The Sound

by James Sperl

  Clarissa passed her eyes over the stunned group. No one expected to hear this sort of news, especially when so much else had happened overnight. She understood how they felt—finding what you had been looking for after so long could be a bitch.

  “I can't believe you guys did that,” Rachel said finally. “You could've gotten in trouble. You could've gotten killed.”

  “Totally,” Evan added. “That's awesome.”

  Rachel scowled and gave him a friendly shove.

  “What building is it?” Jon asked. “Do we know?”

  Andrew looked around before he reached into his backpack. He pulled out a book and a folded map. He handed both to Jon, who took them while wearing a curious frown.

  “The National Job Bank, 2010,” he read aloud. “The Complete Enjoyment Guide to Over 20,000 American Companies.” He peered at Andrew through narrow slits. “You kidding me with this?”

  “Not at all,” Andrew said. “I stopped by the Barnes and Noble pretty early this morning to see what they had.”

  “Don't you mean the library?” Evan corrected through a smirk.

  Andrew smiled. “Right. The library. Either way, I found these. The map is local, and the book, although several years old, is the most recent one I could find.”

  “What is it?” said Clarissa, taking the weighty book from Jon. She flipped through the pages, which were dense with text.

  “Essentially, it's a listing of major, active companies and corporations in the U.S., complete with contact information and addresses.”

  Clarissa looked up. “Addresses?”

  Andrew nodded. “The book is broken down by state, so I went through all of the companies listed for Massachusetts in the hopes of finding one in our vicinity.”

  “Of course you did,” said Clarissa with a mock eye roll.

  “And?” asked Rachel. “Did you find one?”

  Andrew plucked the map from Jon's hands. He spread it out in front of everyone.

  “I did.” He dropped an index finger on the map. “Right here. In Natick.”

  Evan wrinkled his nose. “Where's Natick?”

  “About a pebble toss to the east of us. You know the Natick Mall that Donna mentioned? I'll give you one guess which town it's in.”

  “Wait, I thought we were in Framingham. That's why this place was called New Framingham.”

  “We are,” Andrew said. “But Framingham is just one city here in Middlesex County. There's Natick to the east. Wayland to the north, Sherborn, Ashland—all of them share a border with Framingham.”

  “Okay,” Jon said, twisting the map to get a better look. “But back to Natick. You said you found something?”

  “Yes. Clarissa, may I see that, please?” He outstretched a hand to Clarissa, who gave him the book. Andrew swiftly flipped through the pages to one that had been dog-eared. Locating an entry, he held the book out for all to see.

  “This. Boston Scientific. Located at One Boston Scientific Place, Natick, Massachusettes, which puts it roughly about here somewhere.” He drew invisible circles on the map with his finger.

  Cesare's face went slack. “But...that's right in our backyard. Like really close.”

  “About a mile and a half,” Andrew said. Everyone gaped at him questioningly. “What? I measured.”

  Clarissa knitted her brows. Even though she had discovered the building with Andrew, she was hearing what he had learned about it for the first time, just like everyone else.

  “So what does this mean?” she asked. “Does Boston Scientific have something to do with this? What even is Boston Scientific?”

  “According to the book, they design, manufacture and sell medical devices used in invasive surgeries. Cardiopulmonary, gastroenterology and the like.”

  Jon peered closer at the map then looked up. “So how do they fit into all of this? How do they factor into Rosenstein?”

  “I'm not sure they do. Hell, I'm not sure the company's even located there anymore. The book's fairly outdated. Any number of other businesses could have leased the property since its publication. But from what I was able to glean, this branch of Boston Scientific, which, by the way, is a huge company with international locations, was mostly corporate and not an R and D facility.”

  “Okay,” Clarissa said. “Then why would Rosenstein—if they are in fact inside—have set up shop there?”

  Andrew shrugged. “Proximity. Space. Access.” He reached toward the map. “There's a lake directly behind the complex, and Worcester Street, one of Framingham's and Natick's main arteries, runs right beside the property. The I-90 is also less than a mile away. They've got exit routes in all directions, and judging by the map and where the building is situated, they've got privacy as well. Strategically, it's as ideal a spot as one could hope for.”

  “But we don't know for sure if it's them,” Cesare said, matter-of-fact.

  “No,” Andrew confirmed. He gathered up the map. “Which is why I'm going there tonight to find out.”

  The reaction was swift and condemning, with Jon leading the protest.

  “Andrew, you're being reckless.”

  “Yeah?” Andrew said, stuffing the map and book into his pack. “How so?”

  “How so? Have you thought for even a moment about what you're suggesting?”

  “It's all I've thought about since three a.m.”

  “Then you need to think harder.” Jon sat up poker straight. “Aside from the fact that security around here will likely clamp down because of what happened this morning, have you stopped to consider if you're right?”

  Andrew frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what if Rosenstein is there, just like we think? What if they're taking people and doing God knows what to them behind those walls? Do you really believe you're going to be able to just waltz over there and check things out? It's ludicrous.”

  Andrew's face was emotionless. Jon continued despite it.

  “If they've managed to accomplish even half the things Kap says they did, if they're doing even a fraction of the things people here are alleging, that place will be under such tight security, you'd have a better chance of walking across the White House lawn than gaining access.”

  “He's right, Andrew,” Clarissa chimed in. “We can't go off all half-cocked. Not when we're so close. We need to think about this. Think about how to proceed.”

  Andrew hung his head thoughtfully then casually got to his feet.

  “I hear your concerns. I do. And don't think for a second I'm cavalier about this. I know how serious this is. But there's something you're all overlooking, and that is that time may not be on our side.” Everyone exchanged looks. “Last night was a game changer. Things are going to escalate and escalate quickly, I suspect, which means the clock is ticking.” Andrew pointed to the sky. “That sound will not stop. It will not cease until we are all gone. We don't need to be told this. The truth of it is the one thing those of us left in this world have in common. But there may be a way to stop it, and that way starts with verifying whether Rosenstein's in that building.”

  “I think we're all agreed on that, Andrew,” Clarissa said, kneading her hands. “But getting yourself detained or killed before we have a chance to do anything about it helps no one.”

  Andrew laughed, but it was more from incredulity than anything else.

  “So what do you propose? Any of you? What would you have us do? The folks who may have very well caused this clusterfuck could be a ten-minute walk from here. We have to find out what they know and what they're doing about it. And waiting isn't an option. It can't be. This morning's event more than made that clear.”

  “Okay,” Jon said. “So what's your plan?”

  Andrew shook his head. “Me? I haven't got one.”

  Now it was Jon's turn to have a laugh.

  “But I know this much,” Andrew went on, as he gathered his belongings, “if there is a security presence around the Boston Scientific building, we'll know we're onto something. Then we can all
sit down together and figure out what to do next.”

  Clarissa stood and looked at him pleadingly. “It sounds like a suicide mission.”

  Andrew had started to walk away, but he stopped after a couple of steps. He regarded his friends, who glowered at him with concern and no small amount of head-shaking.

  “You may very well be right, Clarissa,” he said, as he slung his pack over a shoulder. “But if I don't come back, at least we'll have learned something.”

  “Which is what?” she scoffed.

  “That we were right.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Worcester, Massachusetts

  They kept coming. In cars and trucks and trailers, on motorcycles and bicycles. Many had even walked.

  Inferno welcomed them all.

  He didn't know the name of the high school, whose football field he had commandeered and turned into a staging area, but he didn't think they would mind—football season was canceled this year. At least the chalked and manicured lawn would still get some use.

  Mr. Stitch and Ludi followed dutifully behind him while he walked the length of the field to observe the collection of vehicles that had amassed over the past day. All were parked side by side in haphazard rows on the browning grass from one end zone to the other. People flitted about frenziedly, some adorning the hoods of their vehicles with makeshift ornaments, while others spray-painted quarter panels with crude likenesses of orange and red flames.

  Had it really only been a day since Inferno put out the call for a citizen army? It seemed like eons ago since he had spoken from the doorstep of that suburban home to a sea of despondent faces. The response was more than he expected, but desperation and lack of purpose made for a caustic stew from which the lost had been forced to eat.

  It suited Inferno just fine. The vast majority of people craved guidance. They liked having someone to tell them what to do with their lives. Be it from a boss, a parent, a celebrity, a sports hero, a priest, or even God Himself, people were followers and rarely were they able to extricate themselves from their self-appointed grooves. This made sense to Inferno. Not only was this type of existence a big, safe security blanket, but when someone else called the shots, the dutiful could claim non-accountability if things went south.

  Such was the price of leadership.

  An army.

  He had fought against laughter when he presented the idea to the crowd. That he needed one wasn't what amused him, but rather the fashion in which he'd sold it so people would get on board. If they knew the real purpose behind his desire for willing foot soldiers, he would be looking at an empty football field right now. Instead, he had pumped their minds full of rhetoric regarding inequality and privilege, of class and domination, bow-wrapping his entire spiel with sprinkles of idealism and how the poor souls who stood before him were victims of an exclusionary world.

  People loved that shit.

  Inferno couldn't have cared less about any of it.

  He needed bodies. People who were willing to fight, to go full bore and give their lives for a cause, regardless of how hollow said cause truly was. He didn't care if they benefitted or if they lived or died. He needed to get into New Framingham for one reason and one reason alone.

  Clarissa was there.

  New Framingham.

  What a pathetic attempt to cling to civilized society. Jobs? Schools? Did people really not understand what was happening? Inferno begrudgingly acknowledged the designers for trying to recapture what was lost, but to him, it was like trying to bail out a sinking ship using a shot glass. He understood, though. People needed to believe in something, no matter how far-fetched or unrealistic the idea was. In fact, Inferno counted on the same blind adherence to preposterous beliefs to achieve his goal.

  Last night was the first step. Not only had they managed to hit the convoy out of New Framingham hard, but they also got a truck out of the deal. While advantageous, the gain was secondary to the real objective, which was to sow the seeds of fear among the community.

  His scouts had already confirmed that people were leaving in droves. This was good. The more people that left, the fewer he and his firebrand brigade would have to contend with when they rolled in. Inferno may have been determined, but he was no fool. Even though his army tallied well into the hundreds, it was still thousands shy of New Framingham's numbers. That's where fear came in.

  Word of the attack on the convoy had obviously spread like wildfire through the community. The fact that so many people had decided to flee so suddenly was evidence of this. Uncertainty had superseded sleep as the daily concern. Inferno could almost hear the people: Will New Framingham be attacked? He hoped they believed it would. For the more that did, the easier it would be to storm the place and destroy everything.

  Well, almost everything.

  It hadn't escaped his attention that such a large community likely possessed significant stores, both of food and weapons. From what his scouts tell him, potential residents are forced to relinquish their firearms to gain entry. This was excellent news. Not only were the residents mostly unarmed—conversely, the scouts also reported that the security presence was armed to the teeth—but the weapons that had been confiscated were still there, probably stored someplace nearby. With several thousand people, that meant a veritable arsenal. An army backed by that sort of firepower would be unstoppable.

  Inferno hadn't considered this when he first set his sights on New Framingham. After learning that Clarissa and her friends were there, rage and vengeance blinded him against the potential for greater gains. But he was thinking clearer now. He saw the bigger picture for what it was. Power was held by the powerful. Just as it always had been. And nothing defined power more, especially in this day and age, than the sight of several hundred obedient, gun-toting lunatics hopped-up on Rage.

  Which reminded him. Part of the allure of working for Inferno, of serving him, was to be in concert with his vision, to be part of a unified front that refused to accept they were disposable. But the other part, the greater part, boiled down to basic human desire: free drugs.

  As long as he plied his minions with as much product as they craved, they were his to command. He could order them to walk through fire, and they would do it happily. At one time, Inferno used to believe illicit chemistry was the best way to achieve a mind-expanding high. He was wrong. It was only a stepping stone to something much more supreme. Absolute power was the greatest stimulant, and he was addicted.

  A convoy of pickups approached the far end of the field. Mr. Stitch issued Inferno a silent understanding, then in his distinctively calm and detached manner, he sauntered in the trucks' direction to greet the latest arrivals.

  Soon New Framingham would be a memory, its inhabitants left to join him or die. But not before he took care of some unfinished business.

  Clarissa.

  They had known each other since high school, and though they hadn't ended up together—as he hoped they would—she still deserved the dignity of choice.

  He had played no small part in how their then-burgeoning relationship came to a screeching halt. He knew what he had done, just as he knew no matter how hard he pleaded for forgiveness, Clarissa would never give it to him. But if she wouldn't be with him then he made sure no else would be with her. So he had lobbed threats, most of which were empty back then, but as time expanded the distance between them, and her hatred for him grew, those idle threats cemented themselves as commandments.

  If you tell anyone...

  To his knowledge, she never did. Good thing.

  Not that any of it mattered now. New vengeance had conjoined with the old. The things Inferno would do to her—to all of them—when he wrangled them from the chaos about to ensue would be one for the books.

  But he couldn't let them escape. If they somehow managed to evade capture, Inferno knew he would never see any of them—but mostly Clarissa—again. When things went down, he needed to know precisely where she would be at the moment of invasion. Things would get hairy
fast. He would get only one chance.

  Which was the primary reason he had deployed spies. He sent four of his people to New Framingham to collect intel, but of them, only one was of any real concern. Three had been tasked with the important job of surveilling security and facility operations, but it was the report from the fourth that Inferno most wanted to hear.

  Because of the four, only she knew what Clarissa looked like.

  CHAPTER 56

  “Please, Mr. and Mrs. Cornish, think about what you're doing.”

  Clarissa had just entered the daycare facility when she caught sight of Dustin coming out from behind the welcome desk. He chased after a mid-thirties couple, who clutched their three-year-old daughter by a hand and pulled her toward the exit.

  “Wait until we learn more,” he said, fast-walking beside them. “You're overreacting.”

  The father didn't even give Dustin the courtesy of looking at him as he responded.

  “I'd rather overreact than get my family killed.” He pulled open the door for his wife and daughter, each one shuffling through it.

  Dustin called after them. “You're making a terrible mistake.”

  The man flung his hand dismissively. Dustin allowed the door to fall shut.

  “What was that all about?” Clarissa said.

  “Just another spooked resident making a rash decision.”

  “Because of what happened last night?” She followed Dustin past the desk and into the 0-6-month-old section of the daycare.

  “The Cornishes are the eighth family to pull their kids out this morning.”

  Clarissa nodded with understanding. “Because they think we'll be attacked.”

  Dustin looked back at her as he led the way into the infant's sleeping area. “Exactly. And in all honesty, I can't say I blame them for their fear. But I don't think leaving New Framingham is the answer.”

  The pair arrived at Naomi's crib. Clarissa peered down at the wriggling child, who kicked and chewed her hands quietly. Upon seeing Clarissa, Naomi's eyes brightened, and she smiled. Clarissa didn't think she had ever experienced a greater joy in the world.