Shadows of Ash (The Nameless Book 2)

by Adrian J. Smith

  “Nice story,” Booth said, scuffing his shoes on the concrete floor.

  “C’mon, guys,” Allie pressed on. “I thought you were this kick-ass team. The Nameless. So-called because you were whispered about. No one ever saw you. In, out, job done.”

  Cal sat up. “She’s right. Yes, we are down. Really down. Fucked. Sofia, who was that blonde lady that taught us at the Lodge?”

  “Which one? De Vries?”

  “Yes, that’s her. She used to tell us that there is always a way out. We just need to figure it out. Think outside the box.” She turned and looked at Ryan. At Booth and Sofia. At Keiko and Allie. “We are all intelligent and resourceful. Surely we can figure a way out of here. We’re no good to anyone in here, dying. If we want any chance of stopping Offenheim, we need to be out there.” As Cal pointed to the ceiling, the scar on the side of her head pulsed.

  The room fell silent as Cal’s words echoed inside Ryan’s head. He was tired. Not only physically, but mentally too. A week had passed since that night in Shinjuku. One hell of a week. But Cal was right. Allie was right. There had to be a way out. He sighed and stretched his aching back. His earlier search of the room had only revealed the door. Had he given up his search too soon?

  “You’re right. There’s six of us. Split up and search the room. Note everything you find. Any hole, any crack. What are those wires for over there? Even if there used to be a door or window, tell me. Sofia, Yamada said the TV was connected to the internet. See if you can connect.” He paused, remembering Sofia’s words from the mission. It’s a countdown. Wave two is happening in a little less than four days. “That countdown you found. Are you certain?”

  “Definitely.”

  “All right. See what you can do with the connection. We’ll figure out how to get out of here, then come up with a plan.”

  “On it,” Sofia said. She was already plugging the blue ethernet cable into her tablet. Ryan picked up a piece of broken circuit board and marked where the outline of the door was. Then he walked to the opposite wall and stared, running his fingers along the smooth surface. It didn’t take him long to find another door. He shoved at it with all his weight, but it didn’t budge. Next, he scanned the room and noticed small holes where cameras had been mounted.

  “Over here,” Allie said.

  “Something here too,” Booth and Cal both called out. Ryan went first to Allie, as she was closer. She pointed to more holes in the concrete. Maybe ten or a dozen. There was a slight depression where clothes hooks had once been. Booth had found a similar set of holes, while Cal had located square markings and scrapes on the floor.

  “This must have been some sort of suit-up room,” Cal said. “You know, for putting on those radiation suits before heading into the reactor area. Something like that.”

  “Logically, you would have a dressing room and some sort of washing room, wouldn’t you?” Allie said. “Then, once the suits were clean and safe, they’d be hung back here. So maybe through there is the washroom, and through that is a corridor.”

  “Controlled by cameras and monitored with sensors?” Booth asked.

  “Probably. They’re not going to let someone out who has higher than normal radiation levels,” Allie said. “Ryan?”

  “Umm. It all sounds plausible. Something Yamada said is bothering me.”

  “What?” Cal asked.

  “He said we were going to die from radiation exposure, right? But if this is a dressing room where the workers donned the suits, it would be designed to keep radiation out. So how is it getting in?”

  Booth screwed his face into a deep frown. “I hate it when you point things like that out. Makes me feel like an idiot.”

  “Guys,” Sofia called.

  As Ryan and the others walked toward Sofia, muffled klaxons blared out, their high decibels filtering through the concrete walls.

  “I’m linked into the plant security cameras,” Sofia said.

  On her tablet screen was an image of abandoned rooms, red alarm lights flashing. A loud clanking sound echoed through the room as the door opposite them hissed open. On instinct, The Nameless spread out, hugging the walls. Ryan crouched, wishing he had a gun or even a knife. Unarmed, he felt naked.

  As they’d suspected the door led to a washroom. The floor was covered in shiny metal grates, and large shower heads hung from above. On the opposite wall, another door creaked open to reveal a small ante chamber.

  “What’s going on?” Cal said.

  Ryan shrugged. He was just as confused. “Sofia. Any luck opening the exterior door yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “What were those wires for?”

  “The door release that just opened.”

  “Could you use them to open the other door?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay. Split up. Cal, you’re with me. Booth and Allie. Sofia and Keiko. It’s a big power plant. We’ll see if he’s left anything unlocked. Look everywhere.” Ryan checked his watch. “Meet back here in two hours.”

  Touma Yamada was a smart man. Old and wise. Everything he did had a reason, sometimes two. Forever moving chess pieces. There had to be a way out. Sure, he’d said he wanted them dead, but it didn’t strike Ryan as true.

  The Nameless filed through the washroom and separated out into the vast expanse of the containment building. Glancing to his left, Ryan spotted a yellow box – a Geiger counter, used for measuring the level of ionizing radiation. Switching it on, he checked the readout. It was hovering around eighty counts per second. Nothing too bad now, but Yamada had said he wanted them to have a slow, painful death, gradually growing sicker, or starving, whichever came first. Ryan took the Geiger counter.

  Cal turned and shook her head. “Nothing. Not a damn thing.”

  “Keep searching. There has to be something. Tools, anything.”

  They searched for another thirty minutes but came up short. Booth, Allie, Sofia, and Keiko joined them back in the bare concrete room. Allie moved the crates against the wall so they could all sit down.

  “Anyone?” Ryan asked.

  Booth slammed down a thick binder. “Just this.” Ryan could see it was clearly marked Maintenance.

  He cupped his hands together. He was at a loss. There was no apparent way out. Was Yamada toying with them?

  Eighteen

  Portland, Oregon

  Zanzi dove behind a shelf filled with football apparel and flinched as the door splintered and broke off its hinges. Grub the biker burst through, his AR-15 held out in front of him. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated. Was that from the thrill of the chase? Or was he high? Whatever the case, Zanzi didn’t care. She slithered farther down the aisle on her elbows and knees. Tilly had the injured Josie somewhere deeper in the store.

  Grub kicked out at the shelves, scattering clothing. The clanging metal reverberated around the store. “There’s nowhere to hide!”

  Bang! Bang!

  He kicked the shelf again before running to the next aisle. Zanzi rose in a crouch and crab-walked, joining Tilly and Josie behind the service counter. She’d spotted the hunting crossbows and knives when she’d seen Tilly’s and Josie’s reflections in the display case. She grabbed a crossbow and a dozen bolts, and loaded it, straining with the mechanism. She handed it to Tilly and set about preparing another.

  “Pretty ladies! Come out and play!” Grub shouted. He was close.

  Zanzi stayed low and looked for his feet. She turned back to Tilly and whispered. “Lie flat like this and point the crossbow in that direction. When I say, squeeze that trigger. Okay? Aim for his legs.”

  “What if he starts firing?”

  “Let’s hope we get him before that happens.”

  “Are you going to kill him like Alba?”

  Zanzi blinked. She had shoved a pistol under the woman’s chin and pulled the trigger. Even the elites with their high-grade nanites couldn’t survive that. To be sure, she had set the lab on fire. She had done it for Josie’s daughter – for Harriet.
r />   “I have to, Tilly. If I don’t, they’ll do bad things to us.”

  Deep laughter rang out, chilling Zanzi. “There you are.” Grub had spotted them. He unleashed a volley of bullets. The glass display cabinets above them shattered. Tiny shards rained down, pricking into the women’s skin, and getting tangled in their hair. Tilly screamed and dropped her crossbow. She covered her ears and kept screaming as the bullets tore into the woodwork.

  Grub stopped firing and reloaded. “You hot bitches had enough?” His boots thumped on the linoleum floor. “Mutton! Dean! Get in here!”

  More boots stamped into view.

  “Where are they?” one of the bikers said.

  “Behind that counter,” Grub said.

  “Well, what’re we waiting for? Christmas?”

  The three bikers chortled.

  “If you’re so eager, Dean, go fetch.”

  Dean grunted and advanced. Zanzi clutched her crossbow and waited until he was a few steps closer. She rolled and pulled the trigger as soon as he came within range. The bolt thunked into his thigh. Dean shrieked and jumped back, releasing a three-round burst into the ceiling. Chunks of sheetrock and dust rained down over the injured biker.

  Grub and Mutton guffawed. “You fucking moron! What did you think was going to happen?”

  “Bitch shot me with a crossbow.”

  “No kidding.”

  The bikers lowered their voices.

  Zanzi knew when to surrender. Her father’s words spoke in her mind: Live to fight another day. She dropped the crossbow and slid next to Tilly and Josie. She took one of the bolts and jammed it behind her bra strap.

  Bullets rang out, peppering the walls behind them. It only lasted a few seconds. Enough time for Grub to advance and point his rifle at them.

  “Game over, bitches.”

  Zanzi gritted her teeth but didn’t struggle as Grub hauled to her feet and frisked her, missing the crossbow bolt. Josie yelped as Mutton tugged on her injured arm.

  “Careful. She’s injured,” Zanzi said.

  “Not where it counts.” Mutton grabbed Josie’s breast and kissed her cheek.

  “All right. Leave it. There’ll be plenty of time for that at the party tonight,” Grub said.

  “Where are you taking us?” Josie said.

  “You’ll see soon enough.” Grub bound each of them in turn with yellow cable ties.

  The Outcast Mongrels shoved the women back down the escalators, past the ash forms and the discarded, unused shopping bags. Dean hobbled alongside, a black bandana secured around the crossbow bolt still sticking out of his leg.

  The bikers, taking one woman each, cut the cable ties and ordered them to sit on the pillion seats of their Harley-Davidsons. They roared back down the empty concourse and exited the delivery ramp into Portland.

  Out of habit, Zanzi took note of where they were going, ticking off landmarks and committing them to memory. It was an old impulse, one she had picked up from her parents.

  Always know where you are and how you got there.

  ***

  There were no signs of the Black Skulls as the motorcycle gang left the business district behind and wound their way through the suburban streets of Portland. Their Harleys were so loud, it wouldn’t have been much of a challenge to track them.

  They roared down another street lined with several industrial buildings. A metal fabrication shop, panel beaters, sign writers. The Outcast Mongrels’ pad consisted of four houses surrounded by an eight-foot solid fence. The gates rolled back, and Grub led the way inside. Between the houses, an open-sided shed housed a bar, tables, couches, and pool tables, and right smack bang in the middle was a caged fighting ring like ones used in mixed martial arts.

  Zanzi shook her head at the setup. The bikers suited their name.

  They were greeted by a dozen or so men and a few other women. Grub roughly pulled Zanzi off the bike and stood her in front of the gathered members.

  “Brought you all a treat,” he said, pushing Zanzi in front of him. “She’s a feisty one.”

  He was answered by a chorus of jeers and vulgar gestures.

  “Show us your tits!” one of the members shouted.

  “All right, Axl.” Grub laughed. “Leave it for later. Is the first match ready?”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  “Well, get it started, then!”

  Grub dragged Zanzi to a stadium seat and shoved her onto the bottom terrace. He leant down and licked her ear before speaking. “You’re going to want to see this.” He chuckled. “We used to use the cage for dog fights and to settle any disagreements.”

  Zanzi pulled away. “Dog fights? That’s disgusting,” she spat. She flicked her eyes to the cage and spotted smears of blood and feces. She shivered. How anyone could harm a dog was beyond her comprehension. They were beautiful and loyal and only deserved the best care, love, and attention.

  “They’re just dogs.” Grub chuckled again and looked up at the gathering members. “Traci, where’s my beer?”

  Traci had stringy, unwashed brown hair and the strung-out look of a drug addict: dark bags under red eyes, sallow skin covered with sores, and so thin her bones stuck out.

  “Coming,” she murmured.

  “Traci.” She turned. “Give us a smile,” Grub taunted.

  Traci half-smiled, showing chipped and rotten teeth.

  “Ugh. On second thought, just bring my fucking beer, you junkie bitch.”

  Traci melted into the group. Zanzi turned to check on Tilly and Josie. They were up on the next level of seating, wedged between their captors. Josie was being groped but was ignoring Mutton. Tilly stared at the cage.

  Zanzi used the time to get a better look at the motorcycle gang’s HQ. The layout and design were for two things: parties and keeping the law on the other side of their fence. The barrier was well constructed, with welded metal posts and thick bars locking the gates. Nothing a bit of C4 couldn’t take care of.

  The bikers began to whoop and holler as Axl and three others brought some prisoners into the yard. They had four Rabids in chains and were moving them with animal control poles. As Zanzi watched, the bikers unchained the Rabids and shoved them into the cage. Immediately they spun and tried to grab the bikers, who only laughed and bashed them with pipes. The cheering and whooping rose in decibels as four human captives were brought out next: three men and a woman. They were dressed in mechanic’s overalls, but barefoot. Two dropped to their knees and begged to be released.

  “Please don’t do this. I don’t want to die,” the Asian man said. He had a nasty gash on his head, crusty with dried blood.

  “Please. No!” the woman with red hair pleaded.

  This only made the bikers more excited. They slammed their beer bottles on the table and began to chant.

  “Make them fight! Make them fight! Make them fight!”

  Zanzi shook her head. Was this what it meant to lose all sense of morality? Of empathy? To stop caring? To be so obsessed with giving in to your desires that you stop being human and become something else? Tears welled in her eyes. To think these people had survived the combusting only to come to this. Milo had told her that not everyone had the nanites; that was why wave two was happening. To mop up the rest. Like these degenerate bikers.

  The captives were thrown into the cage, the bikers using tasers to keep the Rabids at bay in a corner. Mutton moved to stand before a board and gathered bets like a bookie at a racetrack.

  “All right, you mongrel bastards!” Grub shouted as he raised his hands. “As your president, I promised you girls and entertainment. So here you are!”

  The bikers cheered. Several threw bottles of beer at the cage.

  “Let the fight begin!” Grub said. He sat back down. “Take notes,” he whispered in Zanzi’s ear. “I’ll give you two choices. Mistress, or that.” He gestured at the cage.

  Zanzi pulled back from his breath. It stank of old beer and rotting meat. She tugged her arm away. “How about one on one? You and me, in
that cage. Or are you a wuss?” she said.

  “Watch the fight, bitch.” He slapped her hard across the face.

  Zanzi gritted her teeth and lifted her tear-filled eyes to the cage.

  Nineteen

  Tomari Nuclear Power Plant

  Hokkaido, Japan

  It was late. At least, Ryan’s body clock was telling him it was nearing midnight. He and The Nameless had been stuck in the power plant for six hours, with no apparent way out. They had explored both the washroom and the large containment room that led to the reactor itself. It was sealed up tight with only one other access door. Ryan and Booth had attempted to remove the hinges to no avail. It was like they had been welded shut. There was no way out. No one to rescue them. No one even knew they were there except the men who’d imprisoned them. Sofia had tried to communicate with the outside world, but apart from access to the power station’s cameras, she had nothing. Yamada had The Nameless trapped like bugs in a Venus fly trap. Ryan grunted. The Nameless, experts at sneaking in, extracting. Experts at recon and getting out of sticky situations. Trapped with nowhere to go. Pathetic.

  “Another drink, Connors?” Booth offered him the bottle of Mars Iwai, a traditional Japanese whiskey. They had found the alcohol after a more thorough search of the crates.

  Strangely, Yamada had supplied them with whiskey, sake, beer, and wine, as well as water and electrolyte drinks. In another crate, they had found bedding. Futon mattresses. Camping stoves. Tea and coffee. It was all there. Everything needed for a long stay. They had set the futon beds up in a circle after eating a meal of MREs and cookies.

  “Yeah, why not,” Ryan said, holding out his glass. Booth poured two fingers’ worth, then poured more for Allie, Sofia, and Cal. Keiko smiled and wriggled her glass.

  “You’ve had enough,” Booth grinned. “You don’t want a hangover down here.”

  Keiko giggled. “Just a little more.”