Redaction: Dark Hope Part III

by Linda Andrews

  “Oh, um.”

  “To your right, there’s a tarp covering our surveillance room,” Sunnie offered.

  “Is the cavern that way too?” Mr. Jernigan asked.

  “No, it’s on the left,” Mavis answered.

  “Then I don’t need to see it.”

  They rounded the corner and disappeared. Only the deadly rattle and gurgle of water remained.

  They were the experts. Mavis had to let them do their jobs, find the solution. She paced the width of the passage, Shep at her side.

  “Maybe you should sit down for a bit,” Johnson suggested.

  “I feel fine.”

  “Um, you’re making me dizzy.”

  She sat in the chair. The elevator rattled and gears ground. Someone else was coming.

  Sally jogged around the corner. “If it’s Morse Code, it’s not in English.”

  “It’s not your people, Doctor Spanner. That tapping is the Tommyknockers. They’re warning you that another cave-in is imminent. They must like you to be making that much noise.”

  Or really hated her and planned to bury them all alive. “How long do we have?”

  “Hours.”

  “Hours?” She was glad she was sitting or she might have fallen. “Can we get them out in time? Erect some kind of net to catch the big rock when it falls?”

  “There’s no way of knowing how much slag will come after that boulder. Are you certain they’re alive?”

  “They’re alive. They have to be.”

  Mr. Jernigan rubbed his nose. “You can’t go in the way they did. But I can look at the layout you mapped of your caves and devise a solution in a day. Any idea how far away they are from that mess?”

  “Ten yards. They were in a cavern between the two tunnels when I told them the bad guys were setting off the bombs.”

  “A cavern, you say? How big?”

  “Ten by ten and maybe twelve feet high,” Sally answered. “I’ve marked it on the map.”

  Coal dust rained from his bushy eyebrows. “How many went in?”

  “David, Robertson, Ray, Folgers, Vegas and Michaelson.” A lot of men stuck in a very small space.

  Mr. Jernigan scratched his chin. “I’ll get back to you within six hours.”

  “How long?” Please, God. Please, let it be enough time.

  “How long what?” Sunnie tugged on her arm.

  “Twelve hours if they’re resting and making a conscious effort to conserve the oxygen.”

  “No.” Sunnie collapsed and set her head against Mavis’s forearm. “You can’t let them die.”

  She ran her fingers through her niece’s hair. “I need three options by lunch. That’s three hours.”

  “I can give you one in three hours. The other two in six.”

  “Do it.” Hold on, David. I’m coming for you. Please, just hold on.

  Chapter Forty-One

  It was a hell of a thing. David could swear his eyes were open, but the world looked the same as when they were closed. Black. Empty. Only the ringing in his skull, liquefying his insides, confirmed he was alive.

  Well, that and the cold.

  His teeth chattered and he shivered. Probably time to get out of the pool. Water sucked at his eardrums and he lifted his head. His feet touched the bottom, but he didn’t straighten. Which way was out? Movement rippled across the water, slapped his chest. He stilled. He wasn’t alone.

  Ah, shit, he wasn’t alone!

  He stood, numb fingers fumbled with the strap cutting into his shoulder.

  “Men! Sound off!” His vocal cords strained but he barely heard himself. Maybe if he cleared the water, his hearing would return.

  “Robertson.” The muffled voice came from the left.

  “Michaelson.” Lower, softer at six o’clock.

  “Ray.” The boom sounded louder in David’s right ear, three o’clock maybe.

  “V-Vegas.” The five o’clock position.

  A heartbeat passed then another. Hot air swirled around David, drove some of the chill from his torso. “Folgers! Check in.”

  Silence pressed against him, competed with the ringing for space in his skull.

  “Does anyone hear Folgers?”

  After a pause, his men chorused. “No.”

  Fuck. He crouched in the water, straining his hands through the frigid liquid. Where the hell was his pack? “We need light!”

  Waves slapped him in the chin. He inched forward still searching. Something brushed his fingertips. He hooked it with his index finger on the second pass. A strap. Thank God. He tugged. The thing didn’t budge.

  Red flared to life in his peripheral vision.

  The glow stick pitted Ray’s features with bottomless shadows. “Folgers should have been right behind me, Sergeant-Major.”

  Robertson’s light painted him in jealous hues and glittered on the scorched patches of raw skin. He faced the wall of rubble, filling a quarter of their small space and sealing their tomb. “Fuck me.”

  “Robertson.” David peered into the murky water; what had his bag caught on?

  “Right.” The private sidled down the debris, looking into openings. He stooped near the center. “I’ve got a crispy critter.”

  “Folgers?” David turned.

  “Not unless he got married and didn’t invite any of us to the wedding.”

  Thank God. For a moment there, he’d feared—David cut off the thought and turned his attention to his pack.

  A yellow light hit the water in front of him. Jaundice invaded the pool. Fingers waved from the milky bottom. A black rock sat squarely on a tan and green log. “Here!”

  The pond sloshed over its banks as his men waded closer.

  “Pull or push, Sergeant-Major?” Michaelson set his hand on the rock.

  “You, Robertson and I will pull. Ray, Vegas push from the other side.”

  Within seconds, everyone was in position. Hands of every color covered the rock.

  “On the count of three. One. Two.” He took a deep breath. “Three.”

  Muscle strained. His grip slipped but the rock rolled. He backpedaled as it came toward him.

  “Got him.” Ray lifted Folgers and flipped him over.

  The kid stared at ceiling, unblinking. Blue tinged his lips.

  “Fuck!” An ache built at the base of David’s skull. How long had he been stunned? Surely not more than a minute or two. It had to take longer than that to drown, didn’t it?

  “No!” Ray lifted the kid by his jacket and shook him like a ragdoll.

  Folgers’s head lolled to the side.

  Michaelson looked away.

  Ray splayed Folgers across a boulder and pushed on his back. Water spurted from the kid’s mouth.

  Damn it. David’s nails cut into his palms. This was not the way the op was to go down.

  Vegas moved closer. “Take off his pack.”

  Ray pumped through the equipment. “Don’t you dare die on me you, ass wipe. I’m not finished razzing you.”

  “Dammit Ray!” Vegas cut the straps at Folgers’s shoulders. He reached under his comrade’s arms and yanked on the pack when Ray released.

  “You can’t die on me, man. You can’t.” Ray’s voice shattered. Pain bled through the cuts.

  Robertson shifted away, studied the rock art of the collapse.

  Michaelson dropped his pack on a dry boulder and organized the contents.

  Vegas rocked to the rhythm of Ray’s CPR.

  David counted off sixty seconds.

  Folgers jerked only when Ray pumped his chest.

  David scrubbed his hand down his face. He’d lost another man. Wading through the water, he nudged Vegas to the side. He barely registered the touch of Folgers’s cold skin when he shut the kid’s eyes. “He’s gone Ray.”

  Ray’s shoulders slumped and he stared up at the ceiling. “I said I’d look after him, Big D. He didn’t have anyone and I said I’d look after him.”

  “You did. You looked after him.” The room spun for a moment.
Christ, that’s all he needed another cave-in. David braced a hand near Folgers’s head.

  “Then why’s he dead?” Ray shoved David and snarled. “Why?”

  David staggered back a step before finding his footing. Great, he was about to get into a knife-fight in a tin can. “That’s above our pay grade. Now sit your ass down, Soldier. The mission is not complete.”

  Ray blinked. “Yes, Sergeant-Major.”

  Robertson petted a rock on the pile and giggled. “It’s so pretty. Do you think it’s gold?”

  Michaelson vomited into the water. The chunks twirled on the way to the bottom.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, David forced himself to focus. Something else was going on here. Pieces surfaced in the fog of his mind. “Michaelson, you have your lighter?”

  Michaelson stared at his dancing vomit. “I don’t have any more cigarettes, Sergeant-Major.”

  “Give me the lighter, soldier.”

  Michaelson turned back to his pack.

  “All right you pukes, I want you up on a ledge. No part in the water.”

  Vegas clawed at the rocks on the side of the pond but didn’t actually climb out. “Is there something in the water, Sergeant-Major?”

  “Yeah. Hypothermia.” David hooked his hand around Vegas’s waistband and hauled him onto a strip of dry rocks.

  Vegas rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.

  “Got it, Sergeant-Major.” Michaelson shook a plastic baggie with a silver lighter in it at him. “It was my dad’s. He was an ass.”

  Ray climbed onto the boulder and sat next to Folgers, held his hand.

  Robertson turned a piece of quartz round and round in his fingers.

  David heaved himself on the rocky ledge near Michaelson and took the bag. He fumbled with the closure before he opened it. Finally, he fished it out, flicked the top up and struck it. A small flame burned near the flint. Keeping the flame going, he maxed out the gas. The flame didn’t grow by much.

  There wasn’t much to feed it.

  The first big bang must have used up a fair amount of oxygen.

  “What’s it mean, Big D?” Robertson glanced at him over his crystal.

  It meant they were quickly running out of air. Death imminent. Too bad he couldn’t think of a Hail Mary pass. “It means we lay quietly until the Doc and her eggheads figure out how to rescue us.”

  They would do it. They were smart.

  But would it be in time?

  Would they even try? No one knew for sure if they were alive.

  Ray straightened Folgers’s uniform. “You should drown us. You’re the only one with someone out there, you deserve to have the best shot at living.”

  “He’s right, Big D.” Robertson tossed the crystal into the pond. “You gotta think of that baby. She needs her daddy.”

  Michaelson flipped his lighter opened and closed. “Dads are important. More important than mechanics in this dark hell.”

  “I’ve heard drowning is painless.” Vegas set his forearm over his eyes. “After a minute or two you just go to sleep and drift away.”

  David set his chin on his folded arms. God, were they really playing the men on the lifeboat game? “Shut the fuck up, you’re wasting oxygen.”

  They lived and fought as a unit. They would die that way.

  “Sergeant-Major.” Robertson tapped his boots together. “It’s been an honor.”

  “Nah.” Sleep slurred Vegas’s words.

  “It’s been a privilege.” Ray closed his eyes and rested his head on the wall behind him.

  “Oorah.” Michaelson hugged his lighter tight.

  Bastards. David blinked back the sting in his eyes. “You made me proud, men.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Manny lifted the lid off the beans. Steam caressed his cheeks. He inhaled the aroma of cumin, garlic, onions and peppers. Surely heaven didn’t smell this good. He stirred the pintos before fishing one out. He blew on the sample then scraped it off with his teeth and bit down.

  Just a bit longer.

  He checked the clock on the bottom of the computer screen hanging on the wall above the serving line. Another hour until first lunch. The beans and rice will be ready then.

  Tapping the spoon clean, he angled the lid so the water would boil off then set the utensil on its assigned plate. He glanced around the room while wiping his hands on his apron. Just him and the five pots of beans.

  His attention drifted to the stage. Despite being scrubbed clean, he still saw the blood and the body. The death that had nearly cost him the life of his best friend. Goosebumps rippled up his arms and he stepped around where Justin had nearly been beaten to death.

  Had been stomped on until he died, if he believed the official story.

  Tears stung his eyes. How could adults have done that? They were supposed to protect kids, not kill them. And Justin was a kid. Didn’t any of them remember his friend standing guard with a bow and arrow when the number of soldiers shrunk to almost nothing? He’d remind everyone.

  Just as soon as they caught the real bad guy.

  It had to be one of the jerks harassing him in the kitchen. Growing up in South Phoenix, he knew what a gun looked like concealed under a shirt or jacket. Chef had been so scared when she’d spied one, she’d barely budged from the oven. He certainly testify the gun-toting dumb asses had done nothing but bad-mouth the Doc and the general.

  He rolled his shoulders, loosening the tight muscles. The Sergeant-Major and his men would find the killer. They had before.

  Pulling out the keyboard from under the dessert prep counter, Manny typed in today’s lunch menu. Three asterisks highlighted his homemade beans and rice. No stars crowned the MRE meals of Chicken Fajitas with refried beans, Mexican Chicken stew with rice and beans and Southwest Beef and black beans.

  He hit the enter button a few times then typed the desserts: Chocolate-banana muffin tops, brownies and spiced apples. He licked his lips. If he could save some apples from the slops pot, he might be able to make apple coffee cake for breakfast tomorrow.

  As for the candy and chocolates, they’d be saved for after the general’s funeral.

  Manny shuddered. His bones rattled under his skin like stacks of dishes. If he’d been a little slower, he could have been shot. If the general had shifted closer to the edge of the stage, Manny would have died instead. Pulling the box cutter from his pocket, he slashed a jagged line in the box of MREs.

  At least Chef seemed to have climbed off the altar and settled in the pews with the rest of the survivors.

  Maybe he’d misjudged her. Interpreted her poor command of English as snobbery.

  She’d certainly given in quickly when he’d asked to plan a fiesta tonight in memory of the general. Heck, she’d even suggested he see if there were enough beans and rice in their stores.

  And left him alone to prep it.

  Trusted him to add spices. He’d nearly fainted. No lectures on palates or anything.

  Opening the box, he sorted the rations. Candies and chocolates flew into the baskets. Tonight’s desserts went on a tray. The entree skidded to a stop on the stainless-steel prep counter. Plastic baggies with utensils, condiments, gum and tissue went into a bucket for Rini and Beth to sort.

  He hoped Chef’s generosity lasted until he made the apple cake. His stomach grumbled. Red pepper flakes rolled around one plastic pouch. Maybe she’d let him use those bruised tomatoes to make salsa. He had cilantro in his garden and the other spices were already on the shelf above the stove.

  He checked the clock.

  Ten minutes until Rini and Beth showed up to help with lunch. Setting the empty box on the floor, he untied his apron. Maybe he should see how many tomatoes were left before he asked Chef.

  Stowing his apron, he crossed the dining hall. Stare at the storeroom door. Don’t look at the stage. His heart raced and he picked up speed. No one was around. No one would be shot today. His palm slipped on the handle before finding traction and twisting it. The door o
pened with a pop of suction.

  Chef Jardin stood a little inside, staring at a small makeup mirror and pulling a syringe from her forehead.

  Manny blinked. What the hell?

  Her attention darted to him and her lips thinned. An emotion flared in her eyes, there and gone before he identified it. She carefully set the cap on the tiny needle.

  “Are you sick?” She had to be sick. Only sick people stuck themselves. Unless… No, he couldn’t believe she was on drugs. She was too…controlled for that. Look at how she ran the kitchen.

  “No.” She smoothed her flour-white brow as if checking for flaws in the unmarred skin. Grabbing a small vial marked with a skull and crossbones off the shelf, she tucked it and the syringe into her pocket. “Just maintaining my looks.” She shook the nearly empty saline vial. “But not for much longer.”

  “Oh.” Sure, he’d heard of the stuff that helped chicks get rid of wrinkles. But no one ever said it involved needles. No, thank you. He’d rather be as wrinkled as a prune.

  “How’s the lunch coming?” She bared her teeth.

  Jesus, she must have done it wrong. Her cheeks didn’t move. He shook himself. Answer her before she gets anymore irritated. “First batch will be ready in forty-five minutes.”

  “Good.” Her hand jingled in her pocket. “Was there something you needed from me?”

  He angled to the side, spying the fabric grocery sack on the ground. “Actually, I was hoping to use the leftover tomatoes to make salsa.”

  “I see.” Unhooking the mirror, she flipped it over and fluffed her short hair. “I suppose that will be okay.” Her breath fogged the mirror in short bursts before she dropped it into her pocket. “Why don’t I get started on chopping them while you wait for the vegetables to come up the conveyor?”

  He took a step back. Wow! The general’s death must really have affected her. She’d never done the prep work before. “Thanks, Chef. Do you want me to carry the tomatoes to the kitchen?”

  “I can manage, Emmanuel.” She waved him away, picked up the sack and walked toward the door. “Just stay here until the food comes in. I would like to know if we have enough to start planning another meal.”

  “Yes, Chef,” he managed before the door slammed shut.