by James Sperl
“I know where Rachel is.”
CHAPTER 61
Clarissa vaulted to her feet and stormed for the orientation and in-processing center.
In retrospect, it made her feel like a moron for not having recognized the signs of Rachel's disappearance earlier. It was so obvious. Late-night/early-morning bathroom break outside the Sleep Zone? Missed meetings? Whereabouts unknown? It was without question that something had happened to her, but the revelation Andrew had just pieced together implied that he had seen her away from the Sleep Zone, if indirectly.
The van.
It wasn't cargo offloaded into that building. It was people. More rats for the maze. And Rachel was one of them
Jon had tried to restrain Clarissa when she charged off, but she had an ally in Cesare. If she was pissed off, he was downright atomic. All Andrew, Jon, Evan, and Valentina could do was accompany them and attempt to minimize damage.
Donna was in the midst of conducting an orientation meeting. Two families and a pair of women, all of whom were green with wide-eyed ignorance, listened carefully while Donna pointed to places on the Big Board. Clarissa didn't wait for her to finish before she stormed up to her.
“Where's Rachel?” she demanded.
Donna turned from the families to look blank-faced at Clarissa and Cesare, who scowled at her.
“I'm sorry?” she said. “Where is who?”
“Don't even try it, Donna. We know Rosenstein's here and that they're taking people to that building to use as guinea pigs. We also know you're with them, so cut the shit.”
Donna smiled so icily, Clarissa could have sworn the air around her actually cooled. She turned to the families, the parents of which now encircled their children protectively.
“I'm very sorry everyone,” Donna said to the leery newcomers just as courteous as you please. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”
She didn't wait for a reply, nor did she address Clarissa, Cesare, or any of their group. Instead, she walked out of the processing area to a secluded location where she was sure to be undisturbed—and unable to be heard. Her face was expressionless but still managed to convey immeasurable hostility. Clarissa was beginning to rethink her decision, but it was too late to back out now. Besides, this needed to happen. Rachel was missing.
“Now then,” Donna said, her acidic tone belying the courteousness of her words, “how can I help you?”
“It's over, Donna,” Clarissa said. “You can stop pretending. We suspected Rosenstein was here all along and now we know for sure.”
Donna could have given a master class in acting for how well she feigned amused confusion.
“Well, yes, a private company named Rosenstein played a role in establishing this community, as did others. It's fairly common knowledge.”
“Not so common,” Andrew interjected. “If Rosenstein played this role, as you say—which I think you and I both know was much greater—why does no one seem to know about them? Virtually everyone we've spoken to has no idea they exist.”
Donna chuckled, the laugh steeped in condescension.
“Mr. Wakefield, is that really the basis of your accusation? That people haven't heard of Rosenstein?” Donna passed her eyes over everyone with the authoritative air a schoolteacher might use to admonish unruly students, but Clarissa didn't notice—she was too preoccupied with the fact that Donna knew Andrew's last name. “People come and go on a daily basis. By the dozens. Maybe even by the hundreds. Is it really so odd to think that with such a persistent turnover that residents would be ignorant to New Framingham's young history?” Donna cocked her head patronizingly. Clarissa wanted to slap her smug smile off her face. “I'm unclear as to what accusation you're making, but I'm sure I don't know where your friend is. Now, if you'll excuse me.” Donna hugged her clipboard to her chest and walked deliberately through the middle of the group.
Clarissa couldn't believe this woman. Neither, apparently, could Andrew or Jon, both of whom seemed to wrestle silently with a response. Cesare was far beyond rational conversation; all he could do was clench his jaw in frustration.
Evan summarized the situation perfectly. “Is that it?”
Clarissa knew the answer: No, she thought, no, that is definitely not it.
“We know about that little drug of yours,” she called after Donna. “The one that gives a person control of their dreams? We know about it because I used it myself last night. I've been to that place with the monsters.”
Donna stopped on a dime.
Bingo.
She turned and glowered at Clarissa. Chin lowered, she walked back over, making no attempt to hide her disdain. Donna had started the conversation with an admirable poker face, but she had just shown her hand.
“Just what is it you think you know?” she said.
“Well, for starters,” Clarissa began, “that pill you claim is a sedative is a bit more than that, wouldn't you agree?”
Donna remained silent for a long moment as if considering her reply. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she said finally.
“Oh, please,” Cesare barked. “You're behind this. You know what's going on. You're taking people and using them to try to fix what you and Rosenstein screwed up. And this...this 'orientation' is nothing but a screening process. You're using it as a selection tool. And now you've got Rachel!”
“I've seen your ad hoc headquarters,” Andrew added, drawing Donna's seething stare. “The old Boston Scientific building. I've been there. I've seen the mercs patrolling the property, and I even watched one of your deliveries take place. You've got quite the operation going on. So tell us, is Rosenstein any closer to figuring out where they fucked up, or are they just going to continue sacrificing more innocent civilians through that wormhole you all created?”
Donna tried to respond with a self-assured smiled, but it fell from her face. Her expression vacillated between clueless ignorance and furious admission. She wanted to confess to what had been going on, to scream in everyone's faces that what Rosenstein was doing was necessary to preserve the human race. Power-hungry megalomaniacs always found justification for their actions.
But Donna was the perfect shill. Shrewd and in control, she would not allow herself to be rattled by allegations, no matter how accurate they were. She sized up the group with a discriminating eye and casually clasped her hands behind her back.
“Now you listen to me. All of you. I don't know what you've heard or what you think is happening, but I advise each of you to be careful making accusations you can't prove. The world is a dangerous place, as you well know, more so now than ever before. People disappear all the time for myriad reasons. I'd hate to learn that one or more of you suffered a similar fate as your friend.” Donna delivered a cold-blooded, pursed-lip smile. “By turning up missing, that is.”
Clarissa felt her blood surge, and it was all she could do to keep from unleashing months worth of pent-up rage and frustration on Donna's unblemished face with her ragged, road-worn fingernails.
“If I were you all,” Donna went on, “I'd worry more about making it to my work detail on time rather than fabricating incredulous stories that have no merit.” She paused just long enough to make eye contact with each person, landing last on Valentina. “I'm glad you found your friends. You may want to convince them to consider my advice.”
Turning, Donna walked back to the waiting families and resumed the orientation, as if the whole affair had been only a minor inconvenience. She never once looked back.
CHAPTER 62
Mark's dick burned. It was like a river of fire every time he took a piss. It had been that way for three days. He knew he should have gone to the clinic, but it was too embarrassing. Not because he was ashamed to have some stranger handle his junk, but because of the stigma that would follow him once the diagnosis came back.
Lesson learned: stay away from the campfire girls.
Everyone called them “campfire girls,” but they were definitely women. A group numbering close to
fifty had formed a thrown-together shanty town in the Pine Bluff Recreation Area. Comprised of tents, trailers, and portable gazebos adorned with blankets and hanging beads, the women traded the only thing they had left to survive.
Mark, the humanitarian that he was, was more than happy to contribute to their cause. So were a lot of the guys. Patrols often stopped to pay a visit to their shit show of a brothel. The women weren't drop dead, or even particularly desirable for that matter, but they were desperate and willing, which was good enough for Mark.
But he'd fucked up. Everyone knew to use condoms. It was a no-brainer. Those skanks were rented more often than a car from Alamo and treated just as poorly. Lord only knew what sort of Rage freaks they straddled. But weeks of zero action made for impulsive decision-making, and so after an eventless evening spent polishing off a found fifth of Jim Beam, Mark and three other bored scavengers headed over to the wasteland bordello. As usual, money was worthless; food and drugs were the preferred currency. Fortunately, Mark and his crew had stumbled upon a below-ground stash just outside of Hopkinton earlier that evening. It was a score for New Framingham that left plenty to spare to cover the cost of admission for Mark's randy group.
Her name was Madeline, and she looked, as Mark's father used to say, “rode hard and put away wet.” With grease-matted hair and scabby, boil-ridden skin, she wasn't winning any beauty pageants any time soon. At the time, though, Mark couldn't have cared less. He was too drunk and too overcome by urges to give two shits, which somewhat explained why he hadn't remembered to bring rubbers with him. He would have had sex with a goat in a dress at the time if that was his only choice. Besides, what did he care if he got some whore pregnant?
It turned out his failure to take precautions cost him. Did he have a urinary infection? Syphilis? Gonorrhea? What he knew about STDs could fill a postage stamp-sized space with room to spare. All he knew was that it wouldn't surprise him to discover lava oozing from his cock on a future piss break.
“How's the twigs and berries?” Reggie said from his reclined position on the hood of the raised Silverado four-by.
“Yeah, Mark,” said David from the bed. “How's your noodle? Want to go out later and blow off some steam?” He guffawed like a sick donkey, the pair cackling like children.
“Man, fuck you guys,” Mark said with a wince. “This shit hurts. And don't think that because you wore a condom you're safe. I've heard of people skinning up and still getting a case of the cooties.”
“Whatever,” replied Reggie. “Even if that was true, it's still better to have worn one than not to have worn one, dumbass.”
Reggie and David laughed again. Mark loved the freedom patrol gave him, but he hated the intimate knowledge it gave those in close quarters with him. If a person fucked up, everyone knew about it and said fucker-upper would be needled for what seemed like ever, at least until someone else dropped the ball and inherited the heat. Now was just Mark's turn.
At least the razzing gave everyone something to do. He and his crew had been at it all day, scouring the area west of New Framingham for signs of the people that had attacked the convoy. Nearly a dozen teams had been deployed on recon-only missions, each dispatched to a designated area outside New Framingham's borders. A majority, however, had been ordered west where the attack occurred. The mission was the same for all: observe and report. Do not engage. Well, Mark and his team could safely report that they had observed jack shit.
He, Reggie, and David trolled the back roads and questioned more than twenty outsiders, but they had turned up nothing. If anyone knew or saw anything, they weren't saying.
Reggie perused a stack of nudie mags he had taken from a convenience store this morning. He flipped to the centerfold shot of a comely brunette sitting on a divan, splay-legged and undergarment free. He held up the racy shot for everyone to see.
“Now why can't they have women like this at that whorehouse?”
David pushed himself into a sitting position in the bed and peered at the picture through the rear window and windshield. “Why?” he said. “Because women like that don't need to work at skeezy roadside cathouses. Women like that own them.” He laughed that pathetic donkey laugh again.
Mark shook his head. He worked with idiots. Better them, though, than some control freak who wanted to boss people around. Mark had had his fair share of those. He would take idiots any day of the week and twice on Sunday over some Commando Joe. Besides, who was the real idiot here? Neither Reggie nor David prayed for the sweet release of death every time they drained...the main...
Wearing a curious frown, Mark zipped his trousers, walked over to the truck, and hoisted himself onto the step rail. He stared against the setting sun at the horizon.
A headlight shone in the far distance.
In and of itself this wasn't a terribly unusual occurrence. People often chose to move about at night. But these days, the decision to advertise oneself with lo-beams seemed harebrained. Whatever. It wasn't Mark's job to educate every Tom, Dick, or Harry to the dangers of the road.
A thought occurred to him: perhaps the ill-advised maneuver could work to his advantage. Maybe the vehicle would draw out the assailants that had attacked the convoy. Mark didn't wish anyone trouble, but if these people were so stupid as to drive around at dusk with their headlights on, they had it coming.
Reggie craned his neck to look at Mark. “I see you trying to sneak peeks at my ladies. This ain't no peep show.”
“I'm done with chicks for a while,” Mark said. “I got my eye on something else.” He pointed west before Reggie had the chance to ask what.
Reggie sat up upon seeing the light. “Think it's them?”
“I don't think so,” said Mark. “Seems too casual. I think we just got ourselves some greenies out there.”
David got to his feet and leaned onto the roof of the truck cab.
“Could be some new recruits heading to NF.”
“Could be.”
The light flickered as it crawled ant-like across the landscape. Just as Mark was ready to write it off, the single light became two lights. Not five seconds later, the two became three.
Reggie hopped down from the hood and backpedaled over to the driver's side door. He reached through the opening and grabbed the rifle that lay on the front seat. In the span of time it had taken him to procure the gun, the number of lights had grown to seven.
David jumped down from the truck bed and moved up beside Mark.
“I think we need to get back and report this. Like right now.”
Mark nodded. “Yeah...Yeah, I think you're right.”
Without further words, the men piled into the truck and tore in the direction of New Framingham, making sure to leave the headlights off until they exited I-90.
The last thing Mark saw before the landscape rose up to block his view was a line of headlamps so long it resembled an ever-growing string of Christmas lights.
CHAPTER 63
Much to Clarissa's ire, she took Donna's advice. Just as everyone else in her group had done with their respective place of employment, she reported for her shift. She spent the day mulling over Donna's not-so-thinly veiled threats. The woman deserved credit for a good attempt. Her hope had likely been that an honest workday spent in deep reflection extinguished any embers of discontent, but all it did for Clarissa was fan the flames.
She was the last to rendezvous with everyone in front of Macy's Furniture Gallery later that day, but she was the first to offer an opinion. Clarissa thought long and hard about what she and the others should do, but in the end, she felt the situation had become too volatile. One of their own had gone missing. They couldn't risk losing anyone else. The decision seemed clear, but it was a difficult one to make.
They needed to leave.
Clarissa had mixed emotions when she learned that nearly everyone reached the same conclusion. Valentina was the one exception.
“Are you sure that's such a good idea?” she asked. “I mean, do we really want to
be back out there again?”
“We were doing just fine before,” Andrew remarked. He kept a watchful eye on people who strayed too close to him and the others.
“Yeah, but...there's security in here. A safe place to sleep.”
“Safe?” Clarissa said, incredulous. “You think it's safe when people can just take you when they want to? Come on, Val. This is way bigger than any of us thought. We need to get out of here and regroup. Figure out another way to deal with what's going on.”
Valentina opened her mouth to reply but chose to bite the end of her fingernails instead.
Cesare, who had been crouching beside Elenora, stood in an instant. “What about Rachel? We're not leaving her.”
“No,” Clarissa said, ashamed that she hesitated before she responded. “No, of course not.”
Andrew shouldered off his backpack onto the pavement and dug into it. “There's got to be a way into that building. The place is secure, but it can't be impregnable.”
“Wait,” Evan said from beneath his father's protective arm. “We're going to try to get in there?”
“Of course we're going to try,” said Cesare. “We can't just leave Rachel in there.”
Jon removed his arm from Evan's shoulders. “Look, I don't want to be the doomsayer here, but we may need to consider a, uh...unfortunate possibility.”
Cesare stiffened. “Which is what?”
“That Rachel may be beyond help.”
Cesare cocked his head aggressively. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Cesare!” barked Elenora. “Guarda la bocca!”
Clarissa stepped between Cesare and Jon.
“No one's leaving Rachel behind,” Clarissa insisted. She placed a reassuring hand on Cesare's chest. “We'll find a way to get her back.”
“Or maybe we won't,” Jon said. “Guys, I'm not trying to be an asshole here, but I've seen the reports. When people leave, they don't come back.” He looked between Cesare and Clarissa. “Rachel's my friend too. Don't think for a second that I wouldn't do anything for her, but what are we talking? Storming Rosenstein? A bunch of unarmed civilians? It's insane. There's a reason that place is so tightly guarded, and just because we have the will doesn't mean we have the way. I hate conceding defeat as much as anyone, but we may have to here.”