Frenzy

by Dawn Brazil

  “You okay?” Brian turns and asks.

  “Yes.” I lie. We’re here, and he’s already edgy about my accompanying them. I don’t need him perturbed about my physical well-being right now. That’s supposed to be later.

  Brian tilts his head to mine and examines my face. “You’re lying. You don’t look okay.”

  “Am I supposed to look like I’m winning the award for best actress while I trudge through the desert?”

  “You’re not supposed to have a permanent grimace of pain, either.”

  “We’re close,” Ian announces, ignoring our mounting dispute. I’ve made a concerted effort to think of something other than my possible demise. I can’t. If I die, how will my parents take the news? I am their only child—will they want more children? How will Brian feel after I’m gone? And Stacey? I hadn’t been given an opportunity to even say good-bye to her. I wanted to call her several times yesterday, but did not know what I would have said.

  I started this trip with such optimism. Regrettably, the pain in my legs stole that away. We’ve walked and kicked up dust for hours. I’m exhausted.

  Ian announces in a low voice, “Just around this bend, there’s a small cluster of trees. When we go through the clearing, there are supposed to be signs we made it. Something inconspicuous, but obvious at the same time.” That’s not vague at all.

  We increase our pace. For several long stretches of time, we don’t talk, we don’t even look at one another.

  They walk. I fall behind again.

  Suddenly, Brian pauses, and so does Ian. They whisper amongst themselves a few feet ahead of me. I don’t attempt to decipher their conversation. Brian turns, marches back, and pulls me in front of a cotton top barrel cactus.

  “You okay?” He eyes me as if I’ve already lied. “And tell the truth.”

  I ignore the accusation in his words and lie anyway. “I’m great. I don’t feel any pain at all right now.”

  “She’s lying, Ian.” He pauses and scrunches his face up at me. “She shouldn’t come in with us.” Brian turns to Ian. “What do you think?”

  “She may be telling the truth.” Ian responds.

  “Stop babying me.” I’m exhausted with his over-protection. “For an effective search, all three of us should go. Right, Ian?” I hope my face conveys I’d hurt him if he disagreed with my reasoning.

  He nods yes. I breathe a sigh of relief and step around Brian. “I’m going.”

  Chapter 25

  Mr. Thompson has a connection with someone who worked in the HBU, and he gave us detailed information on the uniforms worn inside. The uniforms are one-piece suits that zip up in the front. Like what Michael Myers wears in all his movies.

  With moist wipes, we clean our faces of any grime from our hike. We hide from view, cloaked by the trees, to put on the jumpers. The uniforms go on over our street clothes. Once we have the disguises in place—including blue caps—we each inspect the other to ascertain everything’s in place. Mr. Thompson had also acquired artificial nametags with a special barcode for each of us. We place them on our left pockets.

  We conceal our bags beneath a cluster of thorny bushes and tumbled vegetation, then pack dirt and debris around them to make them invisible to anyone who happens by. Based on what I’ve observed on the hike here, that will be no one.

  We trek through the dirt for a while. I was certain something would pop out at me, but nothing does and we keep walking. Ian and Brian scan the area constantly, but there isn’t anything to see but dirt and cactuses.

  Ian pauses at a large log. It does seem out of place in the desert, but it looks like a log. Still, Brian and Ian discuss it. As they talk, I glance around. A red dot hits the back of Ian’s head. I twist in the direction I think the laser beam is coming from; I see nothing. I turn back to the guys. Maybe I imagined it. When I turn back, the dot is on Ian’s back, and now Brian has one on his neck.

  “Um, guys? I think we have trouble.” They pay me no attention. “Seriously, I think we have a problem.”

  Brian looks up at me. “Are you hurting?” I point to Ian’s neck, where the red dot slowly rises to the front of his head.

  Before Brian can react or tell Ian what we’re looking at, two men in military fatigues jump from the trees. “What the hell are you doing out here?” one of them yells.

  “Get your hands up. Now,” the other one shouts. We throw our hands up in the air.

  Both soldiers point their weapons at our heads. I look over at Ian, and a red dot glows in the middle of his forehead now. “What business do you have here?” one of the soldiers asks. He towers over us, but his voice is soft and gentle. It’s disturbing. Just like the juxtaposition of the bunker in the desert.

  “We’re reporting for our first assignment,” Ian answers.

  “Why didn’t you use the other entrance?” the soldier with dark brown hair questions, raising his machine gun higher.

  “We were told to report topside by Lieutenant Monroe. He gave us a special code to enter when we arrived,” Ian says.

  “A code?” the other soldier, who reminds me of an Asian Arnold Schwarzenegger, looks confused.

  “Yes. I’m supposed to enter it into the keypad then run our ID cards over it.” Ian doesn’t falter one time.

  “For all three of you?” the Arnold lookalike questions.

  “Yes,” Ian says.

  The other soldier lowers his gun and tosses something at Ian. He drops it and it rolls right in front of me on the ground. No one moves. Brian bends, picks it up, and hands the walkie-talkie to Ian.

  “Call Lieutenant Monroe. Now,” the burly soldier demands.

  Ian turns a few dials. Static sounds at the other end. The soldier who tossed the walkie to Ian lifts his gun and points it at my head.

  “Hold up. I forgot the channel, but I have it,” Ian says. He pulls out a piece of paper and consults it before turning dials on the walkie again. This time, a voice crackles on the other end.

  “This is a private line. What business do you have with it?” the voice demands.

  “Sir. This is Ryan Adams, reporting with Christopher Cutler, and Anita Little. We are at the Delta Victor bunker like you ordered.”

  “Great. What the hell you calling me for? Git ’er done, son.” The line goes dead, and Ian hands the device back to the soldier.

  “Let me see the code,” the soldier says.

  “You won’t understand it,” Ian offers.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Ian produces a crumpled paper and the soldier snatches it from his hand. He peers at the paper for a few seconds and back up at Ian.

  The soldier shoves the paper back at Ian. “You have one attempt to enter the code. If it’s wrong, you and your friends will be strip-searched, held in custody for at least a week, and forcibly removed from the premises. Or possibly shot in the head.” Both soldiers step aside with a smirk.

  “Step back, dumbass,” the burly solider says to Ian. We all take several steps back, and a hatch in the ground sprouts up in front of us. Ian crosses around everyone and steps to the hatch.

  He presses his index finger to the wall of the hatch. A silver-plated keypad emerges. He unclenches his fist with the balled slip of paper and punches numbers into the keypad. After entering the code for what feels like a millennia, a large section of the ground slides open. He reaches back and we each hand him our badges. He scans the barcode into the pad, and a loud beep follows. We turn and eye the soldiers. They don’t say a word. They turn and run back into the woods.

  We enter the bunker, using a ladder that descends into total darkness. As we make our descent, light starts to emerge. I laugh, and the sound carries forward. Brian and Ian stop moving and squint at me.

  “Sorry. It’s a little funny… I was thinking about Poltergeist. You know… ‘Carol Ann, don’t go into the light…’” I laugh again, but each of them only narrow their eyes more. “Maybe I’m just a little nervous to go into the light.” Brian smiles and shakes his head.

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nbsp; Once we touch the bottom, Brian retakes the lead. A long corridor stretches before us. The walls are forest green, and the floors are concrete stained black. I gag at the heavy scent in the air, likely bleach and other disinfectants, burning my nostrils. Dull fluorescent lights hang every couple feet above our heads to illuminate the stretching hallway. The building is quiet, the low buzzing of the lights above the only sound present. I relax my stiff muscles with the realization that no one is in sight.

  Ian signals us to enter the first door on the right. A quick survey down the hall shows all the doors are stainless steel—and closed.

  Once inside, we huddle at the entry. Ian pulls us close, “Okay, to make this search quick, we should split up.”

  “Not going to happen. She’s not going off by herself,” Brian snaps.

  Ian retorts, “We have to. That’s the only way we can cover more ground. We can’t search all the rooms together.” Ian steps away from the door and walks further into the room. “That’s the point of bringing L in the first place, remember?”

  Brian runs his hands through his hair and sighs loud.

  Three rows of fluorescent tracks provide light to the room. The bright white walls help to brighten the space. Six long metal racks line the center of the room, and boxes cover every inch of space on them. “I know something that can help,” Ian says.

  He strides over to the boxes and searches the labels. At the third rack, he pulls out three walkie-talkies. He searches the fourth and fifth racks, but does not locate what he’s looking for. He stops, takes a deep breath, and exhales. He moves on to the next box.

  Brian and I watch him eagerly, like children waiting for candy to be dropped into their bags on Halloween night. With only a few boxes left, his eyes brighten, and he yanks a piece of paper out from one.

  He saunters back to us. “Here,” he tosses Brian and I each a walkie-talkie. “We can communicate through these. L won’t be alone. If there’s any trouble, she can call us.” He looks at me as if he’s instructing an invalid. I nod my agreement.

  “Do you know how to work this?” Brian asks me.

  “In theory,” I respond.

  “I’ll give you a quick course.” Ian demonstrates how to talk on the phone by pressing the large button on the side and speaking into it. He demonstrates how to find each other on the devices, and the lesson’s over.

  “Okay,” Ian says as we jumble behind the metal door. “Did you notice the doors have numbers on them?”

  “Yes,” both Brian and I answer.

  “All the numbers are in chronological order. Chief, you take the odd doors. L, you take the even. All the rooms on the first floor are similar to this one. There are three rooms that are different, and don’t have a number on them—the operating room, a conference room, and the last is the cryogenics room. Try not to go in any of those rooms.”

  His mention of the cryogenics room makes me think of Tiffany. Brian makes a weird face at Ian’s mention of the room, too. I’m certain his expression is curiosity mixed with something else. I’m not sure what that something else is, but parts of me feel like I should want to know.

  Chapter 26

  “This is what we’re looking for.” Ian hands both Brian and me one of the pieces of paper he found in the box.

  It contains a picture of what looks like a plastic swim cap. The cap is dark blue, with raised red- and black-colored bubbles all over. One yellow bubble sits in a section by itself. In the illustration, the cap has a detailed information diagram beside it. In the diagram, the raised bubbles are called leads, and the cap is positioned with the lone yellow button at the front of the cranium. Below the diagram is a picture of a woman with it on her head. A long, dark cord snakes around her neck and disappears near her left ear. Attached to a cord on the other side of the cap is a metal rod, like a tennis racket. The rod controls the cap with action buttons like Suction, Zoom, and Spray, and directional buttons like Right and Left Hemispheres, and Frontal Lobe.

  Ian breaks up my examination by clearing his throat. “The majority of the doors are never locked, but sometimes one gets locked by accident,” Ian continues. “If someone comes by, ask them to unlock it for you.” He stops to take a deep breath, as if his instructions are taxing.

  “You became an expert on this place fast,” Brian says.

  “Unc said it’s like the one topside in Remah. You ought to visit sometime.”

  Brian makes a face.

  “Okay, if anyone asks you anything, say you’re only here to collect and deliver the specimens to Lieutenant Monroe. You report to Lieutenant Monroe, and only him.” Ian scrutinizes my outfit—he straightens the cap on my hair, pulls the bib down further over my face, and adjusts the nametag.

  I fix him with my best American Psycho expression.

  Brian pushes him away from me. In a calm voice, he says, “Every detail isn’t going to be perfect. She probably shouldn’t have come, but she’s here now. We can't stay in this room, though. We have to move.” He turns, and the desire to smack him has my hand itching.

  He peers at me, and from his expression, he knows I’m annoyed with him. He wears a silly grin I hate, because it’s infectious and makes him look irresistible. He wraps me up and cradles my head in his massive hands. “I love you so much it’s insane. Please be careful.” He kisses me once, opens the door, and peers around.

  He inspects the hallway in both directions before walking out and giving us the signal all is clear. Once out in the open, Ian quickly saunters off down the long, dark hall. I stare after him until he makes a right turn at the corner, walking out of sight. Brian turns and kisses my forehead. He pulls my face to his and smiles down at me. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes speak volumes—be safe, they say, try not to get your head chopped off by a homicidal maniac. He turns and walks up ahead of me, trying his first door; the door is unlocked. He winks and ducks into the room.

  I move to the door closest to me—room four. I turn the knob and peer inside. The room is empty.

  It is identical to the room we went into first, complete with six metal racks like the other. I move to the first rack and dig through the boxes, looking for the instrument that can save my life. My hands are clammy with sweat, as my nerves have collected into the pit of my stomach. I try for thoroughness in my search, but also to move fast.

  Two men in another room slam a door and laugh boisterously at someone named Mike. I listen intently as they open and close another door not far from where I am. Their boots scuffle across the concrete floor until they are right outside the room I’m in. I stare at the doorknob raptly, trying to prepare for the inevitable confrontation. I’m a master manipulator, but with duress included in the equation, I’m sure to blunder our story.

  I stare at the door as the knob starts to turn.

  The guy’s laughter increases. Another person coughs loudly.

  The door is pushed open and the person laughing on the other side starts to enter.

  “Hey, not there. The basement,” another man yells. The door is pulled shut and the knob falls back into its original position. I spin around to the boxes and make my way through them, more relaxed, as I can no longer pick up their conversation.

  I complete my inventory of the room and come up empty. I straighten the boxes before I exit.

  I beep Brian and Ian to let them know I’m on to my next room. I push the door open at once and step out. Once in the hall, I bite the inside of my lip to punish myself for what I’ve done. Walking directly in front of me are two young women in jumpers like mine. Could they hear me? What if they ask me questions we hadn’t prepared for? It’s no use panicking, because they’re here and I have no choice but to face them.

  We’re almost on top of one another now. I nod hello and smile as politely as possible as they pass. They nod a hello as well. Smile like a normal human, Elizabeth. I push closer to the wall as we pass one another without a word.

  “Excuse me,” A feminine voice says from behind me.

  “Yes
, can I help you?” I ask with complete authority over my emotions. I hope.

  The girl who spoke wears a tag that announces her name is Nancy. She’s young, at least seventeen, with glasses and shoulder length reddish-brown hair. “We may be lost. We’re looking for operating room number three.” She fumbles through a stack of papers in her hand as she talks. Her companion, also about my age, with dark freckles splattered across her nose, nods her head in agreement.

  Her companion adds, “I’m Sharon. We’re new deposit escorts. First day on assignment.” She smiles broadly.

  “Oh,” I say, sounding apologetic. “It’s my first day, too. Sorry, I don’t recall, either.” That’s not the story.

  The young girl with the glasses lets out a screech, “Oh, were you in our orientation class?” The idea of this seems to delight her. She bounces from one foot to the other, anticipating my answer. I dislike her automatically.

  “Um.” I scratch my head like I’m in deep concentration. “What session were you in?”

  “It was two o'clock, yesterday.”

  “Uh, no. Sorry, I was in an earlier class.”

  “You’re just starting today?” the girl with the glasses speaks again, pushing her glasses up her nose with her free hand. She is so annoying me.

  “I requested to start today. You know, last minute things to do and all.” Sharon nods her head as if she understands, but Nancy stares at me, seemingly dumbfounded.

  “Yeah, we understand.” Sharon pulls on Nancy to prompt her to come along. “Look,” she says, pointing down the dark hall to a male figure walking in our direction. “Maybe he can help us. I think he was one of the instructors during our orientation. Bye,” Sharon yells over her shoulder as Nancy marches toward the guy like she’s ready to attack him.

  “Maybe we'll meet on the other side,” Nancy says with a delicate chuckle. Sharon waves over her shoulder once before nearly tackling the guy.

  If he’s an instructor, he’s one of the last people I want to meet.