip’s unwelcome attempt at a joke.

  “We need to be thinkin’ ‘bout supplies, Cam.”

  “I’ve been turning that matter over myself,” Cam replied to Pete’s statement. “We can’t depend on folks taking us in.” He paused before adding, “That is, if we’re even met with any sort of welcome to begin with.”

  “We’ll be in McDaniel’s territory in a day or so,” Sarah offered.

  “Friendly people—or best avoided?” Cam queried.

  “I’ve never had a problem with ‘em. But that ain’t never no guarantee,” Pete said.

  “You got enough to trade?”

  “Enough?” Pete laughed. “Never enough. But we should be able to wangle somin’ or the other out of ‘em.”

  “Something’s better than nothing,” Slip interjected.

  Ignoring him Cam said, “There’s a junction coming up in a mile or so.”

  “Yeah. What of it?” Pete asked.

  “Hang a left when you get there.”