The ivy proved quite sturdy, but her progress was less than it seemed. The vines crept downward over the wall, erasing half her efforts. She speeded up, outwitting looping tendrils that caught at her wrists and neck. One coil grasped her ankle, but she kept pulling herself upward, dragging a length of the vine up with her.
Just below the windowsill, a handful of ivy crumbled in her grip and she was hauled down over a foot. All the vines above her were desiccated and fragile. She lunged and grabbed the stone ledge with both hands and hoisted herself over, the tendril finally releasing her ankle and slinking away.
Inside, the wooden floor was worn smooth and dark with age, a rounded-top trunk in the center. Against one wall stood a small table with a burning candle. A child’s china tea set surrounded the candle in an intricate setting. On another wall, a shelf held mundane objects: a toaster, an iron, a diaphragm, some glossy fashion magazines. A full length mirror lay shattered on the floor near a camp stove and scuba mask.
Rook opened the trunk and stooped to see what it contained. Under several silk scarves and a pair of child’s rubber boots lay the silent princesses. Six Barbie Dolls dressed in gowns of vibrant velvet and satin, four with crew cuts, one bald and the last headless. Rook set them on the table to enjoy the tea party, then continued looking through the trunk. Of course she remembered the dolls. Each of her stepfathers bought them for her and her little sister Junebug. Digging deeper, Rook found Baby Alive and Raggedy Ann. Mixed in with the dolls were doll clothes, shoes, furniture, even dress-up clothes and costume jewelry.
At the bottom of the trunk lay Ballerina Barbie, her favorite doll. The one doll whose hair had been spared. Once long and silky, it was now a frizzy clump. No wonder the prince never rescued these girls. They should have known the hair was their only hope. Rook rooted through the piles she’d made on the floor, searching for a brush or comb.
As she searched she discovered something unexpected — a hinge in the floor. Rook dragged the trunk to the side and pushed the doll paraphernalia over to it, uncovering a trap door. With no handle it was difficult to pry open, but she was determined.
The bottom of the tower smelled dank. Rook took the candle from the table and looked down. Water. No telling how deep. A rope hung from a pulley attached to the underside of the floor. She pulled up a large bucket and dumped the foul water out. Without thinking too much about what she was doing, Rook stepped into the bucket and lowered herself for a better look. The water was a few feet deep. Best of all, she could see chinks in the mortar and knew where she would get what she needed to help Fin.
But first she needed to go back upstairs and take care of something.
***
She felt foolish wearing the plastic tiara and rhinestone necklace, yet regal too.
Thus attired, the princess lowered herself and stood hip deep in the brackish water. The baseball bat stolen from her brother made a sturdy scepter. She hefted it and took aim at the weakest-looking section of the wall.
The first bricks were the most difficult to loosen, but as they landed outside, she had more room to work. When the opening was big enough to pass through, she went out and summoned the ravens. They seemed to bow to her before transporting her and the bricks to Fin’s mind.
The dust trolls were nowhere to be seen, the ill-fated gingerbread gone. Rook inspected the wall. It had held. She placed bricks from her remodeling effort on the ground to finish the circular base for Fin’s tower. As she connected the circle she felt a flash of remembrance and joy from Fin, and was filled with a ringing sense of victory. This would work. It was right. With renewed determination she completed the second and third levels, being sure to leave a doorway.
Back in her own tower the blocks were tougher to move now, the ivy greedily clinging to them. Rook worked downward and finally removed the bricks holding the stagnant water inside. It poured out and saturated the ground. As she removed the bottom-most layer and the last of the water washed out, Rook hesitated. Slowly she turned to see what the waters had hidden.
The skeletal remains of five or six girls lay scattered about the floor, all princesses of varying ages. Their empty eye sockets looked upon Rook piteously, accusingly. It was her fault they were dead, they said, her fault they spent years in their watery tomb, forgotten. It wasn’t all her fault, she wanted to protest. Certainly her mother played some part. Tears stung Rook’s eyes as she regarded these bones, the dregs of her childhood splayed out on the algae-slick floor. They reminded her of the Russian Grand Duchesses, Anastasia and the rest, who were all killed together and buried in the Siberian woods. Rook knew that her princesses, too, needed to be buried, but didn’t want to waste the time or energy on it now. There was no worry of them going anywhere on their own. They could wait a little longer. She turned her back on their hollow stares and reaching hands, passed through the narrow doorway she’d made, and prepared to return to Fin.
After several more trips, Rook completed the excavation of a large arching doorway in her tower and topped off its counterpart in Fin’s. She stepped back to survey her work and was startled by a loud thump behind her. Expecting dust trolls, she whirled around, but saw instead a block. One of Fin’s. She looked to see who had dropped it, but the ravens had stirred up another cloud from the ashes. A second block dropped a few feet to her left. She studied the cloud and saw the next one form before it dropped. Fin was doing this! She gathered the blocks and struggled to lift them high enough to place them on the structure.
She finished another complete course but wouldn’t be able to reach high enough for the next. A block fell onto the tower then, followed by another.
Rook stayed back and watched. The blocks came much more infrequently, but most of them landed in place. Some missed and landed outside, occasionally taking another with them. They didn’t fit perfectly and there were gaps, but all in all, it worked.
The tower narrowed as it grew, and the ground under its foundation shifted upward. Rook’s excavation disappeared like ripples in the sea, leaving behind a smooth, flat landscape. Around the base, grass crept out in slow fractals. Ivy climbed, velvety green and pulsing like a heartbeat, smelling like rain and electrolytes. A raven appeared and hopped in through the doorway. Rook followed, finding the interior upholstered in moss. The raven moved into the doorway and took up a guard position. Rook curled up on the moss and slept.
*** *** ***
Fin woke up slowly with a gentle, melodious hum in the back of his brain. The warmth of someone beside him in bed reassured him. The dull red light of Vesuvius on the other side of his eyelids, as always, calming. He breathed deeply and exhaled, discovering something unusual. He didn’t want a smoke.
He felt content.
That shocked him to the core. He sat bolt upright and into a world of pain. His ribs screamed, his head banged off... what? The bridge of his nose throbbed and sent tendrils of eye-watering sinus pain radiating across his cheek bones. Reaching up to cradle his head, Fin poked himself in the eye with his taped fingers, setting off pain there too. Now he wanted a cigarette. And a bottle of tequila. Maybe an aspirin or two to wash it down. As his head cleared and he blinked the tears away, he looked around.
The last thing he could remember for sure was getting duped by that fucking weasel Kyle and meeting the TV preacher.
In all honesty, the last thing he could be sure of was getting his eyebrow pierced. Everything that followed was just bizarre. A fever dream or hallucination, except his own body gave evidence to the contrary. And, the warm somebody beside him was Rook. He peered through the womb-like lighting. They were both fully clothed, except she was in some of his clothes. She slept the sleep of the dead, but she was breathing. He checked.
If he was okay and she was okay, somehow he must have succeeded. He saved her. The burgeoning pride he felt was tempered by not knowing how the hell he’d done it or where the hell they were. Maybe they were both captive and he would need to be a hero again. Only one way to find out.
Fin swung his
feet out and his boots immediately clanked on the floor. The bed was only raised about six inches. Something about the clanking jostled his memory. He stood and put out his left hand to steady himself. All he could see clearly was Vesuvius, bubbling on a table somewhere in front of him. The low light level was a comfort to his eyes. He took in his surroundings, but couldn’t make sense of any of it. Metal bunks, metal mesh floor, tie-dye tapestries. The scents of incense, pot and stale air. All hideously familiar. Deja vu and dysnomia. He shook his head, trying to resolve the short in his wiring.
Inflatable Sally, ultimately, was what saved him. There she sat, in the kitchen chair, her big blue eyes wide and vacant, her mouth a perfect O of lustful surprise, the other, cruder, details covered by her seafoam green Donna Reed housedress and starched, white apron.
The bomb shelter. Somehow Brad and Melissa didn’t know it was right there in their back yard, fully stocked. Kyle never stumbled across it. Fin never brought anyone here, not in high school when he practically lived here, not even a girlfriend. He’d never told anyone about it. Vesuvius knew, of course, because he’d lived here, too. This is where they’d met. When the box of his mom’s things showed up, Fin brought it down here to go through it in private. Her lava lamp had comforted him, both figuratively and literally. Did Vesuvius tell Rook about this place? How would the lamp describe it or know how to get here?
Fin tried to clear the dust out of the unused corners of his mind. In addition to the gentle hum, he encountered much more debris than ever before. Things were missing, but he couldn’t tell what. Like his mind had been ransacked.
He swayed gently in the narrow walkway between the bunks and the desk, trying to get his mental footing. A horrifying thought: maybe Kyle did know about this place. Maybe he’d locked them in here to die. Fin lurched to the ladder and clambered to the top where he was somewhat reassured to find it locked from the inside. Which didn’t preclude it also being locked from the outside.
At least Kyle wouldn’t get in.
Fin climbed down and began a search to refresh his memory. The gas masks were here. More important, so were the rifle and ammo, convincing evidence Kyle hadn’t locked them in. The upright citizens who built this place in the 50s, 60s, whenever, thought of everything: Powdered eggs and milk. Canned veggies. Spam.
Gently, he moved his slumbering lava lamp from the table to the counter. As quietly as possible he lifted the table top, uncovering the bathtub underneath. Fin wasn’t sure where the water came from, but when it ran hot he filled the tub and undressed. He was glad there was no mirror to show him what he looked like, because he was sure it wasn’t pretty. Normally he wouldn’t give a shit, but he didn’t want to gross Rook out. They might be stuck down here for a long time.
Fin tried to make sense of the past few days, wanted to be sure of what happened before Rook woke up and maybe wanted to talk about it. He scooped up what memories he could, but they were like charred newspaper.
Reverend Brian Shaw. Kyle. Who knew Kyle had goons? Something about sand. Searing pain. Then he was here with more chaos than usual dancing in his head.
The tuning fork in his head modulated its tone as a gentle kiss brushed his forehead, and Fin’s eyes fluttered open. Rook stood over him, naked and smiling. She kissed his mouth and climbed in the tub with him, spilling water out over the sides.
Chapter Fourteen
UNDERGROUND
It is vital that your Peterson Fallout Shelter be as inviting and home-like as possible. You will be spending a lot of time there, possibly up to several months. In addition to such necessities as food, water, medicine, tobacco and firearms, you will want to stock up on the niceties.
Such things as cards, games, a Bible and other books will help pass the time. If you purchased a Peterson Royal Luxury model and have the space, a musical instrument or a phonograph would be a wonderful addition. And don’t forget, little Johnny and Susie need their toys!
Even beyond entertainment, there are needs you should address. Store in your shelter plenty of soap and other toilet items. Father wouldn’t appreciate running out of his shaving cream, would he? Or Mother her perfume? Of course the entire family will appreciate clean clothes!
Use the checklist on the back of this card, and when the time comes for your family to emerge from the safety of your Peterson Fallout Shelter and rebuild society, you’re sure to make a great impression!
from Peterson Fallout Shelter owner’s manual ©1956
Stepping into control of one of the world’s largest religious broadcasting operations was effortless. Shaw had populated his staff with sycophants and blissed-out born-agains. Their reluctance to make waves accounted for their selection. They were lambs.
Kyle made contact with the covert layer of the Ministries while driving away from the factory disaster. Once his head cleared, he’d pulled over and started making calls. He dialed numbers only Shaw knew, and claimed to be relaying the reverend’s personal orders. He knew who could send backup the fastest, who should run interference with the police. That Shaw was already dead didn’t get mentioned.
By the time more mercs reached the building, the attack was over. Kyle orchestrated the cleanup and coverup on the drive to the Shaw Ministries headquarters in Donner. Shaw’s remains were relocated to his residence.
Being in a position to give effective orders at a critical moment assured his unchallenged rulership. There were some near the top of command who might have thought to use Kyle’s timely arrival and intimate knowledge against him. They kept their ambitions to themselves. Kyle knew more about the big picture than anyone else, which deterred potential rivals.
A major factor in Kyle’s favor was that the paramilitary thugs viewed him as their kind of people. The reverend considered the mercs an unfortunate necessity, and they knew it. Spared the inconvenience of needing to learn everyone’s names or any of the other particulars, and conforming well to the notions of leadership held by his troops, Kyle hardly needed to spend any time on the clandestine projects.
Instead, he forged and planted the necessary documents to guarantee his appointment to head the Ministries the moment Shaw’s body was discovered. Sunday morning when Shaw didn’t show up for the broadcast, everything went according to plan.
For his first three days in charge, Kyle mostly watched for opportunities to perfect his ill-gotten mind tricks. Little things, like making people agree with him, or lose control of their bodily functions for a moment.
Wednesday he decided it was time to try something more dramatic. Something had to be done about Travis.
Travis had attended Shaw’s seminary college for three months and was interning at the Ministries office. He was young and charismatic, in denial about his homosexuality, and smitten with Shaw. His inner turmoil lent his judgmental zeal that classic brimstone flavor. He was a natural, and Shaw had taken him under his wing.
Now Travis was dangerous, deranged with grief. He openly blamed Kyle for Shaw’s death. Taunted him whenever their paths crossed. So far no one seemed to be giving it any credence, but it was, to say the least, distracting. People in the biz were prone to take such fevered ramblings as some kind of message. Plus Travis knew his bible backwards. Forward too, and just that morning he deduced Kyle didn’t.
The issue, as Kyle saw it, revolved around subtlety. His loudest detractor meeting a sticky end would only fuel new rumors.
When Reverend Lucas strode in unannounced, Kyle heard a heavenly fanfare. Here, about to shake hands, was the solution to his Travis problem.
Lucas was a crony of Shaw’s, but not a friend or partner. Convincing circumstantial evidence implied his minions had tried to infiltrate Shaw Ministries, and that he funded an anti-Shaw website. It was distinctly possible he knew there was more than televangelism going on.
Kyle made nice with Lucas long enough to square him away in a conference room, promising to be with him shortly. At his office, he took delivery of an untraceable handgun. He struck out into the less-hectic north wing
, trying to influence the chances of bumping into Travis. He felt silly, thinking over and over, “Come to me, Travis,” but something worked, because they almost knocked each other down at a bend in the corridor.
Without an audience, the young man wasn’t troubled to say anything. He just scowled. Kyle asked, “What do you see when you look me in the eye?”
Travis took the bait and tried to stare Kyle down. He also started to answer the question, but Kyle wasn’t listening. He seized the man’s intellect, shook it out like a rug, and spread it in a new shape. A much simpler shape. Charisma wasn’t going to take Travis anyplace after this. Kyle walked the width of the sparse landscape, molding it into a plan of action and steamrolling anything extraneous.
It was nerve-wracking to give the man a loaded weapon. Kyle checked over his handiwork one last time, then practically sprinted back to the conference room.
He slowed up, and breezed in as Reverend Lucas was about to leave. He apologized for making him cool his heels for so long and asked, “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” The energy expenditure of working on Travis suddenly caught up with him, and fortunately Lucas rather enjoyed the sound of his own voice. When Travis lurched into the room Kyle muttered, “Finally.”
After shooting Lucas twice, in the face, Travis stopped moving. Kyle had to remind him to shoot himself.
Thursday morning was eerily calm and routine, as if the violence never happened. Tedious, in fact. By mid-afternoon, boredom made Kyle snappish, cornered in a meeting with a publicist from a religious magazine. He tried to behave, but as she droned on his attention wandered over to Denise, a blonde administrative assistant whose periwinkle suit, with a knee-length skirt slit up one side, inspired some ideas for a different application of his new talents.
He cut the meeting short and sidled up to Denise. He was spooling up his engines when she started cooing about yesterday, what danger he faced. Kyle almost holstered his whammy and did things the old-fashioned way, but a major goal here was to practice. Besides, he knew the type. This place was full of chaste women. No matter how genuinely she lusted for him, she was certain to halt things at first base if allowed to.
Miss Brandymoon's Device: a novel of sex, nanotech, and a sentient lava lamp (Divided Man Book 1) Page 17