Years After Series | Book 1 | Nine Years After

by Clary, LeRoy

  The man I assumed was the leader turned wordlessly in disgust to the man on his right.

  Before they could object to me holding a loaded weapon, I slipped the single shell back into the magazine and slammed it home with a snap of finely made steel fitting together perfectly despite the pink paint.

  I turned and looked at the man in the center, my other palm held out, the loaded nine-millimeter semiautomatic in my other.

  I did not point the gun or otherwise threaten him. But I gave him a long, hard look before he turned to the man on his right and pointed first to him, then me in a type of surrender. I was handed a dozen shells and before sitting again, I slowly and carefully inserted each. It was a lesson in allowing someone not used to handling weapons attempting to unload one.

  My point made, I reached out and placed the pink gun on the table directly before the leader. I said, “I came here as a friend and hope to leave the same way.”

  There were between three and four thousand people in the Everett Sanctuary, from what I’d gathered. If I had any chance of leaving, I had to earn their respect and trust. My action had done that if the expressions facing me were a gauge.

  I finally sat and said loud enough for all to hear. “My name is Danner. I was traveling with a woman named Mayfield at the orders of the leaders of my sanctuary. We called our home Deep Hole, to the chagrin of our leaders.”

  “Where is she?” the man sitting at the head of the U abruptly asked.

  “She died trying to save you.” True enough and there were a variety of changed expressions for me to observe. They hadn’t expected that.

  A woman sitting at the last seat on his left said, “Sorry to hear that. We didn’t ask to be saved.”

  She stressed that last word as if it hurt her to say it, and as if she was dismissing me.

  A man across from her nodded in agreement.

  The man in the center asked, “How old are you, boy?”

  Now we were getting somewhere. “Sixteen. So was Mayfield.”

  “You shouldn’t have come,” the man in the center offered kindly but firmly.

  I held my temper and met his steady gaze with one of my own. The room had grown silent. I drew in a breath, measuring my next words for maximum impact. “Despite my age, which has no relevance in this discussion, we were sent here because you are all about to die. Soon. I came to help you.”

  I let it hang there. No additional information. No threats. No explanation.

  Mouths dropped open. One woman half-stood before slowly reseating herself. A man pulled back away from me as if I emanated poison. I waited.

  A small man with almost no hair regained his composure and asked, “How can you be so sure?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I told them about finding Three Hills Sanctuary and how the people of the surface had dug through solid rock to circumvent the steel doors. How every person was killed, and the food and weapons were taken, and a relay of guards assigned to search for people like us, to question and torture in order to locate more sanctuaries.

  There were no interruptions. I continued, telling them of the conditions on the surface, the myriad of small wars being fought, the poor ammo they used, the importance of their new guns, and about Sir Wilson and his grand dreams.

  A skinny man who hadn’t spoken yet said, “We’re a mile from the navy base at most and in nine years they have not discovered us. I’m confident we’ll be fine.”

  “You’re betting your life on that?” I snapped. “If so, that is a stupid wager. Especially when I tell you Sir Wilson has someone from another sanctuary right now. A man that he is torturing daily, trying to find your location.”

  I paused and glanced from face to face, reading disbelief, shock, and more. I waited, letting it sink in, along with the implications.

  When the time seemed right, I continued, “And that person from the other sanctuary had maps with him, along with the location of this place, so he could locate you and warn you. I don’t know where or how detailed those maps are.”

  They seemed to relax a bit. I gave them a boyish smile and lowered my voice slightly, a sure way to draw more attention, “I do know that the maps I was given to find you worked just fine. The way I located you is with a friend from the surface who was here with me and slept last night on the roof of the building above your heads. If she is captured by Sir Wilson, well, she has the maps that brought me directly here, so I assume others can read them as well as her and me.”

  I gave them a few seconds to consider that before going on, “But the maps don’t matter. He, Sir Wilson already knows there are more sanctuaries. So do the other leaders of his opponents. That is what’s important. They know there are weapons and thousands of rounds of ammo in each one. He, and others like him, will not stop looking until they have found every sanctuary and murdered every person in them.”

  The man in the center as much as rolled his eyes in disbelief and his voice came out slick. “Why would they kill us? We’re all Americans.”

  I gave that answer some thought while they waited. “Maybe we were all Americans. Nine years ago. But when you closed and locked those vault doors, you left all of them out there to die. All of you did that. Those people still living up there, those who survived the bombs and war, and lost friends and family, every single one of them, hates your guts. They might not have known the location of this shelter, but they still hate you. And me. And they will kill you.”

  That got their attention.

  They all began looking at the man who’d spoken last and there was suddenly fear in their eyes.

  I pushed my temporary advantage. “Listen, you have, at most, ninety days. Probably less, and maybe as little as two or three days if the man from the other sanctuary is made to talk. Once they bring in troops and begin digging into the rock around those vault-doors, it’s too late for you. Even if you try to leave, they will kill you. Every. Single. One. Of. You. If they find this location, they will get in quickly with explosives and fill your tunnels with poison gas, or deadly smoke before they attack.”

  A man who had observed closely but hadn’t spoken yet leaned forward and intertwined his fingers as if signaling the others to be quiet. His was short, balding, and his eyes squinted with intelligence. He said, “I am called The Mayor. You may call me that bygone title instead of my name.”

  He’d made a point I had only recently encountered when Cap and Tess introduced themselves to Mayfield and me. In Deep Hole, there were about three hundred people. In one way or another, we all knew each other so introductions were unknown. I imagined the same was true in a sanctuary holding a few thousand.

  Meeting new people, perhaps shaking their hands, and introducing each other was a lost art. Yet this man had intuitively revived it when none of the others had bothered to provide their names to me. While he did not sit in the seat normally reserved for the leader, suddenly there was little doubt who he was.

  I shifted my position slightly while sensing the meeting was about to change directions and the others could be ignored. They would go along with this man, no matter what. The small, pudgy man with his hands clasped in front of himself was the only one I needed to deal with.

  “You are hardly more than a child,” his words were spoken softly, enunciated perfectly, and his eyes bore into me as if he could see inside my mind.

  At poker, this man would win more often than lose. He was testing me with a sort of accusation. It was not my choice to deny his statement, argue it, attempt to justify it, or do as I had decided. I put on my poker face and said nothing. Not even a twitch at the corner of my eyes, an unintentional blink, nor a tightening of my jaw.

  After a few seconds, he said in the same calm, soft voice, “Well?”

  “You might as well say water is wet, or that wood comes from trees. I am hardly more than a child. True. I am not the causation of your doom, only a young messenger spreading the truth.”

  His eyes squinted slightly. He didn’t like my answer, especially in
front of the others. Worse, he didn’t like my answer as he had tried to intimidate me about my young age. I wouldn’t retaliate and tell him he was old, or argue about my age. It would do no good.

  He drew in a long, slow breath before speaking and said, “Why should we believe someone so young?”

  “As you said, I am hardly more than a child, which implies I am more than a child. If your game is to play with words about my age, surely you can do better than that, Mayor. A three-year old child can tell the truth, or be an effective messenger, don’t you agree?”

  Oh, he really didn’t like that one.

  People shifted slightly. Not him. He maintained his poise and in the same slow and detailed voice, said, “There is more you have to share but are waiting for the most impactful time.”

  “There is more,” I agreed.

  He didn’t smile, but his face softened slightly. “Amuse me. Skip to what else you have.”

  He was beginning to really piss me off. Several things leaped to mind that I could say, but the one that had prompted our leaders to exile Mayfield and me might make them face reality. I waited while choosing my words, the eyes of the others boring into me. I ignored them and kept mine centered on the mayor.

  I said, using the numbers from our sanctuary and multiplying them by ten to meet their population, “You had less than ten births last year, probably less. Fifty or sixty others died. Your population is shrinking and that will accelerate in the coming years.”

  “How could he possibly know?” a voice hissed.

  “Are we being spied on?” a woman hissed to the man at her side.

  I didn’t know who said it because I still watched the Mayor. The silence drug out. I continued, “In ten more years, how many of you will remain? The youngest age of those selected to escape the hell of the war was over forty. People who had made their marks. Important people. Senior military, top educators, high ranking politicians, and their spouses. An average age of the leaders was well over fifty. They are now over sixty. And the few women of child bearing age are not having babies.”

  Looks were exchanged. I felt like I had their full attention. The issue of child birth seemed more frightening to them than the boogeyman named Sir Wilson.

  I spoke louder so none would interrupt me, “Without children being born, in another nine years, what will the population down here be? Half of what it is now? Who will maintain the air circulation equipment for you, the elders who no longer do the work? What about the food manufacturing, the electrical interruptions, repairing the plumbing?”

  From their reactions, nobody had publicly broached those subjects and other similar ones. The Mayor still watched me without flinching. I decided I was in too deep to back out. “With or without me, and without Sir Wilson or others like him forcing his way in here, the Everett Sanctuary will die in a few more years. Perhaps sooner when the younger people realize that their only reason for existence is to support you. Long before that happens, there will be a revolt and I suspect you all know it.”

  The Mayor’s clasped fingers turned white.

  I’d pushed too fast, too far.

  His hands unclasped and he reached to my pink gun as he said, “Before I was a mayor, I was in the army and know my way around weapons. Do not test me by moving from that chair.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  My pink gun was pointed at me. The Mayor didn’t smile or otherwise gloat. He simply said to the woman nearest the door where I’d left the soldiers in the small office, “Please have them come in here. Danner, you are under arrest.”

  There was nothing left to say.

  I was escorted from the room with the three, wet, angry, military men guiding me, all with drawn weapons. The few people in the halls we passed gasped at the strange sight of me, my long hair, my beard, and my darker skin. Word would circulate quickly of a newcomer. Speculation would run rampant.

  At least, I hoped so.

  The Mayor should have trussed me in the council-room and kept my arrival secret. Inside, I both fumed and felt exonerated. I’d managed to ruffle the Mayor enough he’d made a mistake he couldn’t correct. Rumors in confined populations are impossible to prevent.

  A soldier shoved my back to make me walk faster as they realized the attention I drew and tried to hurry me along. They should have cleared the halls before marching me down them.

  I slowed to a crawl.

  The more people that saw me, the better. More rumors flying around were my friend and I intended to create plenty. A shove from behind sent me stumbling forward. I spun on him and landed a solid punch to his chest, right where Sarge had told us it could stop a man’s heart. He stumbled back and slipped to his knees as another charged forward in time to meet my roundhouse kick, one Mayfield would have been proud to witness. Two down. The third was wary and confused as he backed off a step.

  I shouted as loud as possible, “I came here to help all of you. No babies are being born. Enemies on the surface are coming to kill you and I’m being arrested for trying to rescue you. Your leaders are arresting me, so you won’t find out the truth. Spread the word. You’re all going to die if you don’t act now.”

  At a quick count, there were ten or more people in view. Doors in the passage opened and more faces appeared. They’d heard.

  Even a mayor couldn’t make them unhear what I said. I shouted, “I’m one of you from another sanctuary who came to warn and help you, but they won’t let me tell you that life is everywhere up there. Trees and grass and animals. Like it was before. We do not need to stay down here where you can’t have children.”

  The butt of a rifle struck where my neck met my shoulder.

  I woke in darkness. In pain.

  The floor was under me. I managed to get to a knee and fell sideways. Dizziness swept over me. My head struck a wall as I fell, and I was out again.

  There were times I woke briefly. Twice I thought I heard angry voices. The pounding in my head made the slightest movement washed me with nausea. I puked twice, but even that made me hurt and pass out. I had to pee and realized I lay in vomit, so closed my eyes, remained as still as possible, and let it flow. It didn’t matter.

  Eventually, either hours or days later, the door opened and six nervous soldiers with their weapons pointed at my head stood there. The light felt blinding. I said without moving, “Take it easy, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “On your feet,” one ordered.

  Through my left eye, I saw him, a large soldier in full camouflage uniform. It struck me as silly down inside the tunnels of a sanctuary. The camouflage was not hiding him. I sniffed. Worse than the stink of the sanctuary, was vomit and pee I’d slept in, perhaps more. Inwardly, I smiled. He was not going to touch me while I was soaked in vomit and pee, no matter what I said.

  I closed the one working eyelid and went back to sleep or fell into a painless coma as he cursed and ordered me to my feet repeatedly. I went to sleep.

  A soft, female voice asked gently, “Are you awake Danner?”

  “A little,” I muttered.

  “Rest. Just take it easy.”

  I did.

  Later, water was dribbled between my lips, lukewarm and reviving. Soft voices nearby sounded excited, which seemed contradictory in my feeble state of mind. Curious, I opened my eyes a little and found a hospital room around me, along with at least four people. I was in a clean bed.

  “He’s waking,” one said.

  Shutting my eyes again wouldn’t help. They knew I was listening. The conversation came to an abrupt halt as all four crowded near me. One ordered, “Increase the stim.”

  Another, a man located near my head, reacted and performed a task I couldn’t see. A stinging sensation made itself known in my forearm, then increased to sharp pain with no indication of diminishing. I winced and may have cried out.

  “Reduce it by half,” the same male voice snapped. “He’s alert enough to talk, or soon will be.”

  Talk? Was he an idiot? I was half dead. Yet, even as th
ose negative thoughts crossed my mind, he was right. My mental acuity increased as the stinging pain throughout my body decreased. My eyes roved over the three I could see. The last stood behind my head at the top of the bed.

  Each wore the identical clothing all people in the sanctuaries did, so I was still underground. Their actions and attitudes were anxious, their faces new to me. More importantly, I was not being beaten by soldiers and was no longer locked in a closet.

  I attempted to move. It hurt. Everywhere.

  The gentle female voice from the one near my head said, “Stay calm and let the medicine do its job. They didn’t do any permanent damage when they beat you, but you’ll take a couple of days to heal enough to move around.”

  The other three were leaning close, peering at me as if I was a curiosity.

  The only male, a middle-aged man with flecks of gray at his temples said, “Can you talk?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “It’s important.”

  Well, if it was important to him, maybe I should reconsider. The drugs swirling in my body hadn’t prevented my sarcasm from taking the front stage. “To who?”

  They exchanged glances and at a nod from a woman who seemed to be in charge, he continued, “Important to all of us. Let me tell you a little about the past three days. Are you up to listening while you come around?”

  Listening wouldn’t hurt. The single nod of my head I gave did hurt. A lot.

  “You’ve been down here for five days, in all. The first two were in that locked space where you were questioned and beaten. Tortured, is a better description.”

  He paused and waited for a response he didn’t receive. I was listening. The idea that I’d been out five days worried me. My first thoughts were of Tess and Bream. What must they think?

  He continued, “One of the council members left the meeting and immediately spread the tale you told to her friends, as well as that she fully believed everything you said. That occurred almost simultaneously as you were screaming in the corridor. People heard you. Too many to threaten about not spreading rumors. That was a good move on your part.”