“All the more reason to get us out of here, to get us back home,” he told her and turned to scour the room, scrambling, looking for anything that might be help them.
Declan ripped a sheet from the bed and waved it high into the air, throwing out the folds until it was flat. With his teeth, he gripped a corner and tore into the fabric, tasting the clean threads and spitting them from between his teeth. Within minutes, he had twelve long stretches of material. He glanced at Sammi and encouraged her to pick up the strips of material. She shook her head quizzically, uncertain of what he was doing.
“A tether,” he told her. And at once she understood and knelt down to braid three of the loose strands. “We’ll have to go through the big hall, the main hub. And when we do, I want to make sure that we’re tethered together.” He braided the other loose strips of the bed sheet, tying the frayed ends to Sammi’s braided ends, tightening the knot until the fabric creaked under the pressure of his hands. When the tether strap was completed and tied off between them, Declan led them to the door.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for this,” Sammi confessed. A shudder of fear shook her words. “I’m terrified, Declan.”
“I am too,” he assured her. “But we don’t have a choice.”
When they stepped closer to the door, it opened, surprising him. Deep in his gut, he imagined that the machine’s computer systems would have flagged them somehow, locking them inside the room, imprisoning them until it was ready to use them like lab rats.
A sea of bodies marched by the opening, staring ahead blankly, ignorant of their presence. As they jumped into the line of bodies, taking the first steps of their escape, they tried to match the pace of the others as the door whooshed closed behind them. Declan reached behind him to take Sammi’s hand into his, squeezing it and assuring her that he had her. The tether strap swung down beneath them but stayed tight in the binds he tied. His mind raced with uncertainty as he tried to figure out where exactly it was that they could go in this mammoth labyrinth. He squeezed again, gripping Sammi’s hand, realizing for the first time that he held his whole family in his hand.
Forward, was the only thought that came to him. Just move forward to the hub, but he had no idea where to go after that.
25
JANICE GILLY CAREFULLY BRUSHED away the grains of sand from her chin. She winced at the sting of the cuts on her lips and face. Straightening herself, the pain in her back was far worse. Harold sneered while hiding behind a taller man, poking his head around as if to catch sight of her in pain. Richard nursed a ragged cut above his eye but turned to Janice to help. Shame and embarrassment filled his face. His hands shook as he spilled fresh water onto a torn cloth. She tried to steady them, taking hold of the cloth and guiding him as he began to wipe away the blood and dirt from her face.
“Thank you,” she managed to get out, taking the cloth from his hands. “And thank you for trying to stop them, too.”
He half nodded and her heart ached for him. But there was no way he could have fended off their attackers. Richard stabbed Harold with a stare and stepped closer as if to finish what was started.
“Now, now,” the tall man said, intervening. “I’m sorry my scouts attacked. That was never the intention, and I promise you that a punishment will be swift and firm.”
Richard backed away then, turning to help her. She flinched at the sound of him tearing cloth from his coveralls to fashion a bandage.
“Just exactly who is us?” Janice asked, sounding revolted. She winced again as the swell on her lip throbbed. “Who are you?”
Her first thoughts were that Harold had joined the Outsiders, raping and pillaging anyone who had made the unfortunate mistake of crossing their paths. But that was not what she thought when the tall man came to her rescue. Harold was on top of her, and just as he was about to take her, she felt the air rush across her like a rare wind coming off the ocean. A moment later, the tall man was helping her to sit up, offering fresh water and brushing away some of what Harold had done to her.
Taller than anyone at their Commune, his face was square and rugged, his sunken eyes eclipsed by a thick brow. And his hair, she liked how it was pulled back tight, dragging behind him in a long tail. Had it ever been cut? She couldn’t help but feel nervous in his company. While he hadn’t said so, she knew he was the group’s leader. A dozen or more who followed him, including Harold, woman and children as well as other men, carrying and dragging large packs.
“You call us the Outsiders,” he finally answered. At once, she could see that he disliked the name. For a moment, she thought he was going to spit as if ridding his mouth of the word. “But we’re not at all the violent people that your stories describe.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Richard said, shaking his head and waving a hand at Harold. “How do you explain the attack?”
“Gilly had that coming,” Harold berated. “Been teasing me with those—” Harold’s words were cut-off by a quick backhand from the group’s leader. Harold’s nose bloomed into a wide splash of red as he tumbled onto his rear. Janice smiled. It felt good to smile. She pressed her lips firm, trying to hold in the laugh but felt herself let go as Harold squirmed along the sand and tended to his bloodied nose.
“What Harold did was unfortunate,” the group’s leader answered. “As you can see, we’re still trying to work with him… and a few others. There was a time when more of us were like him, but that isn’t who we are today.”
“Then why stay hidden from us?” she asked. “Why not join our Commune?”
The leader wiped the blood from his hands and fixed a stare at her and then to Richard, waiting to answer. Janice felt uncomfortable in the bubble of silence and wondered what it was that she had said that was wrong.
“It is your Commune that cannot be trusted,” he finally said. “The machine doesn’t exist without your Commune. They are one.”
“What do you mean?” Richard asked, raising his voice.
“In time,” the leader said. “But first I need to tend to my people.”
Janice said nothing, but wanted to discount what he professed. She decided to wait, and though she took his words with uncertainty, she heard sincerity in his voice.
With a quick snap of his fingers, the leader motioned to the group, and without a word, everyone began to work. Large packs were unfurled and spread across the sands before being stood up to become what she thought were some kind of triangular structure. At one time, they might have been called teepees. The fog in her mind was still thick, but she remembered the name from one of Andie’s history lessons about early America. The other packs were opened too, revealing everything the small group would need to spend the night on the beach.
As if on cue, Harold quickly wiped the remaining blood from his face and entered the center of activity. There he dropped to his knees, resigning to the work before him, and began to dig a small pit in the sand. He burrowed down, hollowing out a small space, then propping up branches and lumber.
Janice helped where she could, offering to tie down straps, but remained cautious and never let Harold slip from her sight. She jumped at the sound of the stone striking stone. Harold had produced a flint stone and striker and soon a small fire came to life. Within minutes, the fire blazed. The flames looked soft in the hovering fog and created a colorful glow like a large orange cover around them.
An extra teepee was put up for her and Richard—a sturdy pile of old tree branches and building materials, propped up against one another up with a feeble wrap to bind it all together. Janice sat down, letting the events of the afternoon run out of her. She sighed and felt as if the day could slip into the evening in a blink. Richard settled next to her, the cut above his eye drying to a scaly brown. In the fire’s light, the bruising on his face was hidden, but the swell bulged under his skin.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, nursing his wounds with a light touch. And as she wiped away the dirt and the blood, Janice tried to remember what they were doing b
efore the attack.
“I should be asking you that,” he answered, taking the cloth and wetting it some more. She closed her eyes as he cleaned her face, appreciating that his touch was gentle. The abrasions around her mouth and chin stung but would heal. The sweet smell of the burning wood and the crackle and pops set a mood that made her sleepy.
“Food!” a voice snapped. Janice jumped at the sound of the voice. She laughed when Richard jumped too. They helped each other up as one of the outsiders poked their head in to add, “We eat around the fire.”
The evening came on fast, turning the dim gray of the day into black. The light of the fire was bright and the pockets of fog thin enough to let her see nearly everyone. The leader of the Outsiders sat cross-legged, a large collection of food in front of him. To his left, woman and children sat—a hungry stare fixed on the food. A smaller fire had been built and set ablaze to their left, and it was there that Janice saw Harold.
“Please,” the leader motioned across the fire. There, between the woman and the men, Janice sat with Richard. They were close enough to the fire that she could feel the burn on her skin. A splash of ash and a hot ember spat from a hissing log, the smoke caught her eyes and watered them. She nodded to the leader—a thankful gesture for inviting them to eat. From the corner of her eye, she saw Richard nod, too and heard a low stomach rumble erupt from his middle. The leader made up a large plate, passing the food over to one of the women who placed it in front of them. Wild vegetables and chunks of meat. While the meat was raw, it looked fresh. Long thin slats of wood stood upright in the sand. The woman plucked the stick, showing it to Janice and Richard, and then speared a piece of meat on the end.
“For the fire, like this,” she said, dangling the meat near the fire. Within moments, the smell of cooking meat came to her, and a hunger pang answered. For the next hour, there was little said. They ate and smiled at one another, enjoying the hot meal and a warm fire.
“What were you doing out here?” the leader asked, throwing scraps of his food to some wild dogs. Janice hadn’t noticed the dogs before and wondered if they had been there all along. The dogs barked and bit at one another, fighting over the tossed food. The leader snapped his hand and grunted a low guttural sound. The dogs stopped at once, picking at the scraps before running beyond the reach of the fire’s light. The act was impressive. In the Commune, dogs were difficult to tame, let alone keep them as pets.
“Not many dogs in our Commune,” Richard said. “It’s good to see them.”
“We grow our own food,” the leader said laughing, motioning to the meat and grabbing a nearby pup. He brought the pup onto his lap and made a smacking sound with his lips. A terrible thought came to her. She turned her head away, certain that the leader was going to snap the pup’s neck in front of them as a show of power. “Kidding!” he bellowed and laughed. As he glanced around, the others joined in the laughter. “They’re our hunting dogs. Rabbit, squirrel, an occasional cat.” The pup panted joyfully as the leader dug his fingers into his scruff, petting him. Janice’s belly rumbled as she quickly digested their first food in what must have been a day or two.
“We’re going to the machine,” Janice began to say. Her throat was suddenly dry, leaving her voice to sound scratchy. I’m sitting too close to the fire, she thought, reaching for some fresh water to cool the burn.
“We’re going to try and find my son. To bring him home,” Richard finished for her. She saw him glance at her as if apologizing for cutting her off.
“Are you one of the Executives?”
Janice looked at Richard, surprised by the question. “No, but how do you know about our Commune’s Executives?” Janice felt Richard move, ready to reveal that his wife had been an executive. She placed her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze, an inconspicuous hint to keep that information quiet—for now, anyway.
“I couldn’t be sure. Mostly I only know the rounder ones to be the executives from your Commune,” the leader added.
Janice felt a flush creeping up beneath her coveralls, embarrassed by the leader’s words. She pulled her arms around her front as if she could hide her size from the group. Nobody seemed to notice, though, as the tall man picked at his teeth and continued. “The fat ones. They travel to and from the machine. Sometimes they carry things. Sometimes they don’t. And then there are your morticians; that’s what he called himself. But he wasn’t going to the machine, not that last day. Instead, he took to the ocean like a fish.”
The fire snapped, sending a spark up into the air, rising and dancing on the heat until it disappeared into the fog. Janice waved her hand, throwing air over her skin. The fire was too hot, too much for her.
“The ocean? What did he tell you?” Richard asked. When he noticed Janice waving off the heat, he handed her his water. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Just a little warm,” she answered, lying and realizing that she might not be fine. The flash of heat spread all over her body, and she added, “It happens.”
“The mortician said that he was done. That he was done working for them,” the leader began. “When we came upon him, he told us about the blood and how his job was to pass the body on to the farming floor, but to save a little blood for the machine.”
The leader became a blur, and Janice felt herself sway like the flames flickering above the burning tinder. She blinked away the soft images settling in her eyes, and focused on what the leader was saying.
“Blood?” she asked.
From his hand, the leader produced a small glass vial, perching it on the tips of his fingers. While the fire’s reflection bounced from the round glass, there was enough light to see the dark mass of blood filling the tube. The leader passed the blood to one of the women, who then gently placed it in front of Janice.
“Look at the lettering,” Richard directed, turning the vial over to the reveal the strange writing. “Just like the index card.”
Janice lifted the vial of blood. The hardening liquid turned from a deep magenta into a brighter red as she looked through the glass. Why would their mortician collect blood from their dead?
“What happened next?”
The leader stopped picking at his teeth and lowered his hands. He pursed his lips, sucking in the air and revealed an odd grin. From the stories of her childhood, Janice expected to see monstrous teeth, ragged and filed down to sharp points. But she saw none of that. He was just a man.
“Your mortician gave us a wave and walked out there,” he answered, pointing toward the sounds coming from the ocean.
“The ocean,” Richard said, sounding grave. “You’re saying that he walked out into the ocean?”
“He did,” the leader said. “But he said something else. He said that the dead only live a year, and then they bring us back. And then your mortician added that he never wanted to come back.”
Another wave of heat swam up Janice’s back and sweat beaded on her face. Her insides felt hot and for a moment she thought the flames had somehow jumped inside her lungs, burning her throat and mouth. She drank and listened, trying to understand what it was that the leader was telling them.
The fire’s smoke shifted with a short breeze and closed around her and Richard like the fog. She was certain that the air had become hotter, baking her insides, coursing up her spine and through her veins, burning. She tried to catch her breath, but felt as if she would suffocate breathing in the heat.
“What does any of that mean?” she heard Richard ask.
“And we’ve seen the girl,” the leader added. “The one with the red hair.”
“That’s impossible,” Richard said. She heard the tension rising in his voice, but then his words faded into a chorus of ringing bells that thumped in her head like a million heartbeats. The fire was gone too, drifting out of sight, and Janice realized then what was happening to her. She was falling backward and was going to pass out.
26
HER LEGS FELT WEAK and the faint urge to cry made her lips tremble. Isla ste
pped back, uncertain about the stranger in her lab. Was it possible? Was it true that someone else in this place was like her?
“Aware,” she murmured, wanting to hear the words in her own voice. “Tell me more.”
The man’s shoulder slumped forward, and at once, Isla sensed his hesitation. But not quite a hesitation. Annoyance, maybe, for having to explain what he meant. Had they had this conversation before? She glanced at her lab journals, trying to recall any clues from the past thirty years.
“How long did you say you’ve been here?” she asked.
“Forever and ever,” he began to say, waving his arms around. “I started this—all of this—and I’m going to end it.”
She considered the possibility, and warmth gushed inside her. Pride. Certainly, if she was brought back because of how good she was at her job, there could be a keeper of this place.
“You’re like the man in the lighthouse. Aren’t you?”
Phil Stark raised his brow, a smile brimming as he considered the comparison. “I suppose you could say that. But we only last a year. Never anymore… or less. That was a part of the original design. Insurance, you might say. Keeps us aware types from getting any strange ideas.” He rapped his knuckle against the side of his head as he told her this.
“The year was your idea?”
“Oh no. No, no,” he answered, shaking his head harshly. “I didn’t know about the year until that first time… ” His voice faded and his expression went blank as his eyes drifted past her.
“First time?”
“The first time I killed myself,” he said abruptly, his focus regained. “It was a death sentence, really. I just didn’t know the sentence had been passed—living in the machine, watching my daughter visit, watching others that I knew visit, and never being able to do or say anything. I tended to the internal workings of the machine, keeping my mind occupied until I couldn’t take it anymore.”
End of Gray Skies: An Apocalyptic Thriller Page 23