At least a dozen steel toilets lined the wall, spaced far apart, stretching the length of the right side of the room. The reinforced walls were built with heavy crossbeams, the mirrors were made of polished steel, not glass, and the steelfoam floors muffled the sounds coming from the ocean. There were no counters; only suspended metal sinks protruding from the wall opposite the toilets.
The bathroom stretched on for more than twenty meters.
As I approached the back wall I noticed the surface seemed etched with designs of regularly spaced ovals stamped into the smooth metal. More than thirty ovals decorated the wall.
Closer inspection revealed the ovals were not etchings, but some sort of utilitarian objects recessed into the wall, and each one possessed a recessed handle. I pulled one of the handles up, turned it clockwise, and a human-sized platform slid out of the wall with a click. This was obviously an emergency shelter bed and not intended for every-day use. Although it was not padded, at least I wouldn’t be sleeping on the floor.
Next, I considered the sinks.
The faucets turned with ease in spite of neglect and age and sprayed water liberally. It looked pure and fresh, but Skee’s warning echoed and I shut them off quickly, vowing to resist the temptation to drink.
The bathroom was empty aside from the fixtures. It should have been much darker and I scanned the ceiling, searching for the light source.
Four giant white rectangles hung from the ceiling overhead, piping in sunlight from the deck above. They couldn’t have relied on any sort of power source to operate and probably used optic pipes to funnel light from outside.
I turned back to the doors, noticing they swung out instead of in. The door handle consisted of nothing more than a giant lever-action pin that could be slid easily into place from the inside.
There wasn’t a locking mechanism.
This wasn’t a siege room. It was a storm shelter.
Satisfied, I understood why Skee had instructed me to hide here. His directive to hide inside this place could mean only one thing; this reinforced room would prevent my body heat from being visible to any aerial scanners passing overhead.
I didn’t stop to ask why I knew this information. It was simply there, like an instinct.
Now I needed to determine what was available to support my survival while I waited for rescue.
I sat down with my back against the wall and unzipped the green canvas pouch. Inside I found a water filtration straw, a folded thermal blanket that looked more metal than cloth, a small waterproof case filled with ten meal pills, salt tablets, ten pain pills, wound gel, a very powerful hand torch that nearly blinded me when I discovered how to activate it, two spare batteries for the hand torch, a folded tool—part knife, part saw blade—gauze and medical tape, six antibacterial lozenges, a tiny spotting scope, and a length of carbon fiber rope.
With ten meal pills and the filter straw, surviving for three days would be manageable, provided I didn’t freeze to death.
The weather seemed pleasant enough now, but after sunset, I had no idea what to expect. It was prudent to assume the temperature would drop to unsafe levels at night, and the best course of action was to get back inside the bathroom well before then.
I needed to work quickly.
If this base had once been populated, it was possible some personal belongings had been forgotten here during the evacuation. Finding shoes and extra clothing might be necessary if I wanted to survive until morning.
My clothes were still damp but no longer soaked. I studied the material. The pants were brown, as was the shirt, and not very soft, but sturdy. I stood up and went to the closest mirror.
A female face, twenty-five or so, relatively attractive and pale, stared back. I tried to recognize myself and found the exercise disconcerting. Whoever I was, my eyes were dark brown, matching my hair, and a sprinkling of freckles decorated my nose and cheeks.
My body seemed healthy, but lacked the same sort of powerful physique displayed by the men who had tried to kill me. I felt reasonably fit, though thirst was beginning to set in, and when I studied my hands they seemed nimble, and not calloused. Compared to the three people who had apparently been attempting to rescue me, my stature was on the small side of medium. Compared to the armed squad of men, my figure could be described as undersized. Until someone else arrived for comparison, I would have to assume my stature was slightly below average.
After repacking the green pouch I set out to explore the base. I needed to collect seawater for drinking, clothing, and, if possible, discover where I was.
Not far from the sanctuary of the bathroom I located the eating area. Tables and chairs bolted to the floor looked sufficient to accommodate more than a hundred individuals at once, and this gave me hope. If more than a hundred people had once lived here surely at least one or two of them might have forgotten their cold weather gear.
First, the kitchens.
Beside the dining area, three sets of doors led to the food prep room, which looked substantial. After searching the dozens of shelves and cabinets, I managed to locate a metal mixing bowl forgotten on the top shelf. I tucked it under my arm.
The substantial door to the huge freezer opened without resistance, but inside it was empty.
I saw a large apron hung on a hook outside of the freezer. It was made of a heavy brown material, and remained mostly intact. I brought it along in case my search for shoes was unsuccessful. As a last resort, I could split it into two pieces and wrap my feet with the scraps.
Holding everything with both hands was cumbersome, so I folded the apron like a sack around the bowl, set the pouch inside, slung the items over my shoulder like a makeshift backpack, and continued on.
It seemed logical that living quarters would be located close to the dining area, and not far from the kitchens, I found a warren of tiny semi-private rooms.
There were no beds, but along with the thirty or so sleeping compartments, rows of metal shelves and cabinets provided personal storage. Obviously, privacy had not been a consideration on this base. Not one of the compartments had a door.
None of the cabinets had doors, nor did the showers or the toilets positioned close by sleeping quarters. The negative result of this type of living arrangement was the fact that nothing had been hidden from view, and therefore nothing had been neglected during the evacuation. I could not locate a single shred of clothing. There wasn’t even a discarded pair of socks.
It seemed I would be barefoot for the duration.
Time was slipping by quickly and I needed to collect water before locking myself in the bathroom shelter for the night.
That meant going back down to the sea, and the only place I knew where I could reach it was the site of the fatal attack.
It was unlikely there would be any human remains left at this point, but if there were, perhaps they would occupy and distract the sharks while I collected water. As long as I didn’t slip and fall in, the chances of being eaten were small.
The calm water looked deceptively benign around the twisted remains of the platform. Underneath the surface, sharks swam in hoards, and I knew they wouldn’t be opposed to snatching me if I presented an easy target or carelessly dangled a hand in the water. The risk of dropping my filter straw by drinking directly from the ocean was too great, so I used the bowl instead.
The small bowl held a little more than half a liter. I filled it quickly, moved away from the edge and set it down without losing a drop. After drinking close to a half liter through the filter straw, I scooped one last bowl and did what I could to carry it back to the bathroom shelter, trying not to spill.
Progress was slow, but most of the water remained by the time I shut the door behind me. It would be enough to get me through the night.
I popped a meal pill and took a sip of water through the straw. It was time to tuck in for the night. Exhaustion was setting in quickly.
Based on its current location, the sun would probably set in another hour, and I intended t
o stay where I was until morning.
The recessed beds along the back wall opened easily, and on a whim, I opened almost all of them. Thirty-five in total. I used the lower bunks as ladders and climbed up to the top row. Positioning myself in the last bunk on the left, I shimmied into the thermal blanket and cocooned myself inside. If someone managed to get into the bathroom while I was sleeping they would not be able to see me immediately and would have to search multiple beds. It was not a very effective delay tactic, but it was all I could manage at the moment.
The snug feeling lasted a total of three minutes before I had to extricate myself, climb down, and test the toilets. They worked, luckily, and although the water looked pure and clear as it flushed, I couldn’t help but wonder how it was contaminated.
After settling back inside the thermal blanket, I thought about what I’d endured the last few hours and realized it had not induced in me a feeling of fear, profound anxiety or despair.
The only emotions I’d experienced at all were sadness over the loss of my companions and irritation that I was some sort of fugitive.
Were my emotional reactions, or lack of them, normal? There was no way to determine that, so I didn’t concern myself with it. I had other problems to think about.
My assumption was that loitering around this abandoned enforcement base was only a temporary inconvenience. Someone would come for me.
Eventually.
I had no way to know if they would be sympathetic, or if they would attempt to kill me immediately.
I speculated about methods I could use to evade them if the enforcement squad returned, tried to calculate the number of days I would be able to survive on the supplies I had available, and contemplated my near total lack of memory.
The fact that I had no memory of the past was not as disconcerting as it probably should have been. I felt no panic over the fact, only annoyance. I seemed to possess conditioned recall if it pertained to my survival, but other than being able to understand the language of the people I’d encountered and having a heightened sense of situational awareness, my identity, my past and indeed, everything else, was a total blank.
A sudden feeling of utter exhaustion crashed over me. I felt my eyes wilt. When sleep came it hit like an unstoppable wave.
∆
I woke up, extraordinarily thirsty.
After examining my surroundings, I vaguely recalled falling asleep the night before and noticed that I had apparently not moved once during the night. Odd, but perhaps my fatigue had induced an unusually deep slumber.
My parched mouth felt fiercely dry, and as I climbed down from the top bunk my sore muscles alerted me to the trauma they had endured the previous day. I had a bruise on my left shoulder, but other than feeling stiff and dehydrated I was in reasonable shape.
The steel bowl sat where I’d left it.
I finished the remaining water and smoothed a dollop of the wound gel across my cracked lips, hoping I wouldn’t need it later.
Then I heard the low hum of an engine.
Was that a boat?
If I could detect it inside the storm-shelter bathroom, it probably wasn’t. Most likely I was hearing something else that was much closer.
Somehow I recognized the whine of a helicar engine and realized someone was flying over the base. I dashed to my bunk. Before I could shimmy back under the thermal blanket and cover my head, the engine perceptively altered pitch and the bunk vibrated slightly.
Whoever it was had just landed on the deck.
I buried my face in the cot and held absolutely still.
The thermal blanket would hide my heat signature if they had hand scanners, but not my movement. I needed to become a piece of furniture or this would be a remarkably short fugitive hunt.
The helicar engine abruptly cut off and I strained to listen for movement from outside, but the reinforced bathroom walls muffled sounds, and if a single person or small group approached my location quietly I probably wouldn’t hear them coming.
Minutes passed by.
A metallic rapping sound on the door nearly stopped my heart.
“Keeley? Are you in there?”
A man’s voice, muffled, carried through the heavy door into the bathroom.
“Skee sent me.”
Keeley. Was that my name?
Was this a ruse?
A short pause allowed me time to imagine many horrible things.
“He told me to say he would have come back himself, but he’s still on mission.”
The voice sounded kind/helpful, and I shrugged out of the thermal.
He knew I was here. Hiding wouldn’t make any difference at this point.
The floor felt cool against my bare feet as I walked to the door, and when I pulled the pin lever back I took a fortifying breath.
A man stood on the other side, peering in at me.
“Keeley?” he said.
“Yes.”
His face showed relief/sympathy.
I pushed the door wide open. His intentions were obviously benevolent.
Deep blue eyes studied me. “Sorry I wasn’t here last night,” Contrite/apologetic. He trailed off, not wanting to explain.
I smiled to make him feel comfortable. “It’s all right.”
“Flick,” he said, placing a palm on his chest.
He was as tall as the enforcement men, with sandy hair and a deeply tanned face and hands. His build was similar to them as well. He was handsome, in a slightly predatory way.
Then I saw his clothes and my throat tightened with an instantaneous, visceral reaction.
He wore sturdy pants made of a tough fabric. The pants had multiple pockets of various sizes. His stout, long-sleeve shirt fit him perfectly and was made of the same rugged material. But that wasn’t what provoked my intense reaction.
Grey.
His clothes were grey colored.
The color jolted me the moment I saw it, inducing a strong sense of alarm.
Grey was significant.
Important.
Dangerous.
I didn’t reach out to his offered hand. Instead, I touched my hair with a feigned self-conscious gesture. “What time is it?” I asked, masking my shock with a timid smile.
He tilted his head fractionally and his eyes narrowed nearly imperceptibly. Surprised/vigilant.
“Just past 8. Ready?”
I intensified my observations.
This man had obviously come to help me, of that I was sure, but only because he had no idea what had occurred here the previous day. My self-presentation needed to be meticulous. Even the slightest mistake could be catastrophic.
Already I’d made some sort of error. His expression showed me that.
Something about my voice troubled him.
The tone?
No. The accent.
He was struggling to identify my speech pattern. It was obviously not the one he’d expected to hear, and as I walked beside him through the eating area I tried to recall the few words Skee had spoken the day before.
The day before? I’d slept for twelve hours.
I forced myself back to the moment and concentrated.
There had been a gliding vowel in Skee’s accent that I had just failed to reproduce, and this man had noticed.
“Did you come in a boat?” I asked, taking great care to blur the vowels.
He tilted his head and glanced at my clothing surreptitiously. “I have a helicar.”
Reproducing Skee’s speech pattern had not caused him to relax and seemed to have had the opposite effect. Now he was alert and on guard, and I would need to exercise tremendous caution.
We reached the deck and I managed to avoid speaking, which didn’t seem to hurt my situation or help it, but when I saw the silver helicar I noticed a slight shift in his behavior. He pulled his shoulders back and hooded his eyes a fraction in an unconscious display of pride. Closer inspection of the machine justified his satisfaction for it.
His helicar held up to two passe
ngers comfortably with room enough for a cubic meter of gear behind the seats. The engine was huge in proportion to the body and told of its considerable potential for speed. A single word description for it was sleek.
He was proud of the fact he possessed something so exceptional.
I reacted appropriately with an amazed tone and wide eyes.
“This is yours? It’s remarkable.”
His satisfaction was tempered with a bit of self-conscious shame over the fact that he coveted the helicar, and I was careful not to sound flattering, only genuinely impressed.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Thank you for coming for me. If it wasn’t for Skee…” I said vaguely.
He studied me intently. “You might be stuck here another month.”
I let him settle me into the passenger seat.
He took great care securing my safety harness. For all I knew it had been years since I’d last bathed and my hair probably resembled a decomposing clump of seaweed. Therefore I decided he was strapping me in tightly for security reasons, rather than as an excuse to touch me.
The controls were complex, to say the least. I watched as he started the big engine that powered the rotor, noticing that he was aware of me watching. I shifted my eyes from the control panel to the windscreen and deliberately stared out at nothing.
As he plotted a course I used my peripheral vision to track his movements. I was almost able to anticipate the command sequence.
Almost.
I had a vague notion of having done this before but it was only a tangential glimmer. The main control panel was familiar, but not familiar enough. There was no possibility to commandeer the helicar and pilot it myself.
He had called himself Flick, and whether I liked it or not, for the moment I was dependent on him.
“Where did Skee ask you to take me?” I asked.
“Hammermill. It’s a refugee center.”
He didn’t look at me as he spoke, which made reading his intentions more difficult. I concentrated on his body language and verbal modulation. Apprehension/suspicion.
Obviously, he was having doubts about the situation, and I decided to stop talking.
I had clearly made a mistake inflecting my voice to mimic Skee’s accent because this man had expected to find someone quite different waiting for him. Refugees evidently possessed attributes that did not match mine and he was undoubtedly perplexed.
The New Authority Conspiracy (The Keeley Dorn Adventures Book 1) Page 2