Pipe Dreams

by Destiny Allison

  “We need to get you folks out of here,” the commander said, looking at her. He gestured to one of the men who had crept from the shadows to join them. “Joe, take them back to base. I’ll radio the colonel and let him know what’s happening.”

  The man named Joe nodded. “Come on y’all, let’s get goin’,” he drawled in a Texas twang. Vanessa stared at him. Did Texas still exist? Stunned by what had transpired, the group remained frozen until Mariah began to move. One by one, the cell members came alive. The splashing of their feet filled the pipe as they followed Joe through the fetid water.

  Hopeful voices contemplated the possibilities that awaited them on the mainland. Fantasies of steak dinners and fried chicken colored the dark. As they traversed, the volume increased. Imagining a world full of lights and music, traffic and grocery stores, they exchanged stories about relatives and described the places they would visit once free. Time passed quickly as visions of the future distracted them.

  Suddenly a disturbance stopped their progress. Mariah shouted, “Ashley, wait!” Vanessa looked up to see Ashley sprinting past her into the dark. She had gone for Jeremy, but no one chased her. Instead, the cell members directed their focus on the bright, white light from Joe’s flashlight. As Vanessa followed the woman in front of her, she smiled. Ashley’s small feet flying through the dark gave her hope. The girl understood what it meant to love.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 32

  A cigarette smoldered on the edge of the outdoor ashtray and McGrath picked it up absentmindedly. Holding it between two thick fingers badly in need of a manicure, he brought it to his lips and inhaled deeply, relishing the fullness in his lungs as the cool, mentholated smoke expanded to fill them. The tingle of nicotine worked its way to his head and, for a second, he closed his eyes in pleasure. Then he slammed the butt into the receptacle’s sandy bottom.

  Cursing himself, he strode through the automatic doors. It had only been three days since he crushed his last pack, vowing to never touch the filthy things again. Now, he was grabbing someone’s discarded butt, not even caring what vile germs might have been left by the previous mouth on the cigarette’s soggy, filtered end.

  Inside the air-conditioned lobby of the administration building, he hurried across the polished linoleum floor, his eyes trained on the door in front of him. Behind it lay answers and possibly hope. An armed guard saluted as he approached, but Colonel Sean McGrath ignored him, the refugees foremost on his mind.

  In the six years he had commanded the base his primary objective had been keeping the perimeter secure. No one was to get within thirty miles of the lakeshore in any direction. He oversaw the various military deterrents that kept curiosity seekers and serious fishermen at bay. A grueling drudgery, the assignment had been an affront to his fighting instincts. Still, he had understood the imperative. The risk of a large scale bio-terrorist attack was real. He would do what he could to mitigate the threat and protect the country he loved.

  Recently, the threat level had increased. He had been informed the enemy had developed a new virus even more dangerous than the Blue Flu. His superiors felt an attack was imminent. They could not deter, or contain, its inevitable release. The military and the politicians had finally agreed to do something. Consequently, a team of elite Navy SEALs had been dispatched to the island. If detected by the madmen who controlled the city of Edenton, the action would eliminate any possibility of truce and guarantee a major attack, but McGrath agreed with the decision. They had to get their hands on the vaccine.

  Outside the cafeteria, he slicked his hair away from his forehead and smoothed his shirt. First impressions were critical and only the right combination of confidence, friendliness, and concern inspired trust. Hell of a time to quit smoking, he thought, pushing open the door.

  The drab dining hall had all the charm of a well-worn army installation. Long, metal tables were lined up in neat rows. The dull, white walls were mostly bare, save for a wire-covered clock and a few regulation safety posters. Only the bank of windows on the far side offered any visual relief. They provided a clear view of the grass slope that led down to lake, framing a constantly changing picture of nature in all its pristine glory.

  The aroma of hot coffee and grease hung in the air as he surveyed the scene. A young recruit steered a dessert laden cart out of the kitchen. The scraggly refugees ignored him and focused on sopping up the remains of their dinner with sliced, white bread. Though they weren’t starving, the way they ate suggested this was the first real meal they had seen in years.

  Sizing them up, McGrath used the time to plan his interrogation. Long years of training and observation led him to ignore the center of the group. Those who needed to be in the middle of everything were seldom leaders. McGrath knew real power stayed behind the scenes. Leaders were quiet, observant, and calm, their calculated movements a study in energy economy. They didn’t waste time with frivolous endeavors. Consequently, McGrath didn’t give much attention to the tight pack clustered noisily at the center. Instead, his eyes trailed to the far end of the long table where a honey-colored man with thick dreadlocks, a heavyset middle-aged woman, and a young woman with exotic, almond shaped eyes sat by themselves. For a moment, he was transfixed. The young woman was striking.

  The three spoke softly, plates pushed back and elbows on the table. Occasionally, the middle-aged woman glanced at the rest of the group, as if she were a mother surreptitiously checking on her children. McGrath couldn’t get a read on the other woman. Her body language confused him.

  The man looked younger than thirty and his posture was insolent. If there had been chairs, instead of the uncomfortable bench, McGrath guessed he would be leaning back with his legs spread and his arms behind his head. Still, he had presence and charisma. His confidence spoke volumes to McGrath’s seasoned eyes.

  He approached the table slowly, moving toward the center of the group to give those at the far end an opportunity to size him up as well. As he neared, the talking ceased. “Please, don’t let me interrupt you. I just wanted to introduce myself. My name is Colonel McGrath and I am really glad to see you folks,” he said with a big smile.

  Gesturing to the young recruit serving dessert, he continued. “You let Connor here know if you need anything else. When you’re finished, he’ll show you your accommodations. We’ll get a chance to get to know each other better after you’ve settled in. Enjoy the rest of your dinner and, folks, welcome home.” He made a hasty exit to avoid questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. There would be time for that in the coming days.

  Back at his desk, McGrath jotted down his preliminary observations. Then he picked up the phone and called his wife. He wouldn’t be home anytime soon and, after his tour in Iraq, he had promised her he would do everything in his power to never leave her wondering again.

  He rubbed his eyes and massaged his temples. Then he got to work. His orderly had left a neat stack of paper on the blotter. At the top of the pile, a list named the refugees. He scanned it. Army Intelligence was researching the names, but he didn’t expect results that would make a difference.

  The next sheet of paper delineated the steps taken to accommodate the refugees. His base was not designed for guests. Except for the occasional visit from the brass, people weren’t welcome. Consequently, they didn’t have spare beds. In the morning, trucks would deliver tents and cots to house the newcomers, but tonight his men would be roughing it. Though unfortunate, he couldn’t exactly give the refugees a bunch of sleeping bags and let them find a comfortable piece of ground. That certainly wouldn’t convey the right impression. Their cooperation was key.

  The third item was a transcribed message from the SEAL team. It read:

  Flash Fire

  16:17 Hours

  Primary Objective has been compromised.

  Observation commencing at target location.

  McGrath thought about that. The Primary Objective had been to make contact with the Agency’s man inside the city. Isaac Cohen, a re
tired rabbi, had been a reluctant informant prior to the hostile takeover six years earlier. By releasing the Blue Flu on the mainland, the enemy had kept retaliatory forces at bay. Since then, the city had remained isolated.

  It had been a mean trick keeping the details of the attacks a secret. Quick maneuvering by the government had managed to dupe the public into believing the Blue Flu had decimated the populations of both cities. To stop the infection from spreading, the military had fire bombed the town in Illinois. Edenton had supposedly been quarantined for further research.

  The lies were swallowed whole. Only a special few knew the truth. Grudgingly, McGrath acknowledged the containment had been both effective and imperative. If people knew what was really going on, the ensuing panic would destabilize the world. He resented the lie, but recognized it as an essential part of his mission.

  The biggest problem the military had encountered after the attacks was the total communications blackout the enemy had required inside the city. In a hand-delivered note, the terms of truce had mandated this, as well as specified a no-fly zone, a safety perimeter, and regular deliveries of food and hard goods necessary to the survival of those still on the island. The demands would have been ridiculous had the enemy not proved itself. Even after all this time, intelligence had not been able to source the attacks and the weapon had stumped the scientists. No antidote for the Blue Flu had proven effective.

  McGrath reread the communiqué. The rabbi’s recent phone call, albeit brief, had illuminated the current situation and prompted the action now underway. The military did not believe it could stop the inevitable release of the new virus. Consequently, obtaining the vaccine was imperative. Isaac Cohen had been their only contact in the city. Now that he was presumed dead, the team would be operating on vague information obtained from satellite imagery, old notes, and hypotheses. The plan had turned into a tactical nightmare. Instead of getting in and out quickly, the SEALs would be forced into risky reconnaissance. McGrath couldn’t wait to interview the refugees. They were his new, best hope.

  CHAPTER 33

  Lying in the dark, the afternoon and early evening flashed through Vanessa's mind. After their hours in the foul sewer, the cell had floundered in the fresh, bright light of the shore. They had emerged on a narrow, rocky beach that faced the mainland. At the edge of the water, small waves beat the boulders in a rhythmic slap. Somewhere, a bird had called. Vanessa had squinted up at the sky, trying to find it, but the glare was too much. In the clean, cool air, she had been reborn. The sludge and deep of tunnel dark were like a womb from which she had emerged wholly grown and new. For the first time in many years, the bird cry had not made her shiver with trepidation. Its wild shrill was an invitation to live or even to soar. The sound it sang to the wind was freedom. Hearing it, she had cried.

  Michael had put a hand on her shoulder and Vanessa had marveled at his dirt streaked, golden skin and the dreadlocks that framed his round face. His deep eyes had gazed inward as he stared across the lake. When he glanced down at her, she had reached up to him, touching his jaw, brow, and cheeks. Then she had kissed him, daring the moment to be the harbinger of change.

  He had kissed her back with smooth, soft lips. The warmth of his mouth on hers was nectar, sweet and honeyed. She had longed to feel his arms around her, but his crutches were in the way and she did not want him to fall. Nor did she want to support his weight. Like the bird, the kiss had sung freedom and vanished as quickly. She had smiled. He had smiled back. When a commanding voice beckoned, the moment had ended. They had joined Mariah and the other cell members on the dark rocks. A black-clad SEAL motioned to them. His name was Joe. He was from Texas. Texas was real.

  Following his terse instructions, they had waited hours for dark to fall and the boats to arrive. Vanessa had been tired. Like a newborn, the stimulus of light and air had exhausted her. She had dragged herself up the hill, rested on the flat surface of a big boulder, and stared out across the slick surface of the lake. It had been pleasant there. The steep slope of the hill hid the concrete and decay of the city and her perch had reminded her of the bench in the park.

  Now, as the past hours whirled in her head, she conjured visions of dark and light, fear and safety, fury and hope. Her bed was really a cot, a hard mattress on wire springs. There were two to a bunk and the bunks lined the floor of the barracks in long, neat rows. The rise and fall of breaths from the sleeping people around her was like the stirring of wind in leaves. She could not join them in their easy slumber.

  She thought it unlikely she would ever see the bench again. And what of those they had left behind? Her stomach knotted. Envisioning Ashley running past her in the sewer pipe, she thought of Jeremy, wracked with pain and fever, alone in the burning building. Ramirez was also out there and she doubted he knew the object of his quest didn’t need his heroism after all. If it were not so sad, it would be funny. Like Don Quixote, Ramirez would roam the countryside looking for heroic deeds to perform, or women to rescue, without ever realizing he was the one who needed to be saved.

  Vanessa turned her attention back to her new surroundings. The army base was neat and efficient. The soldiers, hiding their curiosity, had gone about their duties scarcely glancing at the refugees. It was as if they were ghosts, briefly visiting an earthly abode they no longer inhabited.

  She was vacuous, drifting. Everything was surreal. The sewer pipe, the SEALs, the cold spray of water over the bow on their short journey to the mainland, and the dinner that refused to digest in her belly were scenes and props in a bizarre play. The one thing of substance was the kiss. She savored the memory. In that brief instant, she had been real. Nothing else had mattered. Was it possible to feel this? To want to touch and hold a man? To want to be touched and held? A week ago, she wouldn’t have believed it. Even now, she was not sure she did. What, after all, was a week?

  She imagined Michael, his supple, golden skin, and the way his pen scratched when he wrote. His languid calm concealed an unknown and beautiful deep. A week was a lifetime, just as the hours she had spent enduring the grunts and thrusts of her driver were an eternity. Time was not measured in minutes.

  Restlessly, she shifted in her narrow bed. The borrowed, cotton tee shirt and soft, boxer briefs were constricting. She ran her hands over her breasts and down her belly, hungering for Michael’s touch. A low groan stilled her. Recognizing the timber of the voice, Vanessa swung her legs over the mattress, stepped onto the cold floor, and tiptoed across the barracks to where the men slept. Michael lay in the third bunk from the door. She had said goodnight to him there before joining the women and children on the far side of the room.

  Light seeped under the doorframe and she used it as a guide. When she whispered his name, he did not reply. Instead, he patted the bed, beckoning her to him. As she neared, he drew down the blankets and she climbed on top of him. The narrow cot prevented them from lying side by side.

  His hard, plaster cast chafed her bare leg and she stifled a giggle. Michael wrapped his arms around her. Burrowing her head into the hollow of his neck, she breathed musk and honey. He stroked her hair and then trailed his hands along her back. She reached up, touching his face, his lips. He grew hard beneath her when she kissed him, his bare skin hot under her hands. She explored his chest, arms, and nipples. Wanting to feel her skin against his, she pulled off her shirt. The cool air contrasted with the heat of his body. The sensation filled her with an urgency she had forgotten. Movement silenced thought. She was liquid and without form, lost in touch, taste, and the intensity of the moment. He moaned, arching against her, and tugged at her briefs.

  Her hair swung against her face. Sweat made their bodies slippery. He was in her. She was in him. They moved in shared rhythm and need, expanding, falling, and exploding together. Finally still, he whispered her name. “Vanessa,” he said. “Oh god...”

  She shushed him with a kiss and laid her head on his chest. Lingering in the silence, she listened to the rise and fall of his breath. Too soon, how
ever, the awkward position took its toll on her limbs and she had to move. Gingerly climbing off him, Vanessa felt around for her clothes. When dressed, she bent to kiss him again. He caressed her face, his hand warm like the sun. She left without saying anything. Words would only get in the way.

  Back in her own bed, she reveled in the sensations coursing through her body. Her muscles throbbed from tensions released. Everything felt realigned. She shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Wide awake and too hot under the blankets, a cold anger flared inside her. The events of the last ten days had shaken her awake. Tossing and turning, she raged against everything she had lost and everyone who had stolen her world. She had wanted the terror to end, but Michael’s sweet scent on her body, and the memory of his lips on hers, gave rise to a different desire. She would have her vengeance and reclaim her body. More, she would rekindle her dreams. When the men who had abused her suffered the knifelike edge of her apathy as they pleaded for their miserable lives, she would finally be free to love.

  She willed herself to relax. Anger would not accomplish anything. The administrators were readying an airborne version of the Priscilla virus. If successful, they would control the world. Only the SEALs could save them. Or could they? No one had stopped the designers yet. And what of Isaac? Was he really part of their horrific plan? She had trusted him completely and the revelation of his deceit was a jagged slash, a bloody wound. His involvement was impossible. She had to be missing something. Isaac had loved her. Of this, she was certain. If part of the NSO, why would he have warned people on the mainland of the new Priscilla virus? None of it made sense.