City lights come on and I can see the edge of the metropolis from where I’m walking. I see a distant community emerge from the hills with their lights glowing like stars. I don’t know which village it is, but I have to go there next. If they don’t receive me, I might be reported to the State, but I can’t stay out in the wilderness for long.
It’s the same with every other unknown village from here. My father took me through all of them over the years. Some were friendly, but wouldn’t hear us out. Others were unfriendly, but listened to us speak. Most of the time we would see reactions of a more extreme nature. We faced beatings from callous leadership councils. We were treated to feasts by others. We never took the response personally. It was our message they loved or hated. But the hatred only grew until the day of our imprisonment.
My journey out of the city is wearing on me. Desperate for nourishment, I attempt to find something on the side of the road to eat. I see berries, but it’s dark out here, and I can’t tell the good from the bad. I’m not foolish enough to tempt poison yet. Nor am I an animal that I would eat grass so easily. But I’m getting closer than I’d like to admit.
City streets have turned into country roads. I know my chances of being recaptured are slimming with every step, but my odds of fainting on the asphalt increase every hour I go without restoration. The nearest village lies flat in a small valley up the hill. My legs scream for rest. My wet shoulders shiver in the moonlight. I can’t afford to agree to their terms. I must continue.
Coldness creeps in. Air burns through my nostrils. Drops of rain dampen my socks along the way. I keep my eyes ahead of me, never looking down, never giving in to the thought that I should rest my head on the side of the road. I might never wake up if I do.
I see the village down a slight slope as the road turns around a row of trees. Fog is settling, but lamps glow while debauchery flows through the streets. If I’ve ever been here, then the work my father and I did here was not well received. My only hope is to find underground believers somewhere.
I see a street sign marking the name of the town. I sink my head. Welcome to Evansville. I look back up hoping I misread it the first time, but there’s no mistaking Evansville. This isn’t just any village. This town was where it all started, not for me, but for my father.
Hobbes Monroe is a hated man in Evansville. And he is beloved. No one is without opinion on the man with the tongue of fire and heart of a lion. That’s how he’s described here. At least that’s what it was like the only time he allowed me to come this far with him on his adventures. He wouldn’t let me risk it until I was eighteen. That was three years ago. I don’t know what’s left of the faithful.
Evansville is the type of town that seems small at first glance, but whose roads wind their way through enough nooks and crannies to make one believe there is more than meets the eye. The good news is that I know where I have to go. The bad news is that I know how I have to get there.
I make a path straight through the middle of the village. Now is not the time to make myself known to this town. I look too much like my father when he was younger, despite my darker skin and longer hair. I won’t slip past anyone’s eyes if they’re sober. There aren’t many who will make that a problem, but I keep my head down and avoid interaction.
It does me little good. The people of Evansville are inclined to make their voices known. They are quick to listen, bold in speech, and their judgment…decisive. They believe in right and wrong. They don’t agree on who is right and who is wrong. Tonight is not the time for arguments. But that isn’t up to me.
“Hey pal,” yaps a gregarious man not much older than me. “You look like you could use a cold one.”
I keep my head down and don’t respond.
“Too good for a drink, buddy?” he continues in sharp contrast to his prior jovial tone. “Get back here. You lookin’ for trouble?”
I slip into an alley. I’m too close to lose my freedom now. I can’t be seen. I hear him coming. He’s shouting words that wouldn’t make sense in the daylight. I understand enough to sneak through more twists and turns before he finds me. He’s in no condition to chase me. I’m in no hurry to go back. After all, I believe I’ve found the safe house.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Lot to Learn
I HEAR SIRENS blare in the distance. My instincts tell me not to run, but to duck out of sight, So I hide behind a large power box next to the safe house. A car drives by within moments. It’s a green military truck. State officers are in pursuit. I don’t know if I have a bounty on my head, or if they have a reasonable suspicion to search for me out here, but I’m not willing to take a chance I’ll go unnoticed. The entire region will soon recognize my face, the mug shot of an escaped convict, an Independence Day disaster. I have to find a way to get inside immediately.
I rise to my feet, check to see if anyone is watching me, then proceed with caution toward the doorway. I stop myself before it’s too late. Be smart. If there’s one thing I know about safe houses, it’s that they’re only safe to the ones who belong in them. They’re a danger to the unwise and unknowing. I have to remember my training.
My body shivers with a cool gust of wind. The temperature is dropping rapidly. I think about how warm it must be inside, and how much I could eat in one sitting if any rations are left in the cupboards. I hope this place hasn’t been abandoned for too long.
Wires have been placed everywhere along the house. Security lines drape the walls. They’re mostly a ruse to scare off invaders, cords leading nowhere. There’s always a way into these places, but usually only one that isn’t set with a trap, and never in the most obvious place. The front door is never the answer. A single knock is enough to set off a series of alarms.
I see a thick blue wire wrap around the left side of the house and think it’s likely the active ingredient to whatever might keep me from entering. I follow the line to see where it leads. The building is longer than it is wide, an unusual occurrence in neighborhoods such as this one, but quite normal for a safe house. This obscure building with a rickety front door and a roof that hasn’t been restored in decades is a house only the poorest folk would own. Most people would cross the street to avoid it. Most importantly, it will only draw attention to itself if someone cuts an alarm wire when entering. When that happens, it brings harm to everyone involved, but I’ve been taught all the secrets. Still, I must remember them, and it’s been months.
I follow the thick blue wire to the back of the house. What most people don’t realize is that cutting any of them will set off an alarm in the house. Disabling them is the wrong approach altogether. But the thickest wires always lead to the real solution. There’s always a safe point of entry.
I reach the back of the house and see an unusually large back yard. Safe houses among the Faithful are not known for their vast means. Odd as it seems, the wire discontinues not in the wall, but far away from the house, and eventually into the ground. I scratch my chin to think. I look up at the fallen leaves covering the tattered roof, but an entrance up there would be too conspicuous for a safe house. The only way has to be through the ground. The wires never lie to the knowledgeable observer.
Every step I take is steady, but cautious and measured. Most of these places are designed for safety, not destruction, but in recent years some wanted criminals were more afraid than others. Some of the Faithful were aggressively afraid. Even after my captivity, I think they went too far, but I am thankful to be aware of the typical traps set up in places like this. I look for danger every time I let my foot touch the ground. I won’t let aching feet or a starving stomach be my downfall tonight.
“There it is,” I say before putting my hand over my mouth. This is no time to be reckless. Silence is worth more than silver and gold. I caution myself not to run toward the patch of false grass next to the fence. I had nearly forgotten about these underground entries until I saw the wires disappear through the soil. Few of these places are left intact, especially after the mudslides
that devastated the hills around the city when I was young, not to mention the raids sanctioned by the State. But this valley isn’t steep enough to let the rains sink the town like so many others.
I pull the sod up to see exactly what I suspected. I remove the circular cover, slip down inside before replacing it, and climb down a dozen steps on a rusty metal ladder loosely attached to the wall with bolts that haven’t been oiled in ages.
It’s dark in here, but there’s a faint blue light at the end of a tunnel that leads toward the direction of the house. I don’t touch the walls. I hardly want to touch the ground. I don’t know the last time someone walked this underground hallway or the last time it was inspected for insects or vermin. I don’t know if any more traps are hidden along the way. It all depends on who spent the most time here.
I put one foot out in front of me and wait. I take another step with my torso trailing far behind my legs and wait again. If I set anything off, I don’t want to be stuck in a trap. I’d be left to die if anything were to happen. There’s no one coming to rescue me tonight, not a soul to save me from my pursuers. There aren’t many left among the Faithful.
I make it to the end of the hall before realizing that my legs have started shaking. It’s been too long since I’ve eaten. I don’t have much strength in me. I have to ignore my weaknesses for now. I need to climb up the matching ladder on this side to enter the house. I must make one final push to safety.
Every rung is a struggle, my skin clings to my bones, but I reach the top. It’s locked. I try to punch it open, but my only reward is a tingling sensation running down my forearm to my elbow. It takes me a minute to regain my composure, my hand now throbbing, my back and ribs tormenting me with every breath. The lid doesn’t twist. It won’t turn. Of course, it can’t, it’s a trap.
I jump off the ladder and roll to the side, desperately hoping it’s not too late. Within moments the lid slides off and a net drops down. The floor cover misses my head by a hand’s breadth and the net only catches my foot. I close my eyes for a second to steady my spinning thoughts. I want to vomit, but I gather myself before I overreact. I have nothing inside me to lose anyway. And the immediate danger is gone.
I climb to my feet, slide the net off my foot, and pull myself up to the ladder. There may be more traps inside, however unlikely, and I have no other options. This is my best bet. The steps are shaky. I feel a dull pain in my head from where I landed. This will be a long night. I’m not sure I’ll make it till the morning.
I heave myself to the ground floor. My head is spinning. I can’t take much more of this. I have to find something to eat or I’ll pass out. I check my surroundings, but I don’t see anyone. I stand up, but not straight, I lean against a wall. Everything hurts now. I hobble into the kitchen. Please let there be food. I’ll take anything.
I don’t see a refrigerator. There’s no time or resources in a place like this to keep cold food. Everything has to be storable for months, if not years. I open the main pantry door. I want to fall. There’s nothing here. I check one cabinet, then the next, and one after another until I reach the end of the line. They are all empty. I can’t believe it. I’m fading.
I can’t stand any longer. I back myself up against a wall, slide to the ground, and let reality soak in. I won’t die of starvation in one day. I’ve been through worse in Justice Hall. At least I’m safe from the State for one night. They don’t know about this place. If they did, it would have been torn down by now. They make sure to let neighborhoods know that they don’t stand for things like this. They don’t use trickery. It’s all about intimidation. That’s why we always enter safe houses through secret doors in the middle of the night. It’s the only way to ensure our protection.
I’ll worry about food in the morning. I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. It’s been…a day. One that I expected would be short and my last. But God gave me another chance for some reason. Another thing to contemplate tomorrow, if I wake up.
I shut my eyes and sleep harder than ever in my life, escaping the physical agony for something exceedingly more dreadful. My dreams are filled with terrible thoughts at night. I see visions of my father’s face shoved into the ground. I fear I will always have nightmares of what might have happened after I fled. I hope he’s still alive. I pray he still has a chance. I know I’ll see him again one day. I don’t know if it will be on earth.
When I wake up, I remember where I am, but don’t want to open my eyes to see how my body looks in the light of day. I’m too focused on the pain entombed within myself to imagine my outward appearance. Everything hurts, but I reach for my ribs first. I don’t know how bad it is, but I know they have to have been bruised from my tumble over the bushes in the park. My head is throbbing, but more from dehydration than from any of the bumps I took during my liberation. I have to find water soon. I force myself to open my eyes, but the second I do I understand I’ve made a huge mistake.
I catch a hint of light as it breaches thinly shaded windows, then I see a grim face staring at me like a pit bull. An old man with a full gray beard that matches his chin-length hair sits in a hand-crafted wooden rocking chair as he leans up against the wall across from me. The shotgun in his hand appears to be designed for hunting wildlife. Out of instinct, I throw my hands behind my neck, roll down to the dusty wooden floorboards, and plead for mercy. That’s how we were taught to avoid instant execution in Justice Hall. It’s an action I took on a nearly daily basis before they stopped letting us out of our cells for meals.
“That’s what I thought,” he says with a soft, tired, graveled voice. “I see you have spent some time in the local pen, young man. Recently, if I’m not mistaken. What did you do? Get busted for breaking into people’s homes in the middle of the night? Or is this a new thing for you?”
I don’t know if I should answer. My instinct is to stay silent. It was always the correct decision when I was face to face with guards. My crimes are thought far more vile than burglary according to the State. No one is ever executed in Ariel for stealing cash or jewelry. Those are petty crimes according to lawmakers. Dissent is far more treasonous in their eyes. But who is this man sitting in the corner and how did he get in here without me hearing him? I must have slept harder than I ever thought possible. Has he been there all night? Was he here when I entered? I never did clear the house before falling asleep. He could be a squatter or a bounty hunter. We’re not the only ones who know how to use trap doors to our homes, especially out here in the hills, where people are prone to have to fend for themselves.
“Answer me, son,” he says impatiently, clicking his weapon as he awaits my response. “What did you do? You hurt somebody?”
“No. No, sir. Nothing like that, sir,” I tell him. There’s something about a loaded gun pointed at my face that makes me extra respectful of my elders. My father always taught me to call everyone sir or ma’am, but I never took him seriously until I learned the hard way in Justice Hall.
“Then what is it? Speak up. I don’t have all day.”
Neither do I if I don’t give him an answer.
“Treason,” I confess. “I spent the past six months serving time in Justice Hall for crimes against the State. Please don’t shoot me. I’ve never hurt anyone. I just needed a place to sleep last night. And something to eat.”
“Treason?” he asks. “People don’t get released for treason. You know, I could go to prison for life just for talking to you. Seems like the kinda thing a fella could get a reward for, turning in a traitor, dead or alive.”
I turn my neck to look at him. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t afraid of what he might do to me. But he isn’t sure what to do with me.
“Please just let me go,” I beg him. “I haven’t stolen anything. I mean no harm. I can’t go back there, please. I don’t belong in Justice Hall. I don’t want to die.”
The old man taps his fingers against the side of his gun. He’s not set on killing me. He’s not set on letting me go so easily either. But his eyes t
ell me he’s got something important weighing on his mind.
“I heard something on the radio yesterday,” he says. His tone is grave and somber, like he’s telling a story that he doesn’t want to share, but must because of the circumstances he finds himself in today. “I listened to the details of an execution down in the city. Independence Day celebration, as you might know. Several of the traitors sentenced to be hung found a way to escape, they said. It must have had something to do with that little quake that shook us up a little in the morning. You wouldn’t know anything about that, though, would you?”
He knows. Wait. Others escaped? I’m not the only one who made it out of the stadium. I was so desperate to run as my father had instructed me to do, that I never saw what happened to any of the other convicts between us. I’m not the only one looking for refuge. I’m not in this alone, that is, if I make it out of here alive.
“What did they say about us?” I ask him. I’m into this far too deep to waste time pretending I’m anything that I’m not. Lies are a lost cause among the best circumstances. If this man had an itchy trigger finger, I’d be dead by now anyway, so he must not be threatened by me. I have to squeeze information out of him if I can. I have to know what’s happening to them. I have to know what happened to my father.
“So, you are one of them?” he asks, not expecting an answer. “And you’re willing to admit it just like that? Are you sure you know what you’re doing? You could have just admitted to being a burglar. They don’t give out rewards for turning in common criminals. I might have been inclined to just let you go with a warning. But you’re not so common, are you?”
“More common than you might think,” I tell him. “But less dangerous than they want you to believe. At least not in the way they want you to believe. Please tell me, I have to know, is anyone dead? Has everyone else been caught? Did anyone else make it this far?”
The Treasure Map Page 6