Pipe Dreams

by Destiny Allison

  Bowen and Lewis shared a glance. Then Lewis smiled. “It sounds as if you’ve had quite a fright. I’m surprised your captors didn’t kill you. Isn’t that what they would ordinarily do with a cop?”

  “I don’t know. Obviously, if they’d wanted to kill me they would have. Somehow, I got the feeling that the men who grabbed me weren’t in charge. It was like they were waiting for someone.”

  “Lucky for you,” Lewis said.

  “What do you mean, ’waiting for someone’?” Bowen interjected before Lewis could continue.

  “Look. I don’t know. They kept me alone in a room. Occasionally, I heard them talking, but I only caught fragments. You think I asked for this? You think it was some kind of party?” Ramirez stood and glared at his superiors. Lewis yawned and stretched his neck until it cracked. His smiling face showed no emotion.

  “Well. Doesn’t much matter now, does it? Since you’re here, we’ll let you stay. No sense letting you go back to your regular duties. You’re not very good at them anyway. Don’t you agree, Chief?”

  Bowen frowned and blew a deep breath through pursed lips, hissing resignation like a balloon deflating. “Yeah. Can’t really send him back. Bad for morale,” Bowen finally agreed.

  “Put him to work in the plant,” Lewis said.

  “Doing what?”

  Lewis shrugged. “Chief, I really don’t care what you do with him as long as he doesn’t leave. He’s your man, so he’s your problem. You solve it. Now get out here, both of you.”

  He waved toward the elevator, dismissing them. The chief nodded and moved out of the room, beckoning Ramirez to follow. When the door to the elevator shut behind them, Bowen cursed, “Bastard!” Ramirez couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think the chief was referring to him.

  CHAPTER 36

  Dawn had not paled the dark when McGrath woke. He had not slept well and a sense of foreboding compounded his cigarette craving. He lingered a moment, dreading the day. Rolling out of bed, he was careful not to wake his wife. For all the things they had in common, they did not share sleep patterns and, as much as he loved her, he didn’t enjoy the raging bitch she became on mornings her sleep was curtailed.

  In the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee and stared out the window. His reflection in the glass taunted him. At 6’2, McGrath was trim and fit, but the toll of years was evident in the gray streaks in his hair and razor stubble. The lines in his forehead were permanently etched and his wrinkles were so noticeable his wife teased him about looking distinguished. This morning, the purple tinge of stress and exhaustion shadowed his eyes. His mouth was sour, dirty, and dry.

  The communiqué from the SEAL team weighed on his mind. The crazy mission was a pipe dream with almost no chance of success. He gripped the edge of the counter, feeling the power in his muscles. For all intents and purposes, his strength was useless. If the team failed, he failed. Then the virus would destroy everything and everyone he loved.

  When the coffee was ready, he poured himself a cup and padded to his office. Since landing on the isolated base, it had been his routine to read every news article on Google in the mornings before his family awoke. The habit kept him connected with everyday occurrences and in touch with the world.

  Reading about movie stars, scientific discoveries, and financial reports was surreal. These days, the concept of Wal-Mart was about as foreign to him as the Eiffel Tower. His family occasionally made the thirty mile trek to the nearest interstate and got off the base, but the closest town was more than an hour commute each way. McGrath preferred to stay on the grounds.

  He finished his coffee and glanced at the clock on his computer monitor. There was still about an hour before Beth staggered out of bed. Lacing his shoes on the small bench next to the front door, he stretched before stepping out into the crisp, dawn air.

  Every day, he ran the same route, doing five miles in just under thirty minutes. He knew he should vary his routine, but his run was more about meditation than exercise. On autopilot, he allowed himself precious time to think about nothing. His best ideas came from this discipline and he knew how much it increased both his patience and productivity.

  His well worn loop enabled him to take in the beauty of the base. First he ran east, reveling in the rising sun. At the end of the barracks, he turned and followed the tree-lined path along the perimeter. When he reached the training grounds, he occasionally put himself through the obstacle course, but today he didn’t deviate. Instead, he turned north and ran until the path hit the beach.

  The lead colored water was still this morning. A flock of birds rose out of the meadow to his right. His eyes softened as they soared into the lightening sky. By the time he reached the boathouse, his breath was ragged. On some mornings he picked up his pace for the last mile, pushing himself against the creep of age. Today, he was too tired. Maintaining an even stride, he focused on his breathing, counting his footsteps as they fell on the gravel path.

  Just before the loop ended, it descended into a hollow that created a small bay. The night patrols would be returning soon, landing their craft on the beachhead in front of him, but right now, no boats were in sight. Driftwood mingled with grass and wildflowers in the aromatic depression, making it a haven for butterflies. His young children loved to chase frogs in the muddy water at the bottom.

  He was climbing out of the hollow when he caught something strange out the corner of his eye. In the tall grasses to his left, a log was barely visible in the early morning light. He could just make out a lump on its craggy surface. While he watched, the lump moved.

  Most likely, a young recruit had chosen this spot to bed down after losing his bunk to the refugees, but McGrath thought he had better investigate. The soft ground muffled his footsteps and he was well trained in the art of stealth. Circling the log, he cautiously approached it from the front. As he neared it, he crouched low, listening. When he peeked over the grasses, the honey-colored refugee looked directly at him, his wide mouth stretched in a bright grin. Startled, McGrath slid down. Then he stood and strode toward the log, returning the smile. The man had nailed him.

  “Guess I need some practice,” McGrath said, extending his hand.

  “I’m Michael Johnson. Excuse me for not getting up.” Michael grasped the outstretched palm and then gestured to the plaster cast that covered three quarters of his right leg.

  “Sean McGrath,” the colonel replied. “Mind if I join you?”

  “No, have a seat.”

  McGrath wiggled to find a comfortable position next to Michael. He took a minute to study the man. Michael had an easy demeanor and casual grace. Last night, McGrath had assumed Michael was a punk by nature, insolent and cocky. This morning, he wasn’t so sure. Well-placed intelligent eyes shone in a young, good looking face. Michael’s smile was open, humorous, and sincere. McGrath took in the man’s long dreadlocks, comfortable clothes, and relaxed posture. A worn leather notebook, bound by a thick rubber band, rested in the man’s lap. If a punk, he was atypical.

  “I’ve been wishing for a spot like this,” Michael said, nodding his head at the hollow. “Peaceful here.”

  “One of my favorite places,” McGrath agreed.

  “Different from the city, that’s for sure.”

  “I bet.” McGrath pondered the island, just seven miles beyond the shore, and the men fell silent, lost in their own thoughts. After a minute, Michael stirred.

  “So what now?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What happens now we’re here? What happens next? I gather you can’t just let us up and go on? Right? So what are you gonna do with us?”

  McGrath considered Michael’s questions. Beyond their ability to provide critical intelligence, the refugees were a huge problem. Technically, they were dead. McGrath had been wrestling with how he would tell them they were not free to leave the base even after the crisis ended.

  “What gives you that idea?” he said, stalling.

  “Come on. Don’t be givin
’ me coy. I know we don’t look like much, but we ain’t stupid. We’re a problem for you no matter which way you look at it. If we weren’t, how come your boy took us off the island? You couldn’t afford for us to be roamin’ around knowing the SEALs were there, and if you were just gonna let us go, you would have let us use the phones last night. Lots of us have people we’d give just about anything to talk to, but your boys said no. We gotta talk to you first.

  The way I see it, you’ve been spinnin’ a lie of your own. Otherwise, the whole world would have been knockin’ at your door. So, whatever it is, we ain’t supposed to be here. We can’t go back and now you’re stuck with us.”

  McGrath sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what’s next. The situation’s precarious, to say the least. I’m hoping you and your people can help. Right now, stopping that virus, or finding its vaccine, is my number one priority. If we don’t, what happens next isn’t really up to me anymore.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got a point there. Thing is, I’m not sure what we’ve got to offer.”

  “You lived there. You must know how they operate, who’s in charge, where their facilities are, yes?” McGrath asked.

  “No. It isn’t like that. Nobody knows anything. All we’ve got are bits and pieces. We weren’t part of them. We’ve been tryin’ to figure out what they were up to this whole time, when we weren’t busy just survivin’ that is.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Michael looked at the colonel and then down at his lap. He picked a long piece of grass and twisted it into a knot as he told McGrath about the NSO and how the cell had survived.

  As the picture emerged in the colonel’s mind, he was flabbergasted. He had assumed the supplies the base delivered fed the entire population, or what was left of it after the initial violence had taken its toll. It had not occurred to him that division existed in the city, or that people had been starving and cold. His blood boiled as he learned of the NSO’s treachery. Kneading a smooth, round rock, he pressed for details.

  By the time Michael finished his story, the sun had risen fully. McGrath stood and reached out a hand to help Michael to his feet.

  “After breakfast, I want to hear it all again – from each of you. We’re going to go over and over this until we find the NSO’s weakness. The heavy hitters from Washington are on the way for the formal interrogation, but we can’t afford to wait. Michael, will you help me?”

  Michael adjusted the crutches under his arms and looked out across the lake. Then, meeting McGrath’s eyes, he nodded. “Not sure we’ll make much of a difference, but we’ll do what we can, Colonel. We’ll do what we can.”

  CHAPTER 37

  When Vanessa woke, it took a minute to remember where she was. Soft light filtered pale and cool through opaque skylights high in the pitched roof of the barracks. Stretching, she pushed away the blankets. She was in no rush to rise. Instead, she concentrated on holding onto her dreams. They were fickle, already retreating from the onslaught of consciousness. Someone had once told her to keep a dream journal, but she had never been able to recall more than slim fragments.

  The barracks were empty. White walls, metal bunks, and the shining surface of a recently waxed floor were silent reminders of how much her world had changed again. On a trunk at the foot of her bed, someone had left her a towel and change of clothes. Unlike the others who had joined her on this journey, she had little of her own. Her small pack contained only dirty jeans, a warm fleece, and sentimental items. On the way to the showers, she paused to touch the handle of her grandfather’s knife, its smooth surface was a testament to the past and a validation. She was Vanessa Kovalic, her grandfather’s only living legacy.

  When dressed, Vanessa tidied her bunk and hung her towel over the metal frame. She would not let sloppiness dull the crispness of her surroundings. Outside, the pine-scented air was bright and clean. Well trimmed grass bordered a gravel path in front of the barracks. The absence of crumbling concrete was a blessing. Her chest tightened and tears pricked her eyes at the beauty of her surroundings.

  She followed the path to the building in which she had dined last night. In front of it, a colorful garden surrounded a flagpole proudly hoisting the American flag. Next to the entry, a uniformed young man stood at attention. He nodded as Vanessa approached and held open the door.

  “Thank you,” she muttered, unaccustomed to chivalry.

  “Ma’am,” he replied.

  Crossing the wide lobby, her momentary optimism dulled. Her current environment, juxtaposed to her recent past, was wrong. How was she in this sane and peaceful world while the NSO, just seven miles away, still perpetrated its malice?

  She had spent so many years imagining violent retribution that the quiet encampment belied her understanding. Had the soldiers been drilling or shells been flying, she could have more easily accepted it. Now, Vanessa was infuriated by the lack of action. The fantasy she had maintained of an eventual conflict between the NSO and the outside world had fueled her resolve to survive, but the pleasant base was the antithesis of her dreams. By the time she reached the cafeteria, she was at war with herself.

  The cell members gathered around the same table they had occupied last night. Empty plates and glasses littered its hard surface. The smell of hot coffee and bacon enticed her like a siren’s song. Ravenous, her eyes traveled to the buffet on the opposite side of the room.

  Steaming containers covered with stainless steel lids, baskets of fruit and bread, and a drink station drew her. She waved good morning as she passed the table, focused solely on the food in front of her. As if she had not eaten in ages, the strength of her compulsion surprised her.

  When Vanessa had filled her plate, she returned to the table. There were no seats next to Michael. She regretted this. He was as beautiful as the morning. His dreadlocks were pulled back in a loose ponytail and a white tee shirt showed off his golden skin and muscular arms. The pull of his lips competed with her hunger, though she tried not to let it show.

  The food was an overwhelming luxury. It had been so long since she had tasted the sweetness of fresh fruit or reveled in the texture of warm toast. While no one in the NSO starved, there had never been quite enough to eat. The breakfast in front of her was a bounty and she savored each bite, scarcely heeding the conversations taking place around her.

  Finally sated, she gave her attention to her companions. Their festive chatter was incongruous, as if they were on holiday in a resort hotel. Noting the absences at the table, Vanessa was embarrassed for them. Jeremy and Ashley were not here, nor were Paul, Sarah, or Jon. She also missed Ramirez. He had been as much family as the rest of them in her short sojourn into their world.

  She glanced at Michael. His face was serious and he did not engage in the conversations. Flashing a small smile, his eyes met hers. After a moment he raised his hand and coughed. The table grew quiet.

  “I hate to interrupt, but there’s some things we gotta talk about. We’re all feelin’ pretty good right now and that’s natural. Soon though, we’re gonna have to face some facts and I’d just as soon lay them on the table now.” Michael paused, waiting for his words to sink in before continuing.

  “First off, we’re not leavin’ here anytime soon, so all that talk about callin’ folks and seeing relatives has gotta stop. It won’t help. They can’t let us go and I respect that…”

  A murmur rose from the group like a quick wind, the surge of protests muting Michael’s voice. The anticipation of seeing family had been a constant subject since they had emerged from the sewer and disappointment lined their faces. Michael put both hands in the air.

  “Wait. Wait a minute and hear me out. You all heard the truth about what’s been goin’ down. The administrators are plannin’ some nasty shit. I know it’s easy to feel pretty safe right now, but we’re not. We’re not any safer here than we were on the island. Nobody is. We’ve talked for a long time about how we could fix things, make ’em right again. Now’s the time. We owe that to Jeremy
and everyone else still back there. We owe it to our families. Fact is, if the administrators succeed, there won’t be anybody worth seein’. The NSO will win. And it’s not like we have a choice about it. So we can bitch all we want, while we eat good food and sleep in clean beds, but it ain’t gonna make a difference. What we need to do, only thing we can do, is cooperate.”

  The table was quiet. As memories of the city clouded out the present, people grew grim. The room became drab and ominous. The soiled plates and half empty cups were a betrayal. They pushed them away, distancing themselves from the reminders of their guilt. Mariah broke the silence, calm as always.

  “What are we supposed to do?” she asked.

  “In a little while, Colonel McGrath is gonna talk to us one at a time. He’s gonna ask us for everything we can remember about what’s happenin’ in the city. We’ve gotta do our best for him, be his eyes and ears, so he can get a real picture of what’s gone down. If we’re lucky, we might come up with somethin’ he can use to stop them. Anything you’ve got, anything you can recall that’ll help his team find the vaccine, you’ve gotta share. This matters, people. This is the chance we’ve been waitin’ for to fight back.”

  When Michael finished speaking, they asked a few questions he could not answer. Finally, the tension was too much. Michael dragged himself off the bench and grabbed his crutches. “The colonel said there’s a rec room we can wait in. It’s okay if you don’t want to use it. You just have to tell the sentry outside where you’ll be,” he added, turning to leave. Vanessa followed him.

  They crossed the lobby and stepped out into the bright day. The flowers no longer look as cheerful, but she was heartened by Michael’s words. Her sharp anger was motivating. For the first time since the rebellion, what she knew might be worth something. The nagging thought she had last night returned. Again, she conjured the face of Harry Rose and burst into a run.