Branch Off

by Dario Solera

  “But where?” he blurted. “Where is command?”

  Coming from the north, they crossed the Rhone River and then proceeded toward their final destination in the eastern part of the city, where Sarah’s parents lived.

  “Looks worse here,” Gagnier said.

  There were more collapsed buildings and destroyed military vehicles, both Swiss and German. A jewelry shop front was intact, still with gems on display.

  “Everyone must have left in a hurry,” Léa said. She watched the diversity of an abandoned city flow past her, with some structures undamaged and others just a mound of rubble.

  “And there are no corpses,” Gagnier observed.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not so sure. Maybe this is nothing and the real battle is somewhere else.”

  “Or maybe we repelled the attack.”

  “Yeah. Maybe,” he said with a sigh.

  “Where is your family?”

  “I told you, I’m not married.”

  “Well, yeah, I mean…”

  He waited for a time before answering. “I don’t have anyone left. Just some close friends here in Geneva.”

  Léa nodded in silence.

  “They are probably safe in the camps.”

  The car went around a small crater in the street. The road’s conditions were getting worse, with more rubble and debris scattered everywhere and the occasional hole dug up by a bomb.

  “Your sister?” he asked.

  She looked away. “She’s smart. She can look after herself. Do you think Zurich is fine?”

  “It’s likely that all active and reserve personnel were called to action. We have a hundred thousand armed men across the country, so rest assured that all civilians are being protected.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Gagnier shot a glance at her while driving.

  “What do you think?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me.”

  He nodded and took a deep breath, adjusting his back into the seat. “I think Zurich is fine.”

  Thirty

  As she progressed through the secondary tunnel, with a large, humming water pipe to her left, Sarah could not help but brood over the warning sign she had seen at the beginning of the gallery: there were no vertical access shafts in this passage, and no emergency exits until the opposite end. At least that had told her that the precise distance she had to walk was less than four kilometers.

  “Manageable.”

  The concrete floor sloped down slightly. Walking was easy at first, but after ten minutes her knees and hips ached a little, forced to take the bulk of her weight at every step forward, balancing the gravity that pulled her.

  She had no idea where she would emerge. She pictured a huge mass of water somewhere in front of her. The exit must have been near the coast of the lake, north of the Rhone River. Four kilometers underground, and another four, maybe five on the surface. Her legs quivered at the thought.

  And it was a gamble. She didn’t even know what to expect outside. She had been lucky not to encounter other soldiers in the tunnel, and she progressed with a lump in her chest, expecting to see a group of armed men coming at her just beyond the tunnel’s curvature. It would be very unlikely to find a patrol in such a remote place, and yet she glanced behind every now and then.

  The walk ended after about forty-five minutes, taking her through another sealed door and then into a large room with noisy machinery that she figured were pumps running at full speed.

  Sarah wandered around the machines on the grated floor, noticing water trickling beneath her feet. She came to a larger gate that, according to the sign, led to the surface.

  On the other side, right in front of the door and after a short and narrow corridor, was an infinite staircase. Engineers had even written the number of steps on a plaque: five hundred and sixty.

  “Shit.” Walking ten kilometers was one thing, but climbing a hundred meters of stairs was suicide. “No way.”

  Wanting to take a few paces to clear her mind, she turned to her left and then she noticed the elevator doors. It was a just a cage of metal grates, but it had a nice button emitting a warm, red light.

  A laugh escaped her mouth as she pushed it, its click satisfying below her forefinger. A couple minutes later, the cabin stopped in front of her and the doors opened.

  Stepping in, she observed that it was a bare industrial elevator without walls, but it was as welcome as an oasis in the desert. Inside, the little control panel had only two buttons: up and down. As she pushed the former, the doors shut and it moved upward with a jolt.

  The lift led her to an empty room with a dusty concrete floor. A dim emergency light lit the small compartment, and her eyes searched for a door. She was prepared to use the gun to break the lock, but even in the low illumination, she could see that it had a red antipanic handle.

  She rested there for a moment, looking at the downward staircase, dwelling on the bit of luck she had just had, and then moved to the door.

  As she pushed the handle, the door gave a little. At first it seemed as though it was stuck, but then she noticed the unusual thickness of the hatch. It wasn’t a simple fire door, but it looked like a solid slab of steel mounted on giant hinges. Ramming her shoulder into it, it finally opened wide, giving her the view of an unadorned staircase with concrete steps and metal railings.

  “Come on,” she said to herself. As dreadful as it was, she could not avoid it, and she began going up as the gate slammed closed behind her.

  After three flights of stairs, she found another, normal door. Beyond it, blinding daylight forced her to squint her eyes.

  Streets were deserted. A few cars were parked along the curbs, but no one was around. Behind the low structure she had emerged from was the sparkling surface of the lake, turned grey by the clouds in the sky.

  Her mind wondered where everyone was, but then she noticed smoke rising from a building only a couple hundred meters away. “Shit,” she whispered.

  Sarah ventured a few steps on the sidewalk, glancing up and down and trying to decide which direction to go. She found no landmarks and had no idea about where she was. She knew she had to go southeast. Following the coast and the docks seemed the right option, and she walked for half an hour until she reached the Mont-Blanc Bridge across the Rhone River.

  Wind swept the deserted road.

  On the other side, things got complex. Her destination should have been no farther than a couple more kilometers, but finding the right street was close to impossible without a reference.

  Sighing, she decided to walk to the nearest intersection to her left, hoping to spot the familiar shape of a bus- or tram-stop sign. A brisk pace brought her to the crossing in a minute.

  “There you are.”

  Inside the shelter was a tiny, faded map of the area, hung within a yellowed plexiglass case. There was no list of places, so she had to scan the map, trying to find the address, hoping that she hadn’t ended up in the wrong part of the city.

  The map covered a square of four kilometers. A limb of Lake Geneva was visible, just where it became a river. The place looked right, yet she could not find the name of the street.

  “Yes!”

  With pounding heart, she took the pen she had in one of her pockets and drew a snip of the map on the palm of her hand.

  Looking about, she found the correct direction, and then she set up a light jog, the ache in her legs washed away by the first success in an entire lifetime of searches for her biological parents. Had the other Sarah felt the same when she had found them?

  She forced herself to pay little attention to the signs of battle around her—wrecked vehicles, shattered windows, and collapsed buildings. She even ignored the grumble in her stomach. It was almost noon and she was hungry and thirsty, but she didn’t mind her body and pushed on with stoic determination.

  After half a kilometer or so, however, her legs gave up and she had to sl
ow down to a normal walk, but now she was very close to her destination.

  As she walked past an abandoned bar, she finally noticed that her mouth was as dry as sand. She stopped in front of the glass door and looked up and down the street, already feeling a little guilty for having to go in and steal water.

  Sarah saw no one, so she tried the door, sighing when she found it locked. Her mind resolved on getting in, so she decided to do something she wouldn’t have imagined being able to do. She took the gun, and with its butt she shattered the lower glass pane of the door.

  Inside, she went around the tall bar counter and fumbled below it, looking for bottled water. “Bingo.” The fridge was full of half-liter plastic bottles, and she took one and gulped it down in a single go with immense pleasure and relief.

  While she was at it, glancing across the countertop, she searched for something to eat. She had broken into private property, so it was better to exploit it fully before leaving the place. Her eyes spotted chocolate bars near the cashier’s desk and she ate a couple, gulping down more water. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until her mouth tasted the sweet, crunchy snacks.

  Thinking about what lay ahead, she pocketed a little more junk food and two bottles of water. Her bulletproof jacket was beginning to look like a Christmas tree adorned with candy, and it weighed a ton, but at least it was of some use.

  As her head emerged from the doorframe and she peeked outside, her subconscious expected to find people, and the fact that there were none baffled her. The connection was made, however, and it occurred to her that her parents were not special, were not different from the others. If there was no one around, where would they be?

  With her head bent down, she walked the last one and a half kilometers with a slow pace, once more unsure about her course of action. She was too close to give up, but she was sure that her search would be a failure—like all of her previous tries. A perfect plan built on top of unrealistic expectations and a bit of bad luck.

  Finally, halfway down a slight slope, the apartment building where her biological parents lived stood in front of her, unlit and silent. She scanned the entry phone for familiar names, but it only listed numbers. The wood-and-glass doorway was locked, and the white-framed windows were dark behind the wrought-iron grates.

  She buzzed all twelve buttons, but nobody answered.

  Backing away from the gate and moving to the other side of the street, she looked up for a long while. Her hope sank a little further as she saw no lights and no movement.

  Perhaps she could break into the building with the gun, but it would make a hell of a noise. “Fuck it,” she said, walking over to the doorway and pulling the weapon out.

  Sarah trained the pistol at the brass doorknob and, squeezing her eyes, she pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened, just a dull click.

  “Damn. The safety,” she told herself. She looked at the gun and found a little lever on the left side of the firearm. She switched it and positioned her body again to fire.

  It made a different tick this time, but once more it didn’t shoot.

  She tried to pull the slide, imagining that she would have to load a bullet into the chamber. Releasing it, something clicked inside the pistol.

  For the third time, she aligned her trembling hand with the knob and pulled the trigger. Her wrist and arm were yanked backward, and she screamed at the thundering noise, which resounded for several moments in the street.

  Going closer to the door, she tried the handle. It wobbled a little, but it was still locked.

  Two more rounds broke the lock and opened the doorway. Her right wrist ached as she restored the safety and placed the warm gun back into the breast pocket of her jacket. Adrenaline forced her to look around her, up and down the street.

  The gate opened with a thin screeching sound. Her steps reverberated in the empty hall. There were no doors there except for that of the lift, strangely ready at ground floor, and the passage to the staircase.

  On the opposite wall, an array of twelve mailboxes had names printed on them but no numbers. She scanned the labels and found one that read, “J. Marchand – G. Villeneuve.” She didn’t know her parents’ last names, but just the first names that Léa had told her. That label was the only with the correct initials for Jacques and Geraldine. There was another “J” and another “G,” but on two different tags.

  Hers was the eighth mailbox in the row.

  With pounding heart and quivering legs, she began climbing the stairs. On the first floor, she counted four apartment doors, so she continued to the second floor.

  Walking down the hallway, she spotted a small plaque on the last door. The tag, within a floral decoration, read, “Jacques and Geraldine.”

  Sarah’s eyes filled with tears, and she stood there in front of the entrance with her hands on her mouth, transfixed by the sudden realization that she had made it.

  Thirty-one

  Sarah heard noises coming from the stairs. Her instinct told her to search for a place to hide, but the corridor was plain and there was nowhere to go. She pondered the option of going to the upper floors, but that would only trap her even more.

  Someone was talking downstairs, and the sound of steps resounded in the staircase. There was a moment of silence, and then the paces resumed, much closer now. They had discovered her and they were coming to take her back. Maybe Requin himself.

  She didn’t know why she did it, but she took the gun from her pocket and pointed it at the stairs, holding it with both hands and pressing her back against the wall that ended the corridor. The pistol trembled in front of her and she could not breathe.

  The shape of a man came into view, and then a woman.

  “Sarah?” the woman said.

  “Put the gun down,” the man said, motioning with one hand. He turned his head slightly, telling something to the woman, and moved toward Sarah.

  It was Gagnier. Sarah let her arms fall, and her lungs resumed pumping air in and out.

  Léa ran to her, embraced her in an awkward hug around her bulky clothes, and kissed her lips. A flash of emotions reached Sarah from the past, engulfing her. She could remember Léa’s sweet touch, which contrasted badly with the cold gun in her right hand.

  “You were about to shoot us,” Gagnier said with a serious face.

  She ignored him.

  “You found the place,” Léa said with a smile. “How did you get here?”

  “It’s a long story. There were eight soldiers with me. The plan was to reach the labs to investigate.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was in the second jeep, and when we went through the anomaly, the first one had already been hit.” Her voice broke. Recounting those terrifying moments was harder than she thought. “We went down an access shaft and walked in the tunnel. Then—” She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “Then, we were attacked. Emminger gave me this gun and let me go.”

  “They’re all dead?” Gagnier asked.

  Sarah diverted her eyes downward. “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “With an electric cart I drove through the main gallery, and then I went through a cooling tunnel. A very long walk. The Institute was under control of the Germans, and I had no way to go forward with the plan. I thought, it’s now or never.” She put the gun back into the pocket.

  Léa nodded and sent a glance at Gagnier.

  “How did you get here?”

  “We escaped,” Léa said, bobbing her head at Gagnier. “He’s a good actor.”

  “I have to return in three days. Requin told me he would kill you if I don’t. But you’re here, so…” Sarah smiled.

  “He didn’t tell us anything.”

  “Maybe it was a bluff.”

  Gagnier clenched his jaws.

  “Did you—” Léa asked.

  “Not yet.” Sarah looked at the door and then at the knob. She knocked gently, as though she could wake up someone.r />
  “There is no one in Geneva. At least, we haven’t seen anyone,” he said.

  Sarah tried again, harder this time. She tried the doorknob. “It’s locked.”

  “Your gun?” Léa asked.

  She pondered the idea for a moment. “I’m not sure.” Breaking into her parents’ home felt wrong.

  “I can do it,” Gagnier said.

  “It’s not that. I managed to get inside this building. It’s just that this is… home.”

  “We don’t have the whole day,” he said. He pushed Sarah and Léa away and drove a powerful kick into the door, breaking it open.

  Léa stared at him with her lips parted. “Now that was a bit rude.”

  “It’s just a door.”

  Sarah shook her head and stepped in, looking around. “Wait here,” she told them.

  The hallway had white walls and a cream marble floor. It opened into several doors and an antique console lay to the right, with a brass lamp and some knickknacks on top. A long, narrow carpet covered part of the floor farther into the hallway.

  “Hello?” she said, feeling stupid. They had just made a hell of a noise destroying the door.

  Daylight seeped in from the first door to the left. Peeking inside, she saw an empty living room with a black leather sofa, a low cabinet with a TV on top, and several oil paintings on the walls. A wide window led to a balcony with potted plants.

  Back in the hallway, she glanced at Léa and Gagnier waiting at the door.

  Opposite the living room was a closed door. She turned its handle and found herself in the kitchen. It had a large wooden table and modern kitchenware. An empty, used pan was on the gas cooker, and dirty plates and silverware were in the sink.

  Her heart pounded fast at those signs of life.

  She glanced into the next door to the right. The bathroom was vacant.

  Only two doors remained, one to the left and the other at the end of the hallway, facing the main apartment door.

  The first passage was ajar. Inside was a studio, with an ancient-looking desk and a leather chair. A tall bookcase housed hundreds of books, some new, others very old, with golden embossed letters on their sides. A plant leaned toward the window.