Seeking Silence

by E. A. Darl

  “You found a bunker?” Mitch said, pleased. “This is fantastic! There is nothing more secure than this. Is it abandoned?”

  “Yes, the government never comes here. It is deep within the Seiko tribes’ sacred lands. They wouldn’t dare enter, since the signing of the treaties of The Silenced Lands, seventy five years ago. They returned the traditional burial grounds and all structures on or below the surface to the Seiko at that time.”

  “Brilliant. This is perfect.” Mitch walked up to the silvery barrier. “There is nothing more secure than a bunker. How do we get in?”

  Pam tugged on his arm and he followed her to the right side where another door stood hidden in shadow.

  “We use this entrance.”

  She knocked on the door, the taps coded into a pattern. A series of knocks were returned and Pam tapped again a shorter message. After a moment of silence, the door swung open and they stepped into the dim interior. A narrow hallway ran a few feet and then broadened onto a catwalk suspended from the curved metal ceiling and fenced over like a chicken coop to keep one from dropping several stories to the stone floor below. The fenced walkways crisscrossed the vast room, descending to the floor at either end. From above, Mitch could clearly see the silos built into the floor, like empty eye sockets. Instead of missiles, however, the silos were filled to the brim with water. Precious, life preserving water.

  Mitch whistled. “Talk about striking gold. You have found true treasure, Pam.”

  Pam nodded. “I have, indeed. It was under our feet all along.”

  Chapter 11

  To Save A Life

  Alexa wobbled down the highway, taking up both lanes trying to keep the car on the road. Her hands shook on the steering wheel, the wet slick from her sweating palms making her grip slide on the leather. She was too scared to let go of the Mustang’s wheel long enough to wipe each hand on her dress, in case she lost control of the car. She gripped it tighter, her fingers white against the black grip. She could barely see over the dash and had to sit close to the wheel to be able to see the road at all.

  Her first attempt to make the car go forward was greeted with spinning tires that scared her so badly, she’d started crying. She sat, frozen with fear for several minutes before gathering her courage and gently depressed the gas pedal with a trembling foot. The car eased forward without the spinning tires, and she drove it off the gravel and onto the pavement, her foot quivering so badly she wondered why the car didn’t hop down the road like a rabbit. The green road sign announced that the exit she needed was two miles further.

  She had no idea what the dials meant, except for the one that told her the speed. The red hand in the middle left circle of the woodgrain dashboard was pointing at the number thirty, so she thought she must be driving thirty miles an hour. She had no idea what the speed limit was, but at that speed, she didn’t wobble so much on the road.

  “Peet?” she called, not wanting to be alone.

  There was no answer. She bit her lip, to stop the tears that wanted to spill from her eyes. Stop it, Alexa. Peet needs you, she scolded herself, and concentrated on the road. The car hit a pot hole and lurched. Peet moaned from the back seat.

  The exit veered off on the right side and she followed the exit down an incline. A stop sign was at the end of the ramp and she braked, but it was a bit too late. She shot out into the intersection and was across it and onto the gravel on the far side before she could get the car turned. Panicked, she yanked the wheel to the right and the car swerved out onto the pavement again, but on the wrong side of the road. Alexa screamed as the grill of a truck bore down on her. A horn blared, scaring her so badly she floored the gas pedal. The Mustang leapt forward, onto the proper side of the road as the truck whizzed past, horn still blaring. Shuddering, Alexa took her foot off the gas and let the car coast down the road. Her legs were out of control, shaking in a cold adrenaline rush so severe they refused to do anything that her brain commanded. Alexa concentrated on steering the car, her brain numbed with terror over the near miss. The Mustang slowed as the needle dropped and as she coasted, she calmed.

  The gas station! There it is! Alexa squinted at the tall orange sign. A circle like the setting sun, with green triangles representing trees announced Timber’s Gas was closed. The last price posted was missing two numbers and a board announcing “Last Gas for Fifty Miles” swung in the breeze, flapping from one unbroken hinge. Alexa turned the wheel, still too scared to touch the gas pedal. The Mustang limped past the rusting gas pumps and the whitewashed gas station, obscured by six foot tall weeds and thistles. At the back, a narrow lane could be seen, but no building in sight. The Mustang rolled to a stop. Peet groaned once again.

  Alexa let go of the steering wheel and rubbed her hands on her legs, fingers aching with stiffness. She shook her hands and then took several deep breaths, gathering her courage. She placed her hands on the wheel then gently pressed the gas pedal. This time she had more control over the pedal and the car eased forward, bouncing down the rutted lane. Gritting her teeth, she fought the bumps, steering as best she could. She was so focused on the driving part that she didn’t see the cottage until she was almost driving in the front door. She crested the slight hill and there it was.

  Alexa braked and put the Mustang in park, relieved that her ordeal was over. She opened the car door and stumbled out on legs that felt like jelly, stumbling to the front door. She pounded on the door with her fists.

  “Hello,’ she called. “Is the doctor in?”

  Spying a brass knocker, she lifted it and pounded on the striker, still calling, “Doctor? Hello, Doctor, are you home?”

  The door opened abruptly under her pounding. A frail man stood in the doorway, white hair sticking up in all directions. A bathrobe was tied closed around his waist.

  “I am Dr. Song. Who are you, girl?”

  “I am Alexa, I am a friend of Peet’s. He is in the car, he has been shot. Please, can you help me?”

  “Peet? I don’t know any Peet.” The door started to close.

  Panic rose once again in Alexa once again. She stuck her foot in the door.

  “Please, you need to help me. He is bleeding and unconscious. Please! Help me!”

  The man paused, eyes searching her dirty, tear stained face.

  “Alright, child, I will help you. Show me your friend.”

  Alexa took his hand and dragged him back to the car, opening the passenger side door and pulling the seat forward.

  Peet was sprawled across the back seat, but his legs had dumped onto the floor sometime during Alexa’s inexpert maneuvers. Blood had soaked through the towel wrapped around his leg.

  The doctor leaned into the car, placing two fingers against the side of Peet’s throat.

  “He is alive. We must move him inside, but it will take both of us to get him there. Wait a minute. I have a small wagon.”

  The doctor walked around the back of the cottage and returned a short time later with a gardening wagon. He rolled it up under the open door.

  “Now, we need to grab him under his arms and pull him out onto the wagon. I will pull him out, if you can keep the wagon steady. Ready?”

  At Alexa’s nod, he bent inside the car, slid his arms under Peet’s and began to pull him out. Peet groaned as his injured leg shifted, but with a few more pulls and heaves, they had him out of the car and onto the cart. Together they pulled the injured Peet into the house and into a library where a squashy, well-used couch sat under the window.

  “Take his feet, I will get this end,” said the doctor, and on the count of three, they lifted Peet’s limp form off the wagon. “There.”

  He straightened, running a practiced eye over the prone man. “I will need to examine him. Come with me — “He paused, turning to peer at her, and raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

  “Alexa,” she supplied.

  “Come with me, Alexa. You can run some water for me.”

  He led her back into his tiny galley kitchen, pulling a metal basin fro
m a cupboard and placing it in the sink.

  “Fill this with lukewarm water while I fetch my supplies.”

  He shuffled out of the room, leaving Alexa to her task. When she returned to the library, he was already there, towels spread under the injured leg.

  A pair of sharp scissors made quick work of the blood soaked pant leg. He peeled back the stiffening cloth to reveal the damaged leg. Dr. Song gestured for her to put the water on the table beside him then dipped a clean cotton cloth into the warm water and washed away the dried blood. Fresh blood flowed as he washed away the thin crust and he poked at the wound, feeling his way.

  “The good news is that the bullet passed right through. We do not need to probe further. The bad news is that he has lost a lot of blood. I need to clean the wound then we will need to stitch it closed.”

  “Is he going to live?”

  Now that the raw emergency was over, Alexa felt weak, and sick for real. Her stomach churned watching the injured Peet.

  Picking up on her tone, the doctor assessed Alexa’s pale face.

  “Go get some food in the kitchen. There is some roast chicken salad in the fridge. Make yourself a sandwich and have a glass of mint tea. There might be a bit of goat milk left, check in the freezer. I freeze it in ice cube trays and only thaw what I need. The goat has been going dry.” I will be fine for now. I will call you if I need your help. Do not come back until you have finished eating.”

  Grateful for the excuse to leave, Alexa got up and left the room to do as the doctor asked. She poked around the kitchen and found all the fixings for sandwiches. She carried everything over to the table and decided to make three sandwiches, one for each of them, rather than just the one. Peet would be hungry when he woke up, she was sure of it. The cheery thought lightened her mood and she made sure to pile Peet’s sandwich twice as high as hers, as he would need the extra energy to heal. She sat and ate her sandwich and drank her milk. Bravery returning, she walked back into the library.

  The doctor was wrapping Peet’s leg as she entered.

  “Feel better?”

  “Yes. I made you and Peet a sandwich, too.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled at her. “The leg is all stitched, and now just wrapping him up. I need to give him a shot for pain and one to help stave off infection. Are you scared of needles?”

  Alexa shook her head, no.

  “Good, because you hardly feel them at all.”

  He reached into the box at his side and pulled out a couple of small, labeled vials and a thin needle, pushing the needle through the rubber top. He pulled out the needed quantity and then plunged the needle into Peet’s arm. He repeated the process with another vial. He winced at the need to double up on the needle but they were hard to come by now. He ejected the spent needle into a secure container then stood up. He would re-sterilize it later. He pulled a blanket up over Peet.

  “He needs to rest. Come show me this sandwich you made for me.”

  He followed Alexa back to the kitchen table, pausing to wash his hands at the kitchen sink before joining Alex at the table. He lowered himself down into his favourite chair with a weary sigh.

  “Thank you for the sandwich, Alexa.”

  “Will Peet be ok?”

  “Yes, his vitals are strong. He needs to rest and recover though, so you will be staying with me for a few days. I have a spare bedroom. How about you tell me what is going on here, and how Peet was shot? By the way, Peet is his middle name. That is why I didn’t recognize his name. I guess he doesn’t go by his first name.”

  “What is his first name?” asked Alexa

  “Gustave.”

  Alexa giggled. “Sounds like something out of a kid’s movie.”

  “It sure does.” The elderly doctor’s eyes twinkled, as he took a bite of his sandwich. He chewed and swallowed, then said gently, “What happened, Alexa?”

  The smile slid from Alexa’s face, as she recounted their narrow escape from the hospital. The old doctor frowned, listening in silence. He did not interrupt, leaning in to catch her every word.

  Chapter 12

  Firebrand

  “So, you are saying that your parents are likely the leaders of the SOS or very close to the top of the underground movement? They are public enemy #1 according to the government?” asked Trench.

  “Yeah. That is my take on it. They knew something, something dangerous, something that the government didn’t want the general populous to know. It was damming enough to hunt them down and silence them,” said Avalon.

  “So you think they are dead?”

  Avalon pondered the question for a moment, searching her feelings.

  “No. I don’t believe they are dead. However dangerous their knowledge is on the outside, it is even more dangerous to those on the inside. But it is also something they need. I think what my parents discovered was the antidote to the government’s failed experiment, the genie they let out of the bottle. I think they know how to stop all of this.” Avalon waved her hand at the greater world beyond the walls of Frankie’s Finger Foods.

  “Why imprison them for it? Why not thank them and implement the cure?” Trench scowled at the realization that the world he knew writhed in the throes of death beyond the brownstone walls of their hideaway.

  Avalon stared at him sadly. “Money. It’s the only theory that makes any sense. Someone is making a fortune to keep the truth silent, that there is a cure for all of this. And we do not need to look very far to guess who that is.”

  “Senator Penn,” growled Trench.

  “Senator Penn,” agreed Avalon. “Do you remember the scandal of a few years ago, with the off-world shipments?”

  “Wasn’t he investigated for privateering? It was all hushed up by the House of Lords.”

  “Exactly. Do you remember who brought the accusations?”

  “No,” said Trench.

  “It was the student body at Solace U. They planned that big rally and marched from campus right to the gates of Parliament Hill. Don’t you remember? The government swarmed the crowd and opened fire, killing the leaders of the march.”

  Trench nodded, as memory of the event returned. “That’s right. The government later put it about that the Parliament security had acted against orders and issued a formal apology, but that didn’t bring back the dead students who were leading the charge. The movement died with them. No one wanted to be the next ones targeted.”

  “Exactly. The movement went underground at that point. I wasn’t old enough to know any of this, but I remember my parents talking about the rally. I didn’t understand any of the conversation then, but I understand it now. They never tried to hide the issues from us. They spoke openly of their school days and the rally. In their study, they kept a scrapbook with news articles from the event, noting everyone they could identify on both sides of the conflict.”

  “Do you still have it?” said Trench.

  “Yes, it is in our hidey-hole in the barn,” said Avalon.

  “We need that scrapbook,” muttered Trench. “It will help us so much!”

  “How so?”

  Exasperated, Trench leaned across the table, glaring at her.

  “How so? How so? Your parents were eye witnesses to the revolution! They know everyone who is involved. That might be the reason they were targeted.”

  Avalon’s mouth dropped open with an audible click.

  “Oh my god, you are right.” Her eyes glazed over as memories flooded over her. “How could I be so stupid? They were trying to teach us without us even realizing it. They left the scrapbook as a road map, a guide. The government agents. That is what they were looking for. That is what they wanted. THE SCRAPBOOK!” Avalon shot to her feet. “I have to go,” she gasped and turned away but her flight was halted by a strong hand that clamped onto the bruises forming under the skin, from Magnum’s manhandling.

  “Ouch!” she cried, pushing at Trench’s hand.

  “Sit,” he commanded, pushing her back down and releasing her. “You
are not going anywhere until you are one of us.”

  “One of you?” she rubbed her upper arm. “What do you mean?”

  “No one can come and go in Firebrand territory without being branded. What do you think it meant?”

  Trench shoved up his sleeve, and there, burnt into his skin was the Firebrand’s signature image, tattooed into his skin. Only this tattoo was burnt in, not inked.

  Avalon licked her lips. “You mean I have to join you, in the flesh, in order to leave here alive?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes rose to meet his. They were blue steel on ice. Immovable. Avalon’s eyes dropped to her bruised arm. With a sigh, she shoved the sleeve of her jacket up her arm, revealing the heaving bruising that had made her wince.

  “Ok, but make it quick. I need to get back so I can be sure the album is safe.” Anxiety over their hidey-hole in the hayloft where she and her sister Alexa had been living for the last five years set her heart to hammering in her chest. “I can handle your initiation.”

  “Can you?” Trench raised an eyebrow. “We will see. I hear the others returning. You agree to become one of us? The decision cannot be reversed. Once branded, you are always branded. That is why we do not do ink.”

  Avalon swallowed past the chunk of stone that lodged in her throat.