“One thing we can all be really proud of,” Janice interjected, “are the millions of books stolen and hidden away. Although we cannot know what will happen in the future, we know others will eventually have access to those books, thanks to the hard work and sacrifices of Book Liberators.”
“Hear, hear!” everyone cheered.
“We now need to hear from Juan on progress toward building a rebel army to combat General Priest. Juan?” Brogan turned the meeting over to him.
Juan summarized the numbers of rebels and equipment they had in Laredo. “We’ve made some great progress toward developing a force to really make an impact on stopping the general,” he concluded.
As he paused, Sandra asked where the restroom was.
“Sorry,” she said with a grin, “But I had too many margaritas on the way here.”
No one thought to ask why a young boy would be drinking margaritas. Juan went ahead of her and opened the door, leaving the bar off to allow her back in. He went back to the meeting. A few minutes later, the door opened, and a grenade rolled into the room.
“Grenade!” Juan yelled. “Out the back way!”
He had shown them the way out before they started the meeting. They scrambled toward the hidden tunnel. As the last person entered the tunnel, the grenade exploded behind them. The ceiling of the tunnel began to collapse around them. Janice and Allison ran down the tunnel first, followed by Brogan and Marco. Bryan and Juan were the last down the tunnel when it collapsed. Only the three women avoided being hit by debris.
Knocked off their feet from the force of the explosion, the women struggled to their feet and turned back to help the men. Coughing and trying to see through the dust, they began digging through the rocks and dirt to get their fellow council members out. They located Marco first. He was hurt, but a quick examination by Allison showed only minor injuries; an ankle sprain, but nothing major. Meanwhile, Janice and Brogan frantically dug through the rubble.
“Bryan!” Brogan screamed. “Speak to me!”
They heard the whisper of a groan near where a wall had been, and then silence. They scrambled across the debris to the sound. Digging fast, breaking fingernails and frantically looking for something to help her dig, Brogan finally uncovered Bryan’s arm. She found a piece of wood from a beam and used it to finish digging his head out from under the dirt to let him breathe. Gently, she used her hands to keep moving dirt from around him.
“Stop!” Marco hollered. “If you keep digging you might bring the whole pile down on top of him. Wait a minute until we can shore up some of the debris first. Does anybody see any sign of Juan?”
“He was closest to the door,” Janice said sadly. “I don’t think he made it.”
Meanwhile, Brogan carefully wiped dirt and debris away from Bryan’s face. His eyes were closed. Allison reached through the debris, her fingers probing to locate a pulse on his neck. She looked up at Brogan and shook her head.
“No!” Brogan screamed and began to frantically dig some more.
Allison and Janice pulled her away just as the entire stack of debris collapsed on top of Bryan. Now only the four of them remained alive in the tunnel. They could do nothing for Juan or Bryan. They managed to crawl away from the debris, supporting a deathly pale and quiet Brogan, stumbling with unseeing eyes of grief between Allison and Janice. After what felt like several hours, they reached the end of the old tunnel, Marco leading the way. A wooden door opened after much pushing against overgrown shrubs. They could tell from the dark sky many hours had passed. With no sign of buildings around, they decided they were somewhere outside the city.
As the four exhausted friends started to exit the tunnel, they heard a shout, “Stop! Put your hands up! You’re under arrest!”
They were surrounded by at least a dozen soldiers, and in the middle of them, with a cruel grin on her beautiful face, was Sandra Bernhardt, now garbed in an imperial uniform.
Chapter Twenty-three
Protesters Become Rebels
Before the grenade exploded, Juan dived behind a pillar holding up the entrance to the tunnel, which probably saved his life. He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious. Shaking his head as he came to, his ears rang. He was still buried up to his armpits in debris. Slowly he worked his way out, scratched and bruised but otherwise okay. He started to exit the tunnel but stopped at the sound of voices in the meeting room. He quietly moved behind the pillar which had saved his life, frantically looking for somewhere to hide. He looked up and saw the explosion opened a hole above his head. But if he tried to scramble up the debris to access it, the noise would alert the enemy, so he moved back into the shadows of the pillar.
“I don’t think anyone could have survived the explosion,” a feminine voice said. “But during the meeting, one of them mentioned an escape tunnel, so we better see if we can find the exit to make sure no one survived and made it out. Major, did you find the old priest for a schematic of the basilica like I told you to do?” The voices began to fade as they apparently walked back up the stairs.
Why did that voice sound familiar? Then he realized who it was; it was Sandra, the newest council member. She betrayed them. Juan’s blood began to boil as he realized what she did. If it was the last thing he did, he would find a way to get revenge for the betrayal. He had no way of knowing how many, if any, of other council members survived the blast.
And suddenly it hit him; she heard him talking about the rebel army being built in Laredo. She was in the meeting as he told council the numbers and location of rebel troops, and their plans. He had to get word to the rebels they were betrayed and to prepare for an attack. But how? Franticly, his mind raced with scenarios as he waited impatiently to escape. Come on, Juan, calm down. He must think this through carefully.
After a few minutes, with no sounds from the meeting room, he quietly made his way into the room and looked around. What a mess. He need not even attempt to get out up through the stairway under the altar; too much chance of running into soldiers. He went back to the debris field blocking the entrance to the tunnel and looked up at the hole he saw earlier. Inching his way up the debris, which frequently shifted under his feet, he managed to grab hold of rotting timbers above his head. He pulled himself up into what appeared to be the priest’s changing room behind the altar.
Dusting himself off, he looked around. He saw two doors. The one on the right probably went out to the altar and the sanctuary. Not a good choice. He carefully opened the other door. Although it groaned a bit, it must be far enough away from the main entrance of the church no one heard it; no sounds of pounding feet or yells to “stop.” He slowly opened the door and stepped into a room. He was right. It went to the former rectory, no longer in use. During his earlier surveillance, he saw the rot in the abandoned rectory’s roof and nothing salvageable in the rooms. He had stashed his motorcycle in an alleyway on the other side of the rectory. Slowly and carefully he made his way across the squeaky wooden floor, through the rectory, to his motorcycle. Good, right where I left it.
Juan pulled out the key, revved up the cycle and drove down the alley. As soon as he thought he was a safe distance from Mazatlán, he pulled over and dug out a vid-phone he kept for emergencies. Using BL codes, he sent word to his dad in Laredo that the council had been betrayed and the empire now knew about the rebel army, ending the message with the words: Prepare for attack.
After he sent the message, with a prayer heavenward for the rest of his friends, he headed for Cosala. It was no longer safe for Mateo in Laredo. He sent word to his mother and partner to stay in Mexico City. Hopefully, Frank and Stephen could keep Mateo for a while longer. He needed to travel back to Laredo as quickly as possible. War was coming.
It was the longest three hours of his life, driving to Cosala. How could he break the news to Stephen and Frank? What would he say? He had no idea if Brogan and Bryan survived the blast. What about Janice, Marco and Allison? If the council was wiped out, what did it mean for the Book Liberators’ m
ovement?
His thoughts whirled around and around, never getting the answers his weary mind desperately needed. He approached the village of Cosala in the late afternoon. Villagers were returning from working in the fields and preparing for the evening meal. He felt so numb he would never remember how he arrived at the village.
As he approached Stephen’s hut, he saw no sign of him. He drove the few hundred feet up the mountain to Frank’s hut. He turned the motor off and pushed the cycle the rest of the way as he got closer. Herman barked and ran up to him, his tail wagging.
“I thought I heard your cycle,” Frank said as he came out of the hut. “You’re back sooner than…”
He stopped as he saw Juan’s condition: jacket and pants ripped and covered in dirt; his face scratched and bloodied, his eyes red; and his hands filthy from digging himself out of rubble. His boots were scuffed so badly it was difficult to tell what the original color was.
“Are you okay? What happened?” Frank asked in shock.
“Is Stephen here? You need to get him. We must talk. And see if you can have one of the villagers keep an eye on Emily and Mateo for a few minutes. I don’t want them to hear what I must tell you. I’m going to clean up a little before they see me, okay?”
“Sure,” Frank said in alarm. “You go into the hut. I’ll find Stephen and ask a villager to watch the children.”
Juan shakily walked into Frank’s hut, found a wash basin and tried to make himself presentable. Afterwards he sat on a cot, his head in his hands, trying to decide his next move, what he was going to say, and hoping he’d say the right thing.
He heard footsteps outside the hut and forced himself to his feet. He walked out the door and saw Frank and Stephen waiting by the campfire. He sat down beside them and ran his fingers through his wet hair, choosing his words carefully.
“I don’t know how to say it other than straight out. The council was betrayed.”
Shock registered on the faces of the two older men facing him.
“Sandra Bernhardt, the newest council member, betrayed us. We tried to escape through an emergency tunnel, but a grenade collapsed the tunnel. I don’t know if anyone else made it through the other side of the tunnel alive. I survived only because I was close to the entrance and a heavy beam protected me.”
The impact of his own words finally hit him, and Juan began to shake and cry uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his face, making tracks through dirt he missed on his half-hearted attempt to clean his face. His red-rimmed eyes looked at the two men with a combination of shame and guilt.
“Maybe I should have stayed to find out. I don’t know. But I had to let the rebels in Laredo know we’d been betrayed.”
Frank and Stephen sat stunned for a moment, then both men moved to sit beside the broken man. “Juan, this is not your fault. You could not have done anything else,” Frank said, his voice choking.
“Frank’s right,” Stephen said in a whisper. “Besides, we will continue to hope they made it through the tunnel. You did the right thing in alerting the rebels.”
The three sorrowing men sat in silence, with Herman trying to comfort Juan by laying his head on his lap and whining softly. Juan tried to control his emotions, knowing exactly what the two men wanted to know: Did Bryan and Brogan die? A question he could not answer.
After a few minutes, Frank stood up and said with steel in his voice, “I’m going to continue to hope and pray everyone is okay until we know differently. Juan, we must help you get to Laredo as soon as you can. You have a war to fight. We will not let those bastards get away with it.”
Stephen stood up, too, and with tears in his eyes for his son and daughter-in-law, he said, “I’ve been looking for some way to support the effort and now I know what it is. Juan, I’m going with you to Laredo. It’s time I got off my butt and did something useful.”
Juan and Frank started to object, but Stephen held up his hand. “It is not open for discussion. Frank, your job is here, to care for our granddaughter. And, Juan, I’m assuming you will want to leave Mateo here.”
After a deep breath, he said, “I need to do this. Juan, how soon do you want to leave?”
Stephen’s declaration strengthened Juan’s resolve and helped him to see he still had battles to fight. Feeling sorry for themselves was not an option.
He, too, stood up, straightened his shoulders, and said, “How about some supper first and a good night’s sleep? We can head out at first light, okay? And I agree with Stephen. Mateo cannot go back to Laredo. I hope it is okay if he stays here, Frank?”
“Absolutely, Juan. You and Stephen can head out in the morning. I’ll take care of the kids and be here in case any of the others show up.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The Emperor’s Prison and Escape
Brogan lost track of time. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure of her own name. Other days, she thought she might be in solitary confinement in the emperor’s prison. She had no recollection of how she got to prison. Her mind persisted in protesting, “but we don’t have an emperor in America,” and her mind would shut down again. Other times, she heard cruel voices shouting at her, telling her she was completely alone. There was no one left. Her partner was dead. All the council members had betrayed her. The Book Liberators had been ruthlessly hunted down and destroyed.
And the agonizing screaming seemed to go on forever. She did not know if she screamed or someone else, but she wished it would stop. Sleep became impossible. When she dozed, she had nightmares of being brutally raped repeatedly; of being tortured; of being left in a room where she wasn’t allowed to sleep. Whenever her eyes closed a jolt of electricity painfully woke her up. The darkness became so thick and the silence so intense, she was sure she had gone deaf and blind. Sometimes there were periods of constant light, making it impossible to know the difference between day and night. There were no voices. Was she dead? Is this what being dead is like? But she pinched herself and knew she wasn’t dead.
Again, and again, she said to herself, “He will never leave you or forsake you.” She heard someone yelling at her. “He left you, you moron. He’s dead!” She smiled dreamily to herself, knowing they did not know she talked about God, not a person. Later she would remember the mantra kept her from going totally insane. She learned to mentally re-read a favorite book, distracting her from the endless torture. But after a while, her mind became so confused, no matter how hard she tried, the mental exercise of reading became impossible; her mind simply shut down.
Sensory deprivation and physical torture seemed minor compared to the horrible emotional pain of knowing her beloved Bryan was dead. For a long stretch of time, her mind disappeared again into a deep, black fog. It began to dissipate at the same time she heard a familiar voice whispering, “I’ve neutralized the B-chip. But, keep acting as if it is still there.”
One day she opened her eyes and realized she wanted to live. The torture stopped for some inexplicable reason. She somehow knew she had not told her captors about little Emily, her father or where they lived. Because her little girl’s name and her mother’s name were the same, her captors may have believed she talked about her mother whenever she broke and talked about Emily.
The day she mentally woke up and decided to live, she began to plot her escape and revenge. She remembered the whispered words and continued to act listlessly whenever guards brought her food. She started exercising in her cell trying to build up her strength. Her body was terribly weak from the torture and unknown internal damage caused by multiple rapes she now knew she endured. But she kept pushing herself. She must escape. Sandra would pay for her betrayal.
Whenever her mind started to replay rapes, she closed off the horror in her mind and instead replayed the beautiful intimacies she experienced with Bryan until the rapes held no control over her mind. The nightmares never went away, but they diminished somewhat in intensity. At least now she could distinguish between reality and hallucinations.
She wasn’t sure why they
kept her alive, but they would regret it. Somehow, she needed to lull her captors into thinking she had either gone insane or the B-chip worked. They never knew about her increasing and burning desire to escape and for revenge. Her eidetic memory began to work again, taking in every detail of her surroundings and of her captors. First, she gave names to the guards:
Guard X: mean and only docile prisoners escaped his wrath.
Guard Y: lazy and slept through most of his shifts.
Guard Z: had a modicum of compassion and slipped Brogan an extra packet of rations occasionally.
Her 6’ by 8’ cell had padded walls and a cold concrete floor, with a ceiling of sound absorbing tiles. The only furniture? A cot attached to the wall, along with a sink and a toilet, neither of which had any loose fixtures. A thin blanket was all she had to keep out the incessant cold. Her exercise routine helped to warm her up. The cell door was a laser gate and only the guard could release it. Every day was the same. An endless routine of eating (two meals a day of small amounts of inadequate, bland, non-descript food), sleep and boredom, relieved only by reading book after book she pulled from the filing cabinet of her mind.
One night, while Guard Y slept in the hall, Brogan carefully began digging behind padding on a wall corner away from sight of guards. She managed to keep one of the plastic utensils from a meal. She methodically began breaking threads of the padding. Over several days’ work, she broke enough padding free to see behind it a screen mesh, with wooden slats. Interesting. They must have decided prisoners would be so out of it because of the B-chips they would never figure out what was behind the padded walls. But there did not seem to be any way to escape behind the slats.
A large vent toward the top of the room provided air and heat circulation. She wondered if it led to some type of centralized heating and cooling system, since the building appeared to be very old construction. If she could slither through the duct system, she might be able to disappear. But first she needed to loosen the grate around the entrance. She began carefully loosening padding around the vent and chipping away at wooden slats on days or nights Guard Y was on duty. What she chipped away was tucked in behind other padding. But the plastic ware kept breaking causing her fingernails to become quite a mess. One day, Guard Z noticed her bloody fingernails.
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