Refuge Book 3 - Lost in the Echo

by Jeremy Bishop

  17

  They took him into the back room, sat him down in a folding chair and ripped the tape off his mouth.

  Charley said, his voice quiet, “What are you guys going to do?”

  “We haven’t decided yet,” Osterman said. “The fact is, we didn’t think we’d be seeing you so soon.”

  “You can’t hurt me.”

  “Who says we’re going to hurt you?” Osterman asked.

  “If he finds out you hurt me—”

  “Yeah,” Boyle said, “speaking of our mutual friend...”

  Charley frowned. “What about him?”

  “We need to talk to him,” Osterman said.

  “Not possible.”

  “Not possible?” Boyle smiled, and glanced at Osterman. “He says that’s not possible.”

  “I heard what he said.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Guys,” Charley said, and he hated to hear the whine in his voice. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know where he is.”

  Osterman frowned. “That right?”

  “I swear it.”

  “See,” Boyle said, “the problem is, we both know you’re lying.”

  “I’m not!”

  “But you are. Keep in mind, I was watching your friends out there through the scope of my rifle. From my vantage point, I could see all the way down to the road. You’re saying you came with the group, but I watched you run into them.”

  Charley said nothing. He had been doing a good job so far of keeping direct eye contact with the two soldiers, but now his gaze shifted away.

  “From what it looked like to me,” Boyle said, “you weren’t with them at all. In fact, it looked like you were headed somewhere else. Now, Chuck, I wonder where that could be.”

  Charley opened his mouth. Closed it.

  Osterman leaned down and stared hard at Charley until the bound man was forced to meet his eyes.

  He said, “Don’t make us hurt you. I promise you, the very last thing you want is for us to hurt you.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Tell us how to contact him,” Boyle said.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Boyle laughed. He turned to Osterman, “He wants to know why.”

  Osterman used his hand to smack the back of Charley’s head. “Why do you think, dipshit? We want out of this funhouse.”

  Now it was Charley who laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Boyle asked.

  “You think you’re going to tell him what to do?” Charley asked. “He doesn’t listen to anybody.”

  “He will to us,” Boyle said.

  Charley nearly laughed. “He’s not scared of you.”

  “He will be.”

  “You’re nothing to him,” Charley said. “Just the hired help.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Osterman said.

  “Look, I brought you guys food and supplies because that was my job. That was my only job. The rest of this shit”—he shook his head—“you think I knew what would happen? Fuck no. If I had, I would have been halfway to California by the time that goddamn church bell started ringing. And for the record, I’m pretty sure our little jaunt through the thirteen levels of hell wasn’t sanctioned.”

  Boyle crossed his arms, took a deep breath. “You realize you’re not making this easy on yourself, don’t you?”

  “I can’t tell you something I don’t know.”

  “Except we know you’re lying.”

  “I’m not!”

  “Charley, please,” Boyle said. “If you’re not going to respect us, at least respect yourself.”

  “The fact is,” Osterman said, “we don’t even know who he is. We’ve never actually met our employer...or the person posing as our employer. All we have is his name, and I’ve gone through all that shit and found nothing useful.” He threw his hand out at a desk set against the wall, boxes and papers scattered on top. “But you’ve met the guy. You can shake your head and try to deny it as much as you want, but we all know you’re lying. You know exactly who he is.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Bullshit.” Boyle looked at Osterman. “Guess we need to take a different approach.”

  They moved so quickly Charley barely even realized it, at first. One moment they were standing in front of him, the next they grabbed him and pulled him out of the chair. Charley heard the snick of a switchblade popping open. The zip-tie fell away from his wrists. He was pushed back down onto the chair, and Boyle had his hand now, his left hand, squeezing Charley’s index finger.

  “Who is he?” Boyle asked.

  Charley started shaking his head, his eyes brimming with tears, knowing very well what these men intended to do.

  “If I tell you...” His voice was a whimper.

  “What?” Boyle asked. “He’ll kill you? You don’t think we’ll kill you?”

  “Please, I have a son!”

  Osterman said, “Like you give a shit about your boy.”

  “I do! Please, I can’t—”

  “Sorry, Chuck,” Boyle said.

  And he snapped Charley’s finger.

  18

  The howling from the other room had just stopped, when the ground began to tremble.

  It had the same earthquake quality as before—barely a two on the Richter—but it felt sharper, like the thing burrowing up toward them was getting closer.

  Griffin glanced at Frost beside him. She just looked back. He tried reading her eyes, searching for some kind of silent communication, but all he saw was anger. They might die here, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Either these men would kill them or the roots would.

  He gripped the metal pipe. It was thin but strong, not apt to bend easily. He looked over his shoulder and saw the pipe traveled the length of the wall. But was the pipe one long band or was it jointed? Surely there had to be a weak point. He thought if Cash was here, the man would know exactly where to find the weak point. But the man was back in town, trying to get the power going in the rest of the homes that hadn’t been retrofitted. His thoughts turned to Avalon, who was still craving Oxy—would no doubt crave it for quite some time—and he wished he could have spent a few extra minutes with her before leaving. He wished he could have at least hugged her and kissed her and told her he loved her. The thought that he might never see her again was enough to drive him crazy, and he didn’t realize he was gripping the pipe so tightly until he felt his nails digging deeply into the palms of his hands.

  Griffin blinked and noticed Frost watching him. Her eyes shifted back to the pipe, and he saw she had her hands gripped around it, too. He glanced to the other side and saw Winslow and Dodge were doing the same. Both men were watching him, either waiting to see whether he understood or waiting for permission to proceed.

  Griffin nodded, just once, and then they all began pulling the pipe forward a bit.

  Nothing happened, at least not at first, but they kept pulling it and pulling it and… Was that movement? Griffin thought it was. There was a ping of straining metal, farther down toward the end of the hanger, where the pipe turned at a ninety-degree angle and headed toward the ceiling.

  Through the door, the howling continued. Griffin could just hear Charley’s voice, begging the men to stop. Griffin had never been a big fan of Charley Wilson, but the man didn’t deserve to be tortured.

  As the howling died away, the ground trembled once more.

  They kept pulling on the pipe, but Griffin stopped. He grunted to get everyone’s attention. All eyes focused on him. He looked at Frost on one side, Winslow and Dodge on the other side, and then nodded forward. His legs were out flat in front of him. He raised his left foot and brought it down so the sole of his shoe slapped the concrete. He did it again, and again, and again, both feet now, and the rest of them understood and started stomping, too.

  Beneath them, the ground trembled yet again, this time with even more energy and anticipation. Whatever was be
low, was coming up.

  19

  At Carol Herman’s insistence, they turned off the TV and went into the dining room, where she had set up a board game on the table.

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have many games except this one. Do you girls know how to play?”

  Both Alice and Joy nodded their heads, said they did, sat down and prepared to play the game. Avalon just stood there, not sure what to say.

  “What about you, dear?” Carol Herman asked.

  Avalon shook her head. She didn’t want to admit she had never played such a classic game before, but it was the truth. Growing up, neither of her parents had been much for board games. They had much preferred her to play outside, or read a book. Maybe if she’d had a sibling, things might have been different. They could have spent Saturday nights huddled around a table like this one, a bowl of popcorn beside them, laughing and having a good time.

  “It’s been a while since I played it,” Avalon lied. “I might be pretty rusty.”

  “That’s okay. It’s been a while for me, too.”

  They sat down at the table—Monty and his girls, Avalon and Carol Herman—and Carol asked Alice and Joy if they would like to help explain the game. It was Scrabble, after all, one of those games Avalon assumed everyone but her knew how to play, and it made her wonder what else she had missed in her life. And it wasn’t just recent history, either, though she was sure she had missed quite a bit. Didn’t most strung-out junkies miss a lot?

  Thinking about being strung-out made her think about Oxy, and she wondered where she could find some, whether there might even be some substitute worth trying in the medicine cabinet.

  “Dear?”

  Avalon blinked. Realized Carol Herman and everyone else were watching her.

  “Yes?”

  “Do the rules make sense?”

  No, they didn’t, but that was because she hadn’t heard them, too focused on wanting another fix and telling herself she didn’t, but she smiled and said yes.

  And so they began the game. Avalon forced herself to concentrate. Trying to keep up. Trying to act like she had been listening before. Because what if someone asked her why she hadn’t been listening? What would she say? Tell them the truth? Of course not. Never. So then what?

  It didn’t matter anyway. Because not even five minutes into the game, Monty paused and cocked his head. “Does anybody else hear that?”

  They all went quiet. A grandfather clocked ticked in the next room. Otherwise, the house was silent.

  Except, no—there was something else, distant and faint.

  Carol Herman asked, “What is that?”

  They rose from the table and went to the closest window overlooking the front yard and down into town. There didn’t appear to be anything, at least as far as Avalon could see, but the sound was getting louder.

  Then Alice—or was it Joy?—pointed without a word, and they saw it, flitting quickly over the yard.

  “What in the world is that?” Carol Herman asked again.

  Whatever it was, it was flying toward the other houses down the hill. There were others, too, first only three that Avalon could see, then five, six, seven.

  “Are those bees?” Joy (or was it Alice) asked.

  Suddenly, one of the things lowered into view, right on the other side of the window, hovering for a moment in front of them before starting away.

  One of the girls screamed.

  The thing outside paused, swung back around, and flew at the window.

  It tapped against the glass several times, confused by the clear solid. It continued bouncing against the glass, never hard enough to break it, staring at them with large black eyes.

  “A wasp,” Monty whispered, incredulous.

  The thing—the wasp—backed away and hit the window harder. The glass rattled, but held.

  One of the girls went to scream again, but Monty clamped a hand over her mouth and whispered, “Shhhh. Nobody move.”

  Nobody did. They stood there, waiting, silent, until the wasp seemed to lose interest and flew away toward the rest of the houses.

  The buzzing was even louder now. Closer. They could see more of the wasps down in town, and there was a gunshot, then several gunshots. One of the girls started crying.

  Somewhere through the house, came a tinny sounding cry: “Help!”

  The voice was coming from the kitchen. They hurried toward it as the voice kept crying for help, and it was only when they entered that they realized the room was empty.

  Carol Herman said, “The intercom.”

  Monty glanced at her. “What?”

  She pointed at the intercom on the wall, and at that moment, another tinny cry came through.

  “Help us! Please, anybody!”

  Monty crossed the kitchen to the intercom and pressed the button.

  “Radar, Lisa, can you hear me?”

  A pause, and then Radar’s voice: “Yes we can, Mr. Beaumont. We’re trapped.”

  They could see the observatory through the window. Nearly a half dozen wasps crawled up and down and all over it.

  Monty said into the intercom, “Kids, listen to me carefully. We’re going to get you out of there. Can any of those things get in?”

  Another pause.

  “Not anymore,” Radar said.

  “Good. That’s good. Now like I said, we’re going to get you out of there. But you need to stay quiet. Okay?”

  Radar’s voice, barely a whisper: “Yes.”

  “Just stick tight for now. Can you do that?”

  “Yes. But please, hurry.”

  Monty turned away from the intercom. He stared through the window at the wasps crawling around on the observatory.

  Avalon said, “What do we do now?”

  Monty was quiet for a long moment, facing the window. Then he turned to them, took a deep breath, and said, “I think I have a plan.”

  20

  They had finished with the left hand and were starting on the right. Charley had sobbed and begged them to stop, but he still hadn’t told them what they wanted to know. Despite his blubbering state, the man had the resolve of a highly trained soldier, and Osterman wasn’t sure the man would ever talk—not really out of commitment to their mutual employer, but out of spite. Osterman took Charley’s finger and prepared to apply slow, steady pressure until the joint gave. But he stopped short. The floor beneath them shook.

  Osterman and Boyle paused, looking at each other. In the past couple of hours they had become accustomed to the trembling of the earth, while the roots moved through the dirt, seeking out the sources of various vibrations. But what they felt now was different. It was more insistent, more intense.

  “What is that?” Boyle asked.

  Osterman wasn’t sure what he meant at first, but then he heard it: out past the door, down the corridor, into the hanger, was that…clapping?

  Without a word, both men turned away from Charley and headed for the door. They went down the short corridor and into the hanger. They found the group still tied up to the pipe, only they were all stomping their feet on the floor, as hard as they could.

  Bam bam bam.

  The group noticed them at once. Only the pastor hesitated, his feet pausing in the air. Then he brought them down just as hard as his friends did.

  The trembling in the garage was out of control. The concrete was beginning to crack, as the roots kept trying to push their way through.

  “Stop it,” Osterman said. Then, shouting: “Stop it!”

  They didn’t stop. They just kept going. Griffin met his eye, and there was a coolness to the look, a smug acknowledgement that if they were going to die, Osterman and Boyle were going to die, too.

  The rubber grip of his sidearm felt reassuring in his hand as he slipped it from the holster and aimed it right at Griffin’s head.

  Griffin didn’t blink, didn’t even pause. He kept stomping.

  Osterman cocked the hammer back.

  Griffin kept stomping.

  Gr
iffin’s resolve and lack of fear unnerved him. Who the fuck is this guy?

  The ground trembled even more, with such force that it nearly knocked Osterman over. Boyle shouted, “Shit!” A gunshot went off. Osterman glanced over his shoulder and saw a root had broken through the concrete. It was only feet away from Boyle.

  Boyle fired again, but the root seemed to dodge the bullet. It snapped forward, right at Boyle, who managed to dive out of the way. As he scrambled to his feet, the ground trembled again. More concrete gave way, and two more roots tore up through the floor. One rose up on the other side of the garage, by the Humvees, but the other came up near Boyle.

  Right behind him.

  The man never had a chance.

  The root behind him snapped forward. It didn’t go for his legs. Instead, it wrapped around his neck, squeezed tight, and jerked him off his feet. Osterman started toward Boyle, but he barely took two steps before the man was dragged down into the hole.

  Just then, more roots shot out of the ground. Osterman saw one coming at him from the corner of his eye and spun, shooting at it. He backed away and shot at another root, then another. Six of them were in the garage now, while still more fought to push their way in.

  The stomping, he realized, had stopped. He noticed the group were now pushing and pulling on the pipe. The end of the pipe tore away from the wall. The group scrambled to their feet, rushing toward the broken end. He raised his gun, meaning to shoot at them, to kill them, to do anything to pay them back for what they had done, but another root crashed through the ground right beside him, nearly toppling him over. He adjusted his aim toward the root and opened fire.

  21

  Alice and Joy sat on the couch holding each other, tears in their eyes, both quietly weeping. Carol Herman knelt down in front of them whispering words of encouragement. Monty stood beside Avalon, speaking to her until suddenly he stopped and waved his hand in front of her face.

  She blinked, startled, and looked at him.

  “Did you hear anything I just told you?”

  She nodded, hesitant.

  “Then repeat it.”