The Capture

by Tom Isbell

  Come on, where is it? Where is it?

  She finally locates the badge, pinching it with her fingers. Then she raises her arm gradually, imperceptibly, afraid any quick movements will draw attention to herself. Folding her arms across her chest, she presses the black square to her shirt. It won’t stay there, of course, not without stitching, so she leans slightly backward to balance it.

  At just that moment, Horse Face turns to Hope.

  “You sure are breathing heavy for just standing there,” he says.

  “Asthma,” Hope says. “If you’d ever turn the heat up in this place, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “Not because you were running through the tunnels?”

  “Why would I be running?”

  “Exactly. Why would you be running?”

  He stands there, examining her the way one studies a wild animal one intends to kill. For the longest time, nobody says anything. It seems as though all the Less Thans and Sisters have forgotten how to breathe. The man suddenly lowers his eyes.

  “Your square,” he says.

  A surge of fear shoots through Hope. Did it not stick? Is it lying on the ground?

  “What about it?” she asks. Her stomach has gone all jelly.

  “It’s crooked.”

  She refuses to look down at it. “So they tell me.”

  “Then you better get it fixed.”

  “If you say so.”

  When the man with the horse face realizes he’s not going to get any more information, he gives a grunt to his two comrades. The three men wheel away. Hope waits until they’ve completely disappeared before allowing herself a breath.

  There are nods of congratulations all around, but Hope knows they’re not out of the woods. Not by a long shot. Based on everything she saw earlier this evening, she suspects they’re in more danger than ever.

  35.

  MANDY AND I SAT on our ledge and shared a picnic dinner. When an enormous thunderhead exploded on the far horizon, we inhaled the dust-scented perfume of a coming storm, then hurried back inside, dodging the first fat pellets of rain.

  After a long good-bye and a short kiss, a goofy smile plastered my face as I made my way back to the cell. When I rounded the bend and saw the sober faces of the other seven prisoners, the smile died on my face.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Is there a problem?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” Diana said. “You.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re the problem.”

  I laughed uneasily and shifted my gaze to the others. “What’s she talking about?”

  Flush looked embarrassed and dropped his eyes. Twitch angled his head in another direction. It was left to Cat to ask, “What’ve you told her?”

  “Told who?”

  “Your girlfriend.”

  My body tensed. “Mandy is not my girlfriend, and I didn’t tell her anything.”

  “You didn’t tell Mandy anything?”

  I gritted my teeth. “No more than any two people tell each other.”

  No one said anything. The silence lengthened.

  “So how’d the guards know we were stashing silverware?” Diana asked.

  “Got me. I didn’t tell her that.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Nothing about our tunnel?”

  My mind raced. “Okay, once, I might’ve mentioned that if we ever hoped to survive, we’d have to dig our way clear . . .”

  “Book!”

  “. . . but I said it as a joke. And I never mentioned how. Or where. And it’s not like it’s any big deal—”

  “The guards went through our stuff today,” Diana said. “They found the silverware and cemented up the tunnel.”

  I looked across to the other cell, and sure enough, a moist layer of fresh cement painted the back wall. I felt like throwing up.

  “You don’t know that was related to her,” I said.

  “Seems awfully coincidental.”

  “So what’re you saying? Miranda’s a spy?” I laughed at the absurdity of it.

  “Do you know who her father is?” Hope asked. She’d been silent up until now. Her expression was rigid.

  “Yeah, he’s a clerk. He keeps ledgers or something.” Even as I said it, the pit in my stomach expanded.

  “What if I said he’s not?”

  “Sure he is. That’s what Mandy told—”

  “What if I said he’s the Chief Justice of the Council of Ten?”

  It felt like she’d slapped me in the face. “That’s not true,” I managed. “He’s a clerk. “

  The others shook their heads as one.

  “How do you know this?” I could hear the desperation in my voice.

  “I followed her. After she left you.”

  “Wait a minute. You’ve been spying on me?”

  “And it’s a good thing. I trailed her back to the residences.”

  “Okay, so you saw Mandy with the Chief Justice. Big deal. I met with him too, but that doesn’t make me his son.”

  “They live in the same house.”

  I was suddenly flustered. “Well, I mean, there could be reasons—”

  “We asked around. They’re father and daughter.”

  I remembered how people deferred to Mandy in the tunnels, how the guards always let her pass. “That still doesn’t mean anything,” I said. My words were like feet scrambling on a slope of loose gravel. “Just because she’s the daughter of the Chief Justice—”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve been played, pardner,” Cat said, picking at his stump. “That’s why you got assigned to the library. So you two could meet.”

  “There’s no way you know that!” I wanted to yell, but I didn’t dare raise my voice. “She’s not a spy. And even if she is—which she’s not—I didn’t tell her anything.”

  Although the others weren’t convinced, I believed in Miranda. We were friends. We liked spending time together. She brought me dinner and we watched sunsets and she kissed me on the cheek. If it’d been a setup, I could’ve seen through that, right?

  Right?

  I opened my mouth to speak, but at that very moment a blur of movement wheeled me around. It was Argos—running right for us.

  “Argos!” I cried. “How’d you get out?” I knelt down and buried my face in his fur. I’d never been so happy to see him.

  “Don’t try to change the subject, Book,” Flush said.

  “I’m serious. How’d he get away?”

  Before anyone could answer, we heard the muffled blast of an explosion. We waited for the sound to fade away and the bell signaling the all-clear, but instead there was another muffled blast that followed. And another after that.

  We looked at one another. Something wasn’t right.

  When the next explosion came, it was followed by horrible, bloodcurdling screams.

  36.

  THEY TEAR OUT OF the cells and race down the tunnel. In no time they smell the pungent scent of a fire. Thick coils of black smoke waft past like tumbleweeds.

  “Why would there be a bonfire?” Flush asks.

  No one answers, but Hope knows: this is no bonfire.

  The screams are everywhere now, interspersed with the pop pop pop of gunfire. Other sounds, too. Shrill alarm bells. Blaring klaxons. It’s deafening and frightening, and no one knows what’s going on.

  When they peek around a tunnel’s edge, they see for themselves.

  Crazies.

  Their shaggy beards and grease-stained clothes are as foul as ever. But there’s a difference now: they sport gleaming pistols and spotless rifles, 9mm handguns and M16 assault rifles. Their primitive weapons are nowhere to be seen.

  They round up the Skull People like livestock, shooting them at will. It doesn’t matter their age or condition. Many litter the chamber floor, their blood coloring the limestone in swirls of red.

  Off to the far side, Crazies feed a growing fire. Furniture, books, clothing—all tossed i
nto the flames. The smoke that billows forth is black and acrid. The only things they appear to be saving are food, tools, and weapons.

  “How’d this happen?” Flush demands.

  But Hope knows. She and Book saw Goodman Nellitch conferring with the Man in Orange back in Bedford. The Skull People are being massacred by one of their own. What she doesn’t know is why.

  Hope gestures across the chamber. Two Crazies brandishing torches are coming their way. There is no good place for the Sisters and Less Thans to hide, and they have no weapons to defend themselves with.

  “Back to the jail,” Book says.

  Everyone looks at him like he’s crazy.

  “Back to the jail!” he says again.

  They turn and run. Slipping inside the boys’ cell, Book pulls the door shut behind him. He motions for the Sisters to do the same.

  “They don’t lock without a key,” Diana says.

  “The Crazies don’t know that.”

  They grip the bars and rattle them, giving the impression they’re trying to flee.

  “Let us out of here!” Book yells, just as the two Crazies round the corner.

  The first one pauses when he lays eyes on them. When he sees the three Sisters, he actually licks his lips and shuffles forward. His gaze falls to their black squares with the eye in the middle.

  “I got eyes for you all,” he says with a smirk. “Who’s looking for a husband?”

  “Why’re you bothering asking?” the second one says. He is round and covered in hair like a Neanderthal. “It’s not like they have any say in the matter.”

  As if to prove his point, he reaches between the bars, wraps his filthy fingers around Hope’s chin, and squeezes. He yanks her forward until her face is inches from his. Hope has no choice but to stand and take it. If she steps back, the door will swing open, and the Crazies will know they’ve been tricked.

  “See?” the Neanderthal says to Crazy #1. “All you gotta do is tell ’em. Don’t give ’em a choice.”

  His dirt-smudged fingers imprint themselves into Hope’s cheeks, distorting her lips into an exaggerated pucker. For a long moment the two face off. Then he brings his mouth forward and presses it against Hope’s. She squirms, but the best she can do is keep her teeth clenched.

  “That’s it, Hank!” Crazy #1 guffaws. “Go get her!”

  Book takes a step forward, but Cat puts a restraining hand on his arm.

  The Neanderthal pulls away from Hope and gives her a big grin. His teeth—what few he has—are like black kernels on a dead ear of corn. “She’s a fighter, I’ll say that for her.”

  He releases his hold on her chin, then shoots his hand forward until his fingers rest on her breast. He gives it a firm squeeze. “And I like fighters.”

  Book flings off Cat’s hand and pushes the cell door open. Crazy #1 can’t quite believe what he’s seeing, and he’s slow to draw his sidearm.

  “Hey, you can’t—”

  A swift kick to the groin cuts short his sentence. He tumbles to the floor, the 9mm clattering off to one side. Book reaches for the man’s torch—just as the Neanderthal is turning to see what the commotion is all about.

  “You little—”

  He doesn’t finish his sentence. Hope pushes the cell door forward—thick rebar smashing against his cheek. Book follows with a massive swing of the torch; the Crazy does a face-plant on the ground. Even though the man’s lying there, nearly unconscious, Book tosses the torch to the side and keeps punching him, over and over and over again. Finally, Flush pulls him back.

  “It’s okay, Book. You got him. He’s down.”

  Book is breathing heavily. The others tie up the two Crazies with their belts. Meanwhile, Hope is bent over, running the back of her hand across her mouth, trying to rid herself of the taste of the Crazy’s mouth. When she finally lifts her head, her brown eyes are on fire. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she says.

  They race through the tunnels. Everywhere they look, the corpses of Skull People lie scattered on the floor, their bodies riddled with bullets. The Sisters and Less Thans tiptoe around the lifeless bodies.

  Fifty yards from the entrance, they round a bend and freeze. Positioned in the very middle of one of the cave’s openings, facing their direction, is a man nestled behind a wall of sandbags . . . and a .50-caliber machine gun. If anyone is foolish enough to race for the exit, they’ll be gunned down long before they near it. They scramble to other entrances and it’s the same: machine guns just waiting to mow down anyone trying to escape.

  “Now what?” Flush asks in a fit of panic.

  They look at one another dumbly. Echoing through the tunnels is a muffled mix of screams and gunshots. Black smoke drifts in the air. If they don’t act fast—act now—they’re dead for sure.

  “We’ve gotta get outside, right?” Book asks.

  “Sure,” Flush says, “but there’s no way we’ll make it past the Crazies.”

  “If we stay in the tunnels, you’re right. But we’re not going to.”

  Diana grabs his sleeve. “How do we know we can trust you?” she asks, and Hope wonders the same thing.

  Book looks from Diana to Hope. “I guess that’s up to you.” He turns and takes off at a jog.

  The others look at Hope. Although she doesn’t know what to make of Book and his relationship with Mandy, she has no real reason to suspect he’s a traitor. She gives a nod, and they take off after him.

  They stick to side passageways, cloaking themselves in shadows. After a while, Hope’s sure they’re all alone.

  She’s wrong.

  “Don’t move,” a voice hisses from the shadows. “Hands up where we can see them.”

  They have no choice but to obey. Hope’s heart slams hard against her chest. The body belonging to the voice emerges from darkness, the features backlit by a guttering candle. Slowly, gradually, the form takes shape. The body is a woman’s.

  “Goodwoman Marciniak?” Book asks, obviously shocked.

  The woman cranes her head forward and squints through the gloom. “Book?”

  “Yes, it’s me . . . and the other prisoners.”

  The librarian is suddenly joined by two dozen other middle-aged women, all armed with bows and arrows. War paint, not makeup, adorns their faces.

  “What’re you doing here?” Goodwoman Marciniak asks.

  “Trying to get out. Killing a few Crazies in the process.”

  Her face is set, her mouth rigid. She wears a toga ornamented with a series of belts—resting places for knives and arrows.

  “You’re prisoners,” Marciniak says. “You shouldn’t be out of jail.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have us fighting with you than not fighting at all?”

  Suddenly they hear the thud of footsteps. Crazies. Hope’s gaze falls to Goodwoman Marciniak’s bow and arrow.

  “We know how to use those,” she says, stepping forward.

  Marciniak’s eyes flicker once, twice . . . but she says nothing. Then she releases her hold and extends the bow. Hope takes it before the older woman changes her mind.

  37.

  WE FORMED A HURRIED line—some kneeling, others standing—with just enough time to nock our arrows.

  “Draw and hold,” I commanded. We waited, bowstrings taut. The sound of the approaching Crazies grew louder and louder until our heartbeats and their footfalls merged into one awful drumbeat.

  “Fire!” I cried when they rounded the corner, and the arrows found their targets. Crazies fell to the ground, some firing their weapons into the ceiling, others tugging hopelessly at the shafts that protruded from their bodies.

  “Again at will!” I shouted.

  We released our bowstrings, and the remaining Crazies tumbled to the rock floor. It was a victory, but a temporary one.

  “We need to hide the bodies,” I said, “so their friends won’t know something’s up.”

  Goodwoman Marciniak led us to a secluded back corner, and we’d just managed to drag the corpses there when
there were more footsteps.

  “Book!” Flush yelled.

  “I hear ’em.”

  We hurried back and reloaded. Although the next band of Crazies was smaller, they were better equipped. One fired a rocket launcher, the grenade’s explosion hurling shards of rock on top of us. When the boiling smoke cleared, we were able to pick off the Crazies, but I wondered how many more attacks we could withstand.

  We raced to hide the corpses. After reaching the back corner, I glanced off to an adjoining chamber. There were several women there, huddled by the side of a bed.

  “What’s that?” I asked Goodwoman Marciniak.

  “A hospital.”

  My gaze swept the interior. White iron beds, clean sheets, gleaming silver trays. Only one bed was occupied.

  “Our founder,” Goodwoman Marciniak explained. “Not long for this world, I’m afraid.” Her concern was obvious.

  “May I?” I asked. I had a sudden impulse to see the originator of the Skull People. Goodwoman Marciniak nodded her assent.

  When I reached the foot of the bed, I lost my breath. Lost any ability to breathe at all. For there, lying on her back, with a thin blanket pulled up to her chin, was a woman. But not just any woman. The woman from my dreams.

  The one with the long black hair.

  She appeared to be sleeping, her chest rising and falling as gently as lapping waves. As soon as I came to a stop, her eyes snapped open—so suddenly I nearly lost my footing and stumbled backward.

  Her eyes locked on mine. She was older than the way she appeared in my dreams, and the crow’s-feet seemed to pull at the corners of her eyes. Still, there was a liveliness in those eyes, and the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth was utterly youthful.

  “There you are,” she said. “You’re alive.”

  “Yes,” I managed to say.

  She forced a smile. “I knew you’d come.” She closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep. I stood there, numb.

  “You know this woman?” Goodwoman Marciniak asked.