Children of the Underground

by Trevor Shane

  At first he didn’t answer. I repeated myself. “Put the gun away,” I said, this time adding, “and no one gets hurt.” I’d have to tie him up too. It was the only way to ensure that I’d get out of Mendocino.

  He shook his head. The gun was shaking in his hand. “No,” he said, as strongly as he could muster. But he wasn’t strong. I was strong.

  “I’m just here for my son,” I said. “I don’t want anything to do with you or your wife.” He understood what I was telling him, putting it all together quicker than his wife had. He glanced over at his wife as if looking for instructions. Should he give in and save the two of them or should he fight? His wife shook her head vigorously. She was ready to die for you.

  If I didn’t act quickly, he would eventually build up the courage to fire the gun. I knew that. It was like a dam in a river. The more time that passed, the greater the pressure on the dam. Eventually it would overflow or crack. If he didn’t put the gun down, I was going to have to kill him. I didn’t want to kill him, Christopher, but I was going to do what I had to. Your father had died trying to save you. Michael, a man who didn’t even know you—a man far braver than the man in front of me—had died trying to save you. Why shouldn’t this man die too? Why should he get special dispensation? Michael’s words echoed in my head: Do what I was never able to do. Make my life mean something. Nothing was going to stop me from saving you.

  By the time the man’s eyes shifted from his wife back to me, I was only inches from his gun hand. Before he had a chance to react, I grabbed the gun with my left hand and aimed it away from me. Then I took my knife and stabbed the man’s wrist, trying to force him to let go of the gun. A low, guttural scream came out of him. Blood shot out of his wrist and he stared at it with the strange detachment of a man unaccustomed to seeing his own blood. Some of his blood got on my shirt. I didn’t want any more of his blood on me. I didn’t want to pick you up, covered in the blood of the people you thought were your parents. I’d seen you covered in blood before, mine when you were born and your father’s when they took you away from me. I never wanted to see that again. Michael said that your father used to strangle people because it was neat. Done right, it was also quiet. Knives were bloody. I threw my knife off to one side. Guns were loud. I threw the gun off to the other side. I took the duct tape and unrolled a piece about three feet in length. It made a ripping sound. The roll was almost gone. I wouldn’t have had enough tape to tie the man up anyway.

  He was still staring at his blood when I stepped behind him, moving quickly, thought and action merging so that I moved the moment ideas entered my head. When I got behind him, I wrapped the ends of the strip of tape around my hands. Then I lifted the tape over his head, aiming the nonsticky side toward his neck, and pulled. The tape dug quickly into the man’s neck, but it was broad and flat so it didn’t begin choking him right away. He tried to run away from me but I held on, pinching the tape so that it would become thinner in its center and dig deeper into the man’s flesh. He was bigger than me, so when he stepped forward, he pulled me with him. I lifted my feet off the ground and dug my knees into the man’s back for leverage, pulling backward even harder. He was stumbling now, carrying me with him on his back, trying to spin me off of him like a rodeo bull. I held on tightly. I wasn’t going to let go. Running out of air and ideas, he turned and ran backward into a wall as hard as he could. I could hear him gasping for air. I ignored the pain as he rammed me into the wall.

  I dug my knees deeper into his back, pulling even harder on the tape. The room was painfully bright, full of the sunlight coming in through the windows and reflecting off the polished hardwood floors. The man backed into the wall again, harder this time. The whole wall shook when I hit it. Something fell off of a shelf. It came crashing to the ground and shattered into a million pieces. It felt like the loudest sound I’d ever heard, louder than fireworks, louder than gunshots. Seconds later, you began to cry.

  You were awake. I pulled tighter. I could feel the man getting weaker. I could see the color of the back of his neck changing, turning purple. He started stumbling forward again, taking each step deliberately, trying to stay on his feet. At first I didn’t know what he was doing. Then I realized. He was going for the gun. He took another step toward the gun lying in the corner, past the dining room table. The gun was only two or three steps away. When we got even with the dining room table, I took one knee off his back and kicked the table as hard as I could. The table moved, screeching across the floor. A corner of the table hit and broke through one of the dining room windows. You screamed louder, wondering why no one had come to comfort you yet. I wanted to be the one to comfort you. When I kicked the table, the man lost his balance. He took two weak steps to his left, nearly drained of energy. Then he fell to his knees. I pulled tighter. I could see blood coming out of the man’s neck from beneath the tape. No more sound was coming from him. There were no more that he could make. I looked over at the man’s wife. She was staring at us, crying again.

  I felt the man you knew to be your father die. I felt the last shudder of life ripple through his body. Then nothing. I took my knees off of his back and put them on the floor. I let go of the tape and the man rolled onto his stomach, his arms caught beneath his body. The position looked uncomfortable. Comfort wasn’t a concern anymore. You were screaming now, bordering on hysteria. I stood up and took a deep breath. I could go to you now.

  I walked into your room. I wanted to pick you up, to soothe you. I wanted to comfort you and stop your crying. I thought back to when They took you from me and how I wasn’t able to comfort you then, how I wasn’t able to stop your screams. I recognized the sound of your crying. I heard it in my sleep nearly every night. You were standing up in your crib, holding on to the bars for balance. When I walked into your room, you looked up at me and cried even louder. I wasn’t the one you wanted. I had tried to prepare myself for this. I knew that it would take time, but my heart ached all the same. You looked past me toward the open door and pointed. You bounced up and down on your feet. Real tears were rolling down your cheeks. You wanted her.

  I ignored your pleas. I walked up to you and lifted you out of your crib. You kept crying. I pressed your body into mine, resting your head on my shoulder. Holding you was the most wonderful feeling I ever felt, even though you fought me. It was like they had stolen a piece of me, the only piece that mattered, and I was finally getting it back. I was whole again. I was different—the time had made me different—but I was whole. You dug your head into the crook in my neck, wiping the tears on my shoulder. I felt like a mother again.

  We walked out of your room. We were only a few steps from the front door. We were about to walk out when the screaming began. I turned and looked back. The woman had gotten a corner of the tape free from her mouth. Her husband must have dislodged just enough of it for her to work it free. At first, her scream was just that—a meaningless, mournful wail. Then there were words. “You can’t do this!” she screamed. “You can’t take him from me!”

  When she screamed, you began screaming again too. You screamed the first word I ever heard you speak. “Mama!” you shouted to someone who wasn’t me, reaching your hand out toward the woman in the chair.

  “Please,” she screamed. “Please.” I had to retape her mouth. Someone might hear her. I needed the time to get away. I had to put you down on the ground so that I could put the tape back on her mouth. I placed you on the floor on your hands and knees. I walked to the body of her husband first to get what was left of the tape. Then I went to the woman. As I neared her she began whispering to me in fits. “I’ll take him away,” she said. “I’ll run. I won’t make him a killer. I promise. I’ll do anything. Please.” She paused for a second, knowing that nothing she was saying to me was making a difference. Then she added, “I love him.”

  “So do I,” I whispered to her, and then I stretched a length of tape around her head, covering her mouth. I turned to look for you.
You were still crying. I could hear you, but you weren’t where I’d left you. Instead you’d crawled from the place on the floor where I’d put you down. You crawled to the body of the man you thought was your father. He was lying there like I’d left him, his arms trapped beneath the deadweight of his body. Now you were sitting next to him, your face turned up toward the sky, your mouth open, your lower lip jutting out and trembling. You didn’t understand. You were crying like there was no peace or justice in the world. We had to leave. I walked over to you and picked you up again. You clutched me this time, confused, frightened, and happy that someone, anyone, was holding you. That someone was finally me.

  We made it outside and to the car. I buckled you into the car seat. You were still crying. I went into the trunk. I took out a pacifier and a small blanket from the duffel bag. I put the pacifier in your mouth and handed you the blanket. You immediately began to suck on the pacifier and knead the blanket with your tiny hands. Then I got into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and drove. You fell asleep eventually. You slept for almost three hours before waking up again. I hope that you dreamed pretty dreams, dreams that helped you to forget everything you’d seen and heard.

  You seemed okay when we stopped for dinner. You ate. I fed you with a spoon, even though you wanted to hold it yourself. You adapt quickly. Maybe that’s because you’ve already been through this before.

  It took all my strength to keep from trying to teach you to call me Mama, to try to reclaim that word. In time, I guess—I hope.

  Fifty

  “There’s something else, Addy,” George said after giving Addy a moment to allow the news about Christopher and Reggie to sink in. Addy looked at George, unsure if she could handle any more news. All the assumptions she’d been making about the world were already turned on their head.

  “What is it?” Addy asked, worried that he was going to give her some bad news to balance out all the good.

  “We weren’t sent here just to find you and welcome you back.” George shot Sam a quick, nervous glance. “Reggie has a job for you.”

  “A job?” Addy asked. “Doing what?”

  “We don’t know,” Sam answered Addy. “He gave us this.” Sam pulled a sealed envelope out of her jacket. “Reggie ordered us not to open it. Even when we tried to convince him that you might be dead, he insisted that you were the only one who could do this job.” Sam handed the envelope to Addy.

  Addy’s name was written on the outside of the envelope. Addy recognized Reggie’s handwriting. She’d convinced herself she would never see that handwriting again. “Do you guys mind if I go read this?” Addy asked, motioning toward the wreckage of the compound, hinting that she wanted to read it alone.

  “Go ahead,” Sam said. George nodded in agreement.

  Addy looked up at Evan. Addy didn’t want to be completely alone. She wanted Evan to come with her. Evan understood, and the two of them walked toward the burnt remains of the building together. The staircase leading from the ground level of the compound’s wreckage to the basement was still mostly intact. Addy and Evan descended the stairs together into the rubble, leaving George and Sam waiting above them. Addy felt strange walking through the remains of what had been her second home for more than two years. Even if no one died in this fire, it didn’t mean there weren’t any ghosts.

  Evan peered into the empty cabinets and desk drawers as he walked, stepping around the burnt debris strewn about him. He didn’t know what he was looking at or what he was looking for. He just stared at the charred remains, amazed at how many secrets had been hidden from him throughout his short life. He wondered how many more secrets were still floating out there for him to uncover.

  The two of them found a place to sit, an old burnt desk that still appeared sturdy enough to hold their weight. They sat down. Addy reached her trembling hand for the envelope. She tore it open. She pulled the letter from inside and began to read it to herself. Evan said nothing. He gave Addy the moment to let her read the entire letter before asking any questions.

  When Addy finished reading the letter, she looked up, a new wave of shock registering on her face. “What did it say?” Evan asked. “What does Reggie want you to do?”

  Addy stared blankly into space. She didn’t turn toward Evan when she spoke. “Reggie wants me to find Christopher’s mother.” No emotion slipped into Addy’s voice. “He wants me to find her and bring her back to him. He said that he needs to explain something to her—a promise that he’d failed to keep.”

  “I thought you said that Christopher’s mother was dead.” The air was so still that, for a moment, it felt to Evan like time had stopped.

  “I did. That’s what I was told. That’s what we all were told. But she’s not dead. It’s all here in Reggie’s letter. She started the rumor herself because she thought it would help protect Christopher. She’s alive. She’s alive but she doesn’t know that Christopher is working with Reggie.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments while Addy waited for Evan to respond. “So, how do we find her?” Evan finally asked.

  Addy was relieved to hear the word we in Evan’s question. She knew how crazy everything must seem to him, but she also knew how much crazier it could get. She wanted to be there for him. She wanted him to be there for her. “Reggie gave us some leads,” Addy said, holding up the piece of paper. “From there, we improvise.” Silence again. Addy broke it this time. “We should get out of here, Evan. It’s probably not safe for us here.”

  Evan stared at the wreckage around them. “Where is it safe for us, Addy?”

  “Let’s go,” Addy said to Evan without answering his question. She reached one of her hands out toward Evan’s. He took it. Their fingers intertwined. Then the two of them walked out of the wreckage together to George and Sam.

  Fifty-one

  It’s going to be hard to explain my decision to you. Even if I can explain it, you may never understand it. Don’t think that I didn’t agonize over this decision. I did. I have to do what I think will be the best for you. I’ve come to realize that I can’t shield you from this War, Christopher. I’m eighteen years old and I’m a part of this War now too.

  They would have chased us forever. They would have found us. People I’ve never met recognize me. They know who I am. They know things about me. I’ve become a face in the cautionary tales they tell their children. I violated their rules even though I was never supposed to be a part of their War. Now I’m marked. I’ve been branded almost as clearly as Michael was. Instead of the words I fight because I remember branded on my back, I have the words I run because They won’t forget branded in the lines on my face. I could manage it. I could run. I could hide. I’d be better at it this time. But that’s not the life I want for you. You deserve better. You’re only beginning. You have so much to learn. I may be young, but I like to believe that there was a time when I could have taught you all the things you deserve to know. That time has passed. Now I can’t even teach you the one thing that I most want you to learn—that the world is a beautiful and decent place.

  Every day I pick you up and hold you, and I’m happy. That’s why leaving you is going to be so hard. It’s been three weeks already. You’ve grown accustomed to me. You smile and laugh when I pick you up in the morning. You clutch me and hug me, and all I can think the whole time is, Never let go, Christopher. Never let go. But I know that every day that I keep you only makes it crueler. You’re going to cry when I leave you now. You’re going to wonder when I’m coming back. When I don’t come back, you’re going to wonder why I left you, and you’re not going to get any explanation—not for a long time, not until you read these words. So let me explain it to you now. I’m leaving you because I love you more than anything—more than my own happiness, more than life itself.

  Your first birthday is in a week. It’s selfish, but I am going to stay with you until then. So I’ve got one more week until my heart is ripped out aga
in. It’ll be different this time, though. This time I’ll know that it’s what’s best for you. This time I’ll be ripping out my own heart, something I’d gladly do for you over and over again if I had more than one heart to tear free. You’ll understand someday.

  I know a couple who I think will take you in. They used to babysit for me when I was a little girl. They were young then. They weren’t able to have children of their own. I know that they always wanted to have a family. I remember overhearing her talk about it with my mother. They’ll be good to you. They’ll love you. They’ll be able to give you everything that I can’t. Hopefully, even as you read this, they’re the faces that you think of when you hear the words Mom and Dad. They live in a house down the street from our old summer house in Maine. I haven’t been there since I was thirteen years old. I called them yesterday to make sure that they still live there. I found their number on the Internet. I recognized the woman’s voice when she answered the phone. It sounded kind. After all these years, it still sounded kind. I hung up. Hearing her voice was all I needed.

  Maybe a time will come when things will have changed enough that it’s safe for us to be together again. I hope it’s true, but I’m skeptical that this War will ever change. I know what I’m going to do after I drop you off in Maine. I’m going to drive to Ohio. I know details about a boy who was murdered in a field in Ohio almost a year and a half ago. I know enough details that they’ll believe me when I confess to shooting him in the head. That boy was the first person that I ever saw killed. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t pull the trigger. If I want to get my old self back, I need to start at the moment when that innocent girl that I was began to fade away. I’ll accept whatever punishment they give me. None of it will hurt half as much as the punishment that I’m already giving myself.