Standing in the hangar just outside the operations center, General Edwards rubs his forehead as he wonders if the world will survive. A loudspeaker in the hangar pages an announcement, “Sir, we have the target.” General Edwards walks back into the operations center and looks at the video screen on the wall as he enters. On the screen is an overhead satellite view of the town just north of Roswell. Zooming the feed in, two people get on a motorcycle and start riding north on a highway out of town.
“It’s them, sir; they survived.”
“Yes, they have. Very resilient, aren’t they.” General Edwards rubs one temple as he looks at the screen. “Get the team ready to acquire the target.” He turns away from the screen and looks at his senior advisor. “What shall we do with the male after we have the girl, sir?”
“Terminate.”
Having failed in his first two attempts to rescue his friend and daughter along with the research and potential cure for the nasty virus, Edwards was prepared to do everything in his power to achieve his goal. After losing the first commando team during the extraction of Dr. Robinson and his daughter months earlier, General Edwards was weary of everyone around him and the incompetence of his forces. Walking out of the ops center and down a hallway to the briefing room, General Edwards enters a small conference room, and a commando team is waiting for him there. The men stand up as he enters, and he waves them off. “Sit down, men,” he says before handing the briefing over to his advisor.
The advisor fills the team in on their mission and target. Standing back up, Edwards gets ready to leave the room, but turns around and stares at the commandos. “Don’t fail. It’s not an option.”
In unison, the commandos answer, “Yes, sir!”
He leaves the room and walks back to the operations center. The commandos head over to the hangar and prepare their gear for the mission to acquire their target, manning themselves with MP5 machine guns, knives, and 9mm pistols as they slip into specialized parachutes for a high-altitude jump. Walking out of the hangar, the team boards a C-130 that is sitting on the small, uncharted runway of the compound. Taking seats on both sides of the aircraft, the team, assisted by the aircrew’s help, don full-face masks so they won’t suffer from the lack of oxygen when they jump at 25000 feet.
Mac and Sara are still traveling toward Santa Fe, New Mexico, and are unaware of the events unfolding above them. Traveling on the two-lane road, they pass sign after sign advertising businesses in town. Mileage signs count down their arrival into Santa Fe and eventually post single digits.
“We better stop here until daylight,” Mac says to Sara as he pulls the bike off the road and into the ditch.
“Okay.” She replies.
Mac shuts the bike off, and the pair sits down next to it on the ground. Mac looks over at Sara, who is rummaging through her backpack.
“So, what job did your dad do again?”
She pauses a few seconds before answering him. “He was a doctor.”
“Oh really, that’s cool. What hospital did he work at?”
“He did not work at a hospital; he was a medical research scientist.”
Sara continues rummaging through the backpack looking for something to eat, finding the jar of pickles. Twisting the lid off, Sara pulls out a large uncut pickle, biting off the end.
“He was researching the virus before all of this happened. Then he died. End of story.”
Mac looks over at his new friend and notices her wiping a tear from her face in the darkness. The full moon overhead illuminates her face just enough for him to see the sparkle.
“I’m sorry, Sara; it sucks now, but things will get better. Just wait; you’ll see.”
“My dad was close to finding the cure, before he died. I found him in the lab; I think he had a heart attack. When I found him, he was lying on the floor mumbling. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he was clutching the journal and said, take it.”
Sara reaches into her coat pocket and produces the journal. Placing a headlamp on her forehead, she switches it on and then starts thumbing through the pages. Besides the pages of maps, the interior section of the journal is filled with weird, scribbled formulas that she can’t understand. At the bottom of the last page of formulas are the words, “The cure is within.” She reads it aloud to Mac.
“Let me see the journal.”
Sara passes him the book and headlamp so he can read through the journal.
“This is interesting. For some reason, your father thought that the best place to combat the disease, or maybe the best place to survive the disease, would be in the Pacific Northwest. Is that why you are going to Brooklyn?”
“He told me to go to Brooklyn, just before he died. I’m not sure why.”
Sara sighs a little, then digs into her backpack and pulls out a can of sardines. Popping the can open and rolling back the lid, she pulls out a single slimy fish before popping it into her mouth.
“Look in the back of the book. There is a name in there, a Dr. Hunter, and the address is in Brooklyn, Washington.”
“Do you know who this Dr. Hunter is?”
“Nope, never heard of him.”
“Well, whoever he is, that’s where we should go. If your father thought it was that important to find him, it must be.”
With a sense of urgency and resolve that he did not have before, Mac decides it’s time to head north and risk going through town at night instead of waiting out on the highway for daylight to come. “We should go now. What you have in this book could be the end of all of humanity’s suffering.”
Sara stares up at him, eats the last sardine before tossing the can aside, then stands up. “My book.”
He hands her the book and then gets back on the bike. Kicking the bike to life once again, Mac knows the journey through the city will be fraught with unspeakable horrors and danger but knows there is no reason to stay out on the highway with this newfound knowledge. Sara climbs on the back once again, and they are on their way into Santa Fe.
Unlike most cities across the country, the town of Santa Fe did not experience the rolling blackouts, and they can see it lit up in the distance as they round a bend in the road. A few minutes and two miles later, they are on the outskirts of town. Although Santa Fe’s residents were infected with the virus, the actual accounting of survivors versus infected is still unknown. Buildings in the distance glow eerily in the darkness. Riding further into town, the streetlights change from red to green, then back to yellow, then red. Mac continues driving into the city, a city that is well lit but apparently devoid of civilization. Driving north through the city, the pair keeps a wary eye out for flesh-eaters. Street after street, block after block, the entire city of Santa Fe appears deserted. Riding deeper into the city, the pair travels north hoping to avoid confrontation.
Overhead, a surveillance satellite sends an image of the pair back to the remote base in Colorado. Looking at the large display screen, General Edwards crosses his arms and then turns to his advisor before speaking. “Is the team ready to launch?”
The advisor picks up a microphone on a desk, and then keys it up. “Timber Wolf, this is Watchman, over.”
A few seconds later a reply comes from the team inside the aircraft. “Watchman, Timber Wolf here.”
“Timber Wolf, you are go for launch when ready.”
“Good copy, go for launch now. Timber Wolf out.”
The advisor looks over at the general and is about to say something, before the general shakes his head no.
“They’ll make it this time.” Kenneth Edwards is confident with the airmen special operations team, even though his statement does not hold much merit.
“How long until the aircraft is in position?”
“Twenty-five minutes, sir.”
Mac makes a turn around a main boulevard and crosses the river in the middle of town. On the other side of the river, they notice the street two blocks ahead of them is blocked with a fifteen-foot-tall, chain-link fence, complete with razo
r wire strung across the top. Stopping the bike, he pauses and then drives it over to the side of the street and onto the sidewalk, shutting it off.
“What is so important that you need to fence off this city?” Mac says.
“Or what are they trying to keep in. Or out!” Sara replies.
Mac and Sara make their way closer to the fence down a side alley, staying out of sight and in the shadows. A half block away from the fence, they hear what sounds like cheering or growling; they are not sure what they are hearing. Walking slower up to the end of the alley, the pair approaches the fence and notices it runs in both directions down the middle of a main street.
“Left or right?” Mac gestures with his right hand both ways.
“Right.”
They continue their walk around the fence, stopping from time to time to listen. At the intersection of the next block, the fence takes an immediate ninety-degree left turn and is strung out in front of them as far as they can see. Straining their eyes off in the distance, they see the source of the noise. On both sides of the fence are citizens, infected and uninfected, who are separated by just chain link and a dozen yards or so.
“I’m not sure we want to be on the inside, but we can’t stay out here either.” Looking to the right, he catches a small horde of flesh-eaters heading their way down the alleyway. “Damn it. They’ve found us,” he says before turning to catch up with Sara, who is already running back the way they came. The motion of the horde running down the far fence line catches the attention of a perceptive child inside the fence. Running up to one of the post-apocalyptic survivors who is wielding a rifle, he tugs on the man’s coat.
“Look,” the kid says as he points at Sara and Mac. The survivor yells at a group of equally formidable-looking thugs before running toward the fence just opposite Mac and Sara, and catching up to the pair, with chain link separating them.
“Go to the next street, turn left. Two blocks down, there is a manhole cover. We will meet you there.”
Mac nods at him and turns left at the next street and follows Sara to the open manhole cover. Half positioned out of the cover, a grimy man waves for them to come inside. Sara runs up and climbs down into the sewer system, followed by Mac. The foul smell of rotting human feces hits Sara and Mac immediately as they stave off the urge to vomit. Continuing down the six-foot sewer pipe, the three of them walk for fifteen to twenty minutes before coming to another ladder sticking out of the concrete sidewall.
“Here, end of the line for me; this will take you inside the compound. Good luck.”
“Hey, where does this go?” Mac says.
“To the Roundhouse,” the thug replies.
“At least it will take us out of this foul-smelling hell hole,” Sara says as she climbs the ladder and out of a manhole into a courtyard of the once operational state government camps. Looking around, she sees the gang leader and a gang of no less than thirty armed thugs, who were on the inside of the fence when they were running alongside. Walking up to the pair, Mac standing beside Sara, the gang leader motions for the gang to check out their new inhabitants.
“Where are you headed?”
“Just on our way north when we found you.” Mac puts an arm around Sara’s shoulder. Sara reaches down and puts her hand on the revolver in her waistband.
“Wouldn’t try that, little lady.”
A couple of the survivors quickly takes Sara’s pistol and backpack as well as the pistol that Mac had tucked into the back of his pants.
“Now, then, we can be friends,” the gang member says before turning and walking away.
“Take these to the chamber. We have a tournament to prepare for.”
Mac and Sara know it is useless to resist as they are prodded and pushed forward. Walking toward the large, round, former state capital building of New Mexico, they are led into the interior of the building and thrown into a small room that has been made into a jail cell. Sara takes a seat beside the wall and dips her head, pulling her knees up to her face. Twenty minutes later, the door opens, and a thug motions for the two of them to follow him. Sara and Mac exit the room and notice three more armed men are there as well. Following the thug, they are led into the interior of the building. A large door is in front of them as they walk out into a foyer. On the door in spray paint are the words, “The Maze: Fight, Survive, Release. The ultimate in wasteland entertainment,” are scrolled across haphazardly. On the other side of the door, they can hear the roar of people cheering, then gasping, then silence. The large door opens, and they are pushed inside the darkened room by the thugs before the door slams shut.
COLORADO
In the operations center, the satellite operator pans the camera, catching Mac and Sara slipping down inside the sewer system.
“Sir, they are inside, and it looks like they are headed to the Roundhouse.”
“God help them.” The general replies.
The operator scans the compound area of the Roundhouse then keys in on Mac and Sara as they exit a manhole outside the building.
“Here they are, sir,” he says as he works the computer mouse, moving the satellite into position to capture the best image. The general rubs his brow, then turns to his advisor.
“Relay to the team, target acquisition at the Roundhouse.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Timber Wolf, this is Watchman; target is in the Roundhouse.”
“We understand. Acquisition at the Roundhouse, Timber Wolf, out.”
Onboard the C-130 aircraft, the team leader gathers his team around him and disseminates the new information. Within a few minutes, the C-130 is over the city of Santa Fe, 25,000 feet above. In the cockpit, the captain flicks a switch turning on a green light near the commandos, signaling it is time to jump. The team leader stands up motioning to his team to take positions by the door and get ready to launch. Standing single file, the group stands at the ready waiting for the green light to flash. Fifteen seconds later, the light starts flashing, and the commandos jump one after another into the blackness. Checking his altimeter, the team leader watches as it rapidly clicks off thousands of feet of altitude as he plummets toward the earth. Pulling a sleeve up, a GPS screen displays the drop zone below them. The team have all assembled and are shoulder to shoulder as they descend. Seconds later, the team leader signals for them to split apart and pull chutes. The parachutes make a faint popping sound that is not heard by the guards that are patrolling the rooftop of the Roundhouse. With the MP5 machine guns at the ready and silenced, the commandos drop onto the roof and assault the five sentries, killing them before they are aware of their presence. With chutes pulled off and stowed on the roof, the team leader motions for the team to move into the building through an open roof vent. The roof vent is the access point, with a hastily positioned wooden ladder the thugs wedged in to allow egress. Climbing down the ladder, the team switch on their night vision goggles, starting their search for the target without speaking a word.
“What is that?” Sara says to Mac in the darkness.
“I’m not sure.”
A low scraping sound is coming from the darkness in the middle of the room, but they are unable to see what it is. Sara reaches down to her pant leg and produces the single night vision monocular that the thugs failed to find. Holding it up to her eye, she switches it on and then realizes the purpose of the room. Forty feet away from her, she can see three flesh-eaters staring at her. Scanning the room, she realizes that the flesh-eaters are separated from them by some kind of plexiglass structure that has walls spaced at irregular intervals. Looking up at the sides of the room, she can see hundreds of people looking down on them, although she is not sure if they can see her and Mac.
“Here, take a look.”
Mac fumbles the device as she places it into his hands. Looking around the room, Mac sees the flesh-eaters and layout of the room.
“What the hell is this?” He whispers, before handing the monocular back to Sara. She looks back through it before speaking.
“I think it is a maze.” Sara replies.
Unfortunately, they are the unwilling contestants in a perverted and twisted post-apocalyptic sporting event. This is a sporting event where the contestants die if they don’t find the exit of the room. The silence of the room is shattered when a loudspeaker hums to life with the voice of the thug they met outside.
“Ladies and gentlemen, here tonight, from the wasteland, a man and child will attempt to survive the maze. Can they do it? Will they do it? Only chance will prevail. Only wit will prevail. Common sense will decide. Fate will imply a winner or loser.” He continues as the lights of the auditorium grow brighter. The maze is revealed to Mac and Sara, followed by loud applause from the crowd of spectators.
“Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen.”
The crowd starts betting, not with money, but with ordinary items that in a post-apocalyptic civilization are worth more than paper money. In front of their seats, the crowd places their items in a bin, and the items are accounted for by guys in jumpsuits who record the items, then place them in a sack with a number attached to them. Bottles of perfume, deodorant, floss, and anything else that they have brought, rattle around in the bag as the items are collected.
“Odds tonight, three to one, continue betting. You could be lucky enough to go home with three times what you brought in.” The announcer bellows.
A spotlight operated and controlled by a survivor positioned in the rafters swings its beam of light, highlighting Sara and Mac.
Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure Page 11