“Don’t move!” I was proud that my hand didn’t tremble and my voice was steady.
He was a big guy, wearing a blue suit jacket that wrapped tightly around thick arms and shoulders. “Who are you?” he asked.
“That’s not important. I need in here, and you’re going to open these doors,” I said, glancing at the archives entrance.
“No I’m not.” His tone was deep, his posture like a coiled snake. I stayed far from him, to avoid a hand-to-hand altercation.
“Is it worth your life?” I asked.
“You’ll die when they arrive, so why bother coming here at all?” he asked.
I cringed at the commentary. “Shut up. Just open the doors.”
“I won’t,” he said.
I remembered that Veronica had said the cameras were coming back on. I probably had eight minutes remaining. “Fine.” I aimed for his leg and hit it in the center of the fleshy thigh. He went down, hands covering the wound. “How about now?”
He hissed in pain, blood dripping through his fingers. “You’ll never make it out of here alive!”
He reached a hand into his jacket, displaying a holstered gun. I pulled the trigger, punching his shoulder. The gun dropped, and I rushed over, kicking it away. “Give me the keys.”
“Come get them,” he spat.
I didn’t have time for this. I walked to him, gun raised, and he lunged. His wounded leg gave out, and he struck his forehead against the glass wall, knocking himself unconscious. I was glad I didn’t need to kill him.
He had the keys. I needed them. My gun slid away, and I crouched over his limp body, reaching into his pants to find a set of keys. There were only three, meaning he had the master. I tested the circular lock with what I thought matched. It turned.
I had maybe six minutes. This was going to be extremely close.
The archives were dark, and I searched for a light switch. There were offices here, with desks and computers on them, but nothing adorned the walls. There were no names on the doors, no tags on the desks. The lunchroom was empty, not a speck of food on the counters; an old coffee pot sat clean as a whistle.
I’d shot another man. My feet kept moving, knowing I had to hurry, but my body wanted to shut down, to curl into a ball.
The end of the corridor led to where a corner office should have been, but there was no door, so I entered the room beside it. There were filing cabinets along one of the walls, and a built-in wooden shelving unit with doors. I tested them, finding another lock. I still had my tool pouch, and I yanked out bolt cutters, snapping the digital padlock. I tossed it aside and opened the doors.
It was dark and empty, but I tested the back panel just in case. It wasn’t a new trick. I’d worked for a lot of collectors who kept their most treasured items in secret rooms in their mansions, and this was no different.
The panel slid backwards, and I climbed through, finding what I was searching for. It was pitch black, so I used an LED lantern, setting it on a dark wooden shelf. It gave me enough light to guide my way. The windows were covered by the cabinets, housing dozens of ancient artifacts. Some of them were from familiar cultures; others seemed rare and foreign even to me. I sorted through scrolls, wooden disks, and metal tools, without luck.
I opened drawers, searching through them as fast as I could, but found no resemblance to our Token inside. I assumed the cameras would be working by now, and I verified the time. I needed to leave. Empty-handed. I’d almost killed a man for nothing.
I checked my phone, ready to tell Veronica I was abandoning the search. A new message flashed over the dark screen.
Tripp – Found the prize. Retrieving it now.
They’d done it. That gave me a renewed sense of urgency. We could leave and meet up with them. Maybe Marcus would learn more of the Believers’ plan, and we’d be one step ahead when we traveled to Rimia to use the seventh Token.
Everything was coming together. I gathered my things and stepped out of the room.
“We’ve been wondering when you’d arrive,” a man’s voice said. “The Sovereign told us you’d come, and he has a knack for telling the future.”
I reached for my gun but didn’t have a chance to get it. The Taser ends wedged into my jumpsuit, shocking me. I heard the tool bag clatter to the floor, and felt my head hit shortly after.
____________
Rimia: Day 211
Dirk was another man. He woke, confused by the dream he’d been having. He’d been inside the same person’s life again, and had met with a group of robe-wearing people in the basement of a Parisian gothic church. As he sat up, looking around his bedroom, the details began to fade, but there was something he recalled with clarity. The people in the meeting had spoken another language, one he was now overly familiar with. It was the language the people of Rimia used.
His room was comfortable, with a wood-framed bed handcrafted by Teer, the village carpenter. Dirk had worked with him on a few occasions, asking to learn the trade. Woodworking had always fascinated Dirk, ever since he’d been a young boy and his grandfather would create masterpieces in the barn at his Kansas farmhouse.
Dirk appreciated everything the Rimia people had done for him and Clayton, and was astonished by their lack of technology. He exited the small room, with the stone walls and mortar gunk shielding him from the elements. The roof was thatched from huge tree branches, and he stepped outside, moving to the nearest washroom.
When he was finished, he searched for Opor. Their village was spread out across a mile or so, with two hundred people living among them. Opor was their leader, whether she used a title or not. They all sought her advice and guidance over every major decision, and Dirk recalled when they’d first met the group, hidden behind sharp spears. He’d thought they’d be killed for sure, but it was Opor that had allowed them to live.
Dirk greeted the people as he passed them. They were reminiscent of a pre-Industrial Revolution culture, almost the Native Americans to an extent. It was a bizarre circumstance, because the city that lay in wastes in proximity to this village was clearly advanced far beyond these people.
Opor had explained that they didn’t know if they came from the city or not. That information had been forgotten. She did tell him they spoke the language found on nearby relics. Dirk thought that might have happened because they’d lost their own identity. Perhaps they were a race living in the wild, and they’d immigrated from the outskirts over the years, coming to the large source of fresh water once the beings in the city had been destroyed.
There were no records from these people, and when he’d asked what they were called, she’d only said Wanderers. Dirk liked the name and thought it was fitting.
He found her where she usually was first thing in the morning. Opor stood at the water’s edge, whispering an ancient prayer into the breeze. He could never decipher it, and she stopped if he grew too close. Each time he witnessed it, he sensed the beauty and reverence the invocation projected.
Dirk watched her from a distance, the wind blowing in her dark hair. She was a majestic being, a strong and powerful woman. He felt guilty at the feelings arising for the woman who had spared his life.
Rebecca was back home on Earth, wondering what had happened to her husband, and here he was, pining after someone that clearly displayed a superior lineage to his own.
“Dirk?” Clayton’s voice was loud in the quiet morning, and Opor turned around, jolting at the sound.
“Thanks, Clay,” Dirk muttered.
“Dirk, I think we need to go to the mountains,” his friend said.
“Now?” Dirk had suggested it before, but the rest of the villagers had warned them away.
“Not today, but soon,” Clay said. He’d lost weight, adding muscle from the physical labor. Living off the land was a far cry from modern life on Earth, and Dirk appreciated each morsel of food they cultivated. Every bit of roasted bird the hunters managed to snag. It was refreshing, but also tiresome for the duo. Both of them had taken it in stride
.
“When?” Dirk asked, glancing at Opor, who hadn’t come to join them.
“Next week.” Clayton had changed more than just physically. He was a different man. Quieter. More pensive. He’d accepted their situation faster than Dirk had, but now he seemed resigned to spend the rest of his days in the village. But today, there was a spark in his eyes, a newfound hope.
“What do you expect to find?” Dirk asked him.
“Anything will be better than the unknown,” he said.
He was right about that. Dirk was drawn to the mysterious forbidden region simply for the fact that Opor had said they weren’t allowed to go there. Something must be hidden in the mountain range, and they were finally going to learn the answer.
“I’ll catch up with you,” Dirk told Clay, and the man peered over his shoulder at Opor.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Dirk.” And with that light warning, he was off.
“So do I,” he muttered to himself. He walked to the water, staring out at the gently rolling waves. “It’s beautiful.”
“You will leave?” she asked.
He froze, dreading the conversation. “We’ll come back.”
“No, you won’t. That’s why we don’t allow it.”
“We’re not one of you, Opor. We have to find out what lies there,” Dirk told her.
“Do you speak our tongue? Do you break bread with us and eat of our gardens? Sweat and cry alongside our people?” She turned, taking his hands. Her palms were rough.
Dirk stared into her oval eyes. “You know what I mean. We came seeking help, and we found you.”
“Maybe it is us you were meant to find,” she said.
“How would that help against the Unknowns?”
“I do not mean your race. I mean you.” She let go. “Go to the forbidden area. But do not expect our assistance.”
“We won’t.”
“I do not think you understand, Dirk. If you leave, you cannot return. It’s forbidden. You should give up on your humanity and join the Wanderers for good.” She averted her gaze.
“We will be shunned?”
“It’s a simple rule. One we take seriously. The others would sooner kill you than let you bring the evil back to our village. No harm will come to you from our hands, but the banishment will be permanent. And that would be a shame,” she said.
Dirk had a lot to consider. “Yes. It would.”
He watched Opor walk away, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He’d formed numerous hypotheses about these people and what they meant, but he was afraid to say any of them out loud. How they spoke the same language as his dreams was another mystery. The intelligent man in him would suggest they were his own manifestations, a longing to connect to Earth, and they used this speech because he understood it. But the man he lived inside during his sleep each night was French, and often used words Dirk didn’t comprehend, ruining that presumption.
His gaze floated across the water, slowing as it spotted the distant peaks. He felt them calling him, but Opor’s dire warning struck a chord. Could he leave the Wanderers to investigate a mountain range? It would be difficult since he was falling in love with her.
12
My head throbbed, and my chest ached as they hauled me from the rear exit and into the frigid morning air. The van was waiting for them, and the side door slid open. The Believers wore ski masks and nondescript black outfits. Strong arms hauled me inside.
My arms were zip-tied behind my back, and my shoulder blossomed in pain as they tossed me to the rear bench seat. The door closed, and I searched for anything that might help me. My phone was gone. So was my gun. The bag of tools had been abandoned.
Veronica would be parked a few blocks down, anxiously waiting for me. It was the second time I’d left her like this, and I assumed she’d never forgive me for getting caught. All that mattered was Tripp obtaining the Token in Palm Springs. If he pulled that off, my sacrifice would be worth it. I tried to convince myself of that as the van screeched away. Two of the men stayed in the bench seat in front of me, while the third drove us. I couldn’t see all of him; the seat blocked the view.
“Where are we going?” I managed to croak out. My throat was dry, and I tried to lubricate it with saliva.
“Shut up.” This from the cultist on the right.
“I can pay you guys. Since your buddy killed Madison, I’ve been flush with cash.” It was worth a shot.
“We don’t need your money,” the driver said.
“Everyone needs money,” I retorted.
“The Unknowns are on the way.” He turned his head as he pulled off the mask, revealing a missing ear.
“What if you’re wrong? What if you’re being used as a pawn? You’ve trusted them recklessly. You’re willing to kill for a race you haven’t seen?” I asked.
“Quite the hypocrite. You almost killed Boyd upstairs. My friend,” the driver said.
Damn. “I won’t deny that, but it wasn’t like he gave me a choice.”
“I don’t know who you are, or what you were doing there, but we’re bringing you in. So sit back and shut the hell up.” The guy in front of me lifted a fist as he spoke. It was half the size of my head.
I didn’t argue, choosing to gaze through the tinted windows as they drove south, merging onto the interstate. The traffic was light on a Sunday morning. This was how it all ended for me. I suspected they’d bring me to some secret hideout and torture me until I talked. I was glad I’d left my ID with Veronica. As far as they were concerned, I was Bruce with the elevator company.
There was nothing for me to do but cling to the idea that Tripp had the final Token. They could return to Porto and set this all straight. I ignored the doubts concerning Rimia, trying to trust my father at his word. Help awaited us across the second Bridge. He seemed so confident about it.
We kept driving, past the airport, and soon we’d exited the city limits, with tall buildings giving way to the suburbs and golf courses. I guessed we’d been mobile for thirty minutes or so when the driver began to slow.
“Checkpoint ahead,” the driver said.
The two goons in front of me each tested their magazines, releasing and clicking them in place. The other guy slid his mask off and shoved it under the seat. “Why are they out here on a weekend morning?”
What were they going to do about me? I was sweating in the backseat, with my wrists secured behind my back. That would definitely raise some red flags.
I stared forward, trying to will the police to stop the van. There were a couple of cars pulled over on the shoulder, and the driver’s white knuckles gripped the steering wheel. He changed lanes, moving to the left, and a cop waved him over. He grunted and gunned it.
“You think you’re going to outrun them in this van?” I asked.
“Shut him up!” the driver called, and the Believer closest to me grabbed a roll of duct tape, peeling an eight-inch piece off. He tore it and smashed it over my mouth, slapping it down. Blood welled over my teeth. I didn’t let him see how much it stung.
The van tore away, and I craned my neck toward the flashing lights chasing after us. We weaved through the traffic at an alarming pace, and I wished they’d thrown a seat belt over me. Maybe this was a better ending than I’d been destined for. Being killed in a road accident had to be preferential to torture.
We skittered to the side, tires screaming, and I was tossed around, hitting my temple on the glass. The cop was closer, and I heard more sirens. There was no escape for these guys, but I didn’t imagine them giving in without a fight. The two on the bench ahead had their guns ready, one of them changing his handgun for an automatic machine gun.
The driver took an exit, looping around the bend with too much speed. He lost control and raced over the edge, crashing through the steel barrier. The drop was short, but I still floated off the seat for a second until the tires banged onto the grass. He tried to straighten out, but it was too late. We lurched to the side, gravity taking hold, and I f
ell shoulder-first into the interior of the back seat as it slid on its side.
Sirens rang out all around us, and the three cultists were already scrambling through the doors, leaving me behind. I stayed huddled in a small ball while the sound of gunfire erupted. The last to climb from the van didn’t make it all the way out. He dropped to the floor, and for a moment, I thought he was going to rise up with a second wind. I crawled around the seat, my arm killing me, and saw he was nearly dead. Blood blossomed over his chest, and another bullet had struck his neck. He coughed, and I blanched, averting my gaze.
The noise of the machine gun barking finally stopped, and I heard one last gunshot before the showdown ended.
The sirens continued, and I stayed hidden, not wanting to be seen as hostile. The Believer on the other side of the seats gargled his last breath and died while footsteps approached the van.
The second I heard a voice, I shouted, “Don’t shoot! I need your help!”
There was a muffled response, and twenty seconds later, someone responded, “Who are you?”
“My name’s Rexford Walker. I was kidnapped!”
“Thank God,” the man said. “Are you alone?”
“There’s one left. I think he’s dead,” I called.
“Good. We’re coming in.”
The door was already open, the van overturned, and I could smell the stench of leaking gasoline. A figure climbed up, feet denting the panels, and he entered the opening.
It was Special Agent Evan Young. “Rex, are you all right?”
“I am now,” I admitted.
____________
It was dark again by the time we were allowed to exit the police station with Evan Young. Veronica hadn’t left my side all day, and that was the best part of a terrible experience. Young had been following us, knowing we’d lead him to the Believers’ nest, and it had worked.
Lost Time (The Bridge Sequence Book Two) Page 11