“I understand,” Ben interjected. He heard Arlington loud and clear. “Don’t worry, sir. I won’t tell anyone else about it. I promise.”
“Does your mother know about this?” the patriarch asked, holding up the journal. “Your sister?”
Ben shook his head. “No, sir. I took it before they saw it.”
This time, it looked like Arlington believed him. Before they departed, Arlington reminded him once more that the journal was to remain a secret between them, despite the fact that his entire training squad knew about it. The only thing he had going for him was that no one believed him. To the rest of the Nest, he was just as nutty as his grandfather. And for once, that was a good thing.
As soon as the door closed behind Ben, the smile faded from Arlington’s face. He tapped his fingers against the journal, thinking. Quietly, he rose from the edge of his desk and returned to his seat. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled something out. A set of dog tags, military standard, scratched and worn, but readable: CPTN. BENTON, DAVID R. The memory came back to him like a bad dream—
“I have something I think you should see,” Jon Harper had confessed that dark night all those years ago, pacing his office. He pulled the dog tags from his pocket and said, “. . . I think my father may have done something bad.”
Originally, Arlington didn’t know what to think; he’d never seen the name before that night. And to make matters worse, he never expected when he reported it to the Supreme Commander of Silo Zero that her orders were as followed: Kill him. Get rid of Jon and get rid of the evidence. It was clear whoever this Captain Benton was, he was no friend of the Supreme Commander’s. Arlington wasn’t proud of what he had to do, but he did it regardless; Jon’s death was made to look like a suicide, which wasn’t all that hard, and the dog tags—as far as the Supreme Commander was aware—were destroyed, never seen or heard of again. That had been the end of it . . . or so he thought.
But here was the name again, come to haunt him from the past.
He pondered whether he should notify the supreme commander or not, but, if he was to be honest, he was scared too. If he had to kill Jon Harper over a chain of dog tags, he could only imagine what she would have him do to the young Ben Harper. He wasn’t a serial killer for godsakes! He was a leader, just like the supreme commander, and Ben was too young and naïve to bear the blunt of the supreme commander’s rage. Whether Ben knew it or not, Arlington wasn’t being sneaky, he was being smart, and in some strange way, he supposed he was saving the young man’s life.
He just didn’t know it yet.
Chapter Seven
The alarm rang, ringing in her ears. Karma’s hand shot out from beneath the covers and slapped the button, turning it off. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and crawled out of bed. Another day, another year in the Nest. Tossing on a clean pair of blue scrubs, she swooped her long, dark hair into a ponytail and quickly readied for work.
"Mmm," she chirped sarcastically as she entered the kitchen, where her mother was brewing up a fresh pot of porridge. "Oatmeal again. After six thousand, one hundred and thirty-two days, it never gets old."
Her mother glanced at her sideways; the thunder roared. Today, a rainstorm displayed on the window screens, trailing down the panes in long, heavy tears; it was a sign of what kind of mood her mother was in.
"Sarcasm isn't a quality, dear, but a flaw."
"So, I hear." Karma grabbed a bowl and filled it. “What’s wrong with you today?”
"Got a call," her mother said, pouring herself a cup of mud coffee; it was as black and heavy as tar. "One of the grow lamps malfunctioned in the hydro-farms again, the entire row. How many times do I have to tell maintenance? They were supposed to check the wires weeks ago."
She took two sips of the coffee, checked her watch, and dumped the rest down the drain. “I gotta go. I’m running late. Clean up for me, will you?”
"What about Ben?" Karma said. “Isn’t he eating breakfast?”
“Left early. He had something planned with the watchmen, I think.” She gave her daughter a peck on the crown of her head. “Put away whatever’s left and clean your dishes. I’ll see you later. Have a good day and tell Doc I said hello.” She reached the door and poked her head back. “Hey, and make sure you take it easy on your brother, okay? He got into another fight yesterday.”
“Again?”
“Just be nice to him,” her mother warned. “Remember what I said, support each other," and out the door she went.
No sooner as she left, Karma was out of her seat. She left her breakfast sitting on the table and knocked on Ben’s door. After there was no response, she slipped inside his bedroom and quietly shut the door. After stewing on the journal all night, she had come to only one conclusion: Ben had taken it. He had to. It was the only explanation. She knew it couldn’t be her mother. She was never good at keeping secrets, and that was because she didn’t believe in having them, or so she said, and Ben swore by them. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time he had stolen from her.
Karma quickly searched his room, sifting through his drawer’s, checking beneath his bed, and combing through his closet, browsing through his magazines and comic book collections; she flipped through his records, worthless being his player was broken, but still no sign of the journal. He was smarter than she thought. If he had it, he must have taken it with him.
She grinded her teeth. No wonder he had been avoiding her since she returned from the med ward last night. It was probably why he left early, too, just so he didn’t have to face her. But this was far from over. She had to get that journal back, and hopefully, before he showed anyone.
On the verge of being late for work herself, Karma rushed off to the med ward, where she ran into Varra. They stood squished in the rear of the elevator as a bunch of dolts from IT, dressed in matching orange garments, squeezed their way inside rather than wait for the next lift.
"Did you ever find out who took the journal?" Varra whispered over her shoulder. “Was it Ben?”
It was Varra who first suggested that maybe Ben had taken it. When she initially said it, Karma thought it was hogwash. Why would Ben be rooting through her dresser? But then she remembered. Ben used to steal her socks all the time when he ran out of fresh ones, especially when their mother was behind on laundry, which she always was. Lucky for Karma, she handled her own dirty laundry, but Ben was as lazy as a snail.
“I haven’t talked to him yet,” Karma said. “I checked his room this morning but couldn’t find it.”
The elevator stopped, and more piled in; instructors from the educational level, clad in purple. They moved closer together; shoulder to shoulder.
“You don’t think he’ll say anything to your mother, do you?” asked Varra, but it wasn’t her mother that Karma was concerned about. After reading the journal, she realized two things: One, Operation Blackout was no accident. And Two, whoever this Captain Benton was, her grandfather had killed him and stole his journal, which meant he was a murderer and if Arlington or Malik found out, they could go as far as to banish them.
There was a ding and the elevator stopped again. A few more people pinched their way inside the overcrowded lift, two men in yellow from engineering. They were in the midst of a conversation of their own—
“It’s been years since the chambers have been opened,” the taller of the two was saying. “And the transports haven’t run in ages. We need more time to check the engines. Last thing we need is a breakdown in the middle of nowhere—”
“We don’t have time,” said the other. “They’re preparing the transport as we speak.”
Karma and Varra shared a look.
The taller one said, “Get Dill on the ball. Fast. Tell him to run a diagnostics check before they take off."
The other nodded. “Yes, sir."
The elevator stopped, and it was time for Karma and Varra to get off. They pressed their way through, ignoring a flurry of grunts and curses, and slipped out into the hallway. As soon as the el
evator doors closed behind them, Varra turned to Karma.
“What was that all about?” she said, tucking a blond curl behind her ear. “What do you suppose they were talking about?”
“Sounded like a junk run,” Karma said. Many years ago, junk runs occurred on a daily basis, scavenger trips where watchmen suited up and went in search for resources and supplies and survivors. But after a squad was attacked and killed by a gang of Flesh Rotters, Arlington put an end to them, claiming they weren’t safe.
“I thought they abandoned those years ago?” Varra said.
Karma looked on. “They did.”
It had been so long since there had been any junk runs, she wondered what on earth they could have found that was so important? Whatever it was, she was sure she would eventually find out. That was the thing about living in a silo, nothing stayed hidden for long.
And it wasn’t long before they found out—
"You can’t send them out alone. I’ll go with them,” said the head of the medical ward, Dr Carter, as Karma and Varra drifted through the med ward’s lobby. She was standing there with the head of security, Malik.
“Forget it,” said Malik, as stone-faced as ever. “It’s not happening. You’re too important. What if something bad happened?”
“Which is exactly why I need to be there,” said Dr Katherine Carter. She had been in charge of the medical ward since Karma was a baby. When her grandfather began to lose his marbles, it was Dr Carter who not only helped her understand what she referred to as the beginning stages of dementia, but deal with it, as well. To put it mildly, if it wasn’t for Doc, she would’ve lost her own marbles. And by the frantic look on Doc’s face, she was on the verge of losing hers.
“Which is exactly why you don’t need to go,” Malik said airily. “Arlington’s orders.”
"I don’t care who ordered it!” the fifty-something-year-old genius howled, nearly knocking off her glasses. She threw her hands into the air. One of them only had four fingers. It was an accident that had happened when she was just a child.
“Sending the watchmen on a junk run without a medic is suicide," she said.
Karma and Varra exchanged a look. She had been right about the junk run. They joined the crowd of onlookers, slipping beside the other nurses, who circled the bickering two like an audience at a cabaret, watching two singers go at it.
“I have no intention of sending them alone,” Malik growled. His eyes, the color of ash, shot to the nurses huddled around them. “Someone else will have to go. It’s as simple as that.”
But it wasn’t that simple.
“Not me,” said one of the nurses, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not going out there. Are you crazy? There’s tons of Flesh Rotters! The last junk run they all ended up in pieces.”
“Count me out,” someone else muttered.
“No way,” another cried. “I’m not risking it—”
The lobby filled with commotion as the nurses began to riot. There were husbands and children to live for, long lives and careers, and above all else, fear. There was fear when it came to the Dead World, especially the Flesh Rotters . . . especially if you believed the stories.
“Leave them out of it,” said Dr Carter. “I told you, Malik. I’m the best one for the job. And by the looks of it, the only one—”
“I’ll do it.”
The room went silent. Everyone turned to Karma. She stepped forward, cleared her throat and said, “I’ll go.”
“Absolutely not,” said Dr Carter. “You’re too young and still in training—”
“I have two months left until I graduate,” Karma reminded her. In a few months she’d be seventeen and a true bonafide nurse. “I’m trained in just about everything. I’m your favorite, remember? Anything they can do, I can do better.”
Malik cracked a smile. “I like this one,” he said.
Dr Carter shot him a look. “She’s not going,” she said. “You can take someone else.”
But no one else stepped forward. Instead, steps were taken back, heads were hung, and mouths fell silent. Not even Varra stirred a muscle.
It was Malik who spoke next.
“There, you see,” he said to Dr Carter. “It’s been decided. The girl comes, the rest of you can stay.”
Dr Carter whispered something to him. Karma strained to listen, but all she heard was the murmur of her voice. It sounded angry. And though she couldn’t hear what Doc had whispered in his ear, she heard Malik loud and clear:
“I don’t care how old she is,” he snarled. “This is the Dead World, Doc. Welcome to reality.”
He turned to Karma and said, “Time to suit up, kiddo. We leave in one hour.”
* * *
Karma sat on the bench inside the empty locker room, staring at the drifter suit hanging off a hook; a black rubber getup that reminded her of a space suit, helmet and all. It was designed to protect them from bad molecules in the air, radiation—the Black. The room was surrounded in them, staring back at her. She didn’t know how long Jax had been standing there before he said:
“Hey you, you okay?”
She looked up. Malik’s son, Jax, stood across the way, leaning against one of the lockers, his arms crossed.
“Need some help?” he offered.
Several seconds later, he was helping her into the drifter suit, holding up the long, wobbly sleeves so she could get her arms through.
“Thanks,” she said quietly.
“Don’t mention it,” he said, handing her the helmet. “You’ll be fine. My dad’s put together a league of his best watchmen. They won’t let anything bad happen to you. You guys will be in and out and back before you know it.”
“Are you coming?” she asked, noticing he wasn’t in a drifter suit.
“I wish,” he said, “but my dad needed more experienced men on the mission.”
She tried not to laugh at that, especially considering she wasn’t exactly the first choice nor the best for a medic, but the rules were the rules, and based on the guidelines, there were to be no junk runs without a medic on board, especially after the last one.
“Do you know where they’re taking us?” she asked. Through all the chaos back at the med ward, she forgot to ask Malik about the specifics of the junk run—maybe she was too scared to. Either way, she didn’t know.
Jax shrugged. “Not sure,” he said. “Somewhere in the Dead Lands, I think.”
Fifty thousand miles of desolate land and arid weather made up the Dead Lands, bordered by large, red mountains and barren trees. It was the driest land in all of Nevada and not far from their silo, which was built beneath the heart of an old military base, twenty-some miles from the old, broken streets of Las Vegas. Still, she wondered. What on earth could be in the Dead Lands? The junk runs consisted of scavenging in locations filled with supplies, such as hospitals, grocery stores, pharmacies, streets full of warehouses, teeming with goods . . . not in the middle of a bleak desert.
“Don’t be afraid,” Jax said. “The only good thing about the Dead Lands is that you shouldn’t run into any Flesh Rotters.”
Karma didn’t know if that was true but took his word for it. Flesh Rotters, reported by past junk runs, plagued the dark shadows of ruined cities and towns, inhabiting anywhere and everywhere that humans once did. After all, they were human before the Black turned them into monsters—
“Good luck out there,” he said and started off.
“Jax,” she called out. When he turned back to her, she said, “Do me a favor and don’t tell my brother, okay? Please don’t tell Ben about this.”
It was a long shot. For all she knew, Ben could already be aware of the junk run, but if he did, Jax didn’t let on.
“Sure,” he said. “You got it.”
He didn’t ask why, or hint for an explanation. If he did, she wouldn’t have had one, other than she was scared he would run and tell her mother and her mother would come bursting into the room, refusing to let her go, embarrassing her in front of
everyone. Regardless of what anyone thought, it was her life, her choice, and she chose to go. For all she knew, it could be her first and only chance at seeing the Dead World.
Jax wished her well and slipped out the door, and she was alone again; alone with her thoughts, alone with her doubts. But not for long. The next to show his face was Malik.
“You ready?”
Her medic bag was heavier than the drifter suit, filled with all sorts of supplies; defibrillators, adrenaline shots, millions of bandages, more antiseptic creams than she knew what to do with, alcohol wipes, and tons of pills, some that healed you, some that killed you, quickly and painlessly if that be the case. The only thing it didn’t contain was a cure for the Black. She lugged it behind her as Malik led her through the docking bay on level fifteen, amidst the sparks and drills. It was teeming with mechanics and large equipment; huge armored vehicles that were bigger than her bunker were parked in rows, some didn’t have wheels but large steel treads and turret guns.
“I’ll be brief,” Malik said over the droning of drills. “The purpose of a medic is to stay back and observe. Talon will be leading this mission. You listen to him, and you’ll be fine. And remember . . .”
“Karma,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. How could he forget her so quickly? He was just at her grandfather’s funeral the other night, shaking her hand and offering his condolences. Clearly, she had made quite an impression on him. Not.
“Remember, Karma, your job is to help, not to fight. Leave that up to my boys. Stay out of their way and if one goes down, you do your best to keep him alive. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now let’s go meet your team.”
He took her over to a group of men standing by a transport, a fifteen passenger armored caravan. They were all wearing drifter suits, just like her, except they filled theirs out. Some faces she recognized, some she wished she didn’t.
And none of them looked nice.
Chapter Eight
"Mackey, Swanson, Davies, you're on the front line! Roman, Nelson, you'll cover the rear with me. Harper you’ll . . . Harper!"
The Black (The Black Trilogy Book 1) Page 5