by G. K. Lamb
“I totally understand your concern, but we can’t play it safe. If you wanted to play it safe we would have never left the house, you would never have tried to bug the subversives, and you certainly wouldn’t have invited a complete stranger into your van without asking any questions.”
“She has a point Damian,” says Victor. “We won’t make any progress—we’ll never find anything out—if we are afraid of getting caught. If Evelyn wants to try, we have to let her try. Besides, she’s a fighter.” Victor points to his swollen eye.
Damian turns back to face to road. “We’ll drop you off and then circle around. We’ll wait near where we dropped you off, but we can’t risk more than ten or fifteen minutes. If you don’t make it back in time, we’ll go back to Mr. Herrington’s until tonight and then we’ll try again.”
“Understood. I’m ready when you are.”
Damian pulls the van along the curb a half block from Margaret’s house. He puts the van in park, and it jerks to a stop. I pull the door open and step out onto the street. Turing around to close the door, Mr. Herrington puts his hand up to stop me.
“Good luck, Miss Brennan.”
I nod to him and then close the door. Walking away into the alley, I hear the van pull off. I focus on the task ahead, trying to remember the path I took before. The chase was a blur, but it doesn’t take long before the cragged stones and oddities in the construction of the alley give me enough visual clues to find my way. Walking from cover to cover, I keep a constant look out for Peace Officers. The alley is eerily silent. My feet splash in the puddles with soft plops that sound deafening in the silence.
My worries don’t come to fruition, and I find my way back to the window with ease. During the chase the distance from the street to the window had felt like miles and taken hours to traverse. In reality the window is only a two minute walk at a slow sneaking pace. It’s amazing how circumstances can totally affect your perception. I only have eight minutes left and I need two in order to get back to the street, so I waste no time on the window. It is closed like Victor thought it would be, but it isn’t locked. It slides open on the first try with little resistance.
Because I’m not being chased I lower myself down feet first. Landing gracefully, I remain crouched and scan the room for activity. All the boxes and containers have been spilled out and ransacked but after sweeping the storage room over twice I see no evidence of movement so I stand and begin to walk quietly toward the kitchen.
Stepping over the strewn things, I see Margaret’s life in snippets. Pictures in the countryside, birthdays, happy moments intermingled with bright floral dresses, wide brimmed hats, and high heel shoes. These must be the remnants of her life before prison, before torture. Reaching the door to the kitchen I press my ear up to it and listen carefully for the distinctive sound of a Peace Officer’s rebreather. I listen for as long as I dare with the clock ticking down on me. I am satisfied with the lack of noise on the other side. Turning the knob, I push the door openly slowly. Halfway open the door creaks loudly. I freeze. Holding the door half open I listen for the sounds of approaching footsteps.
Thud. Thud. Thud. My heart beats so hard I almost mistake it for approaching footsteps. Running out of time, I can’t wait to be certain beyond a doubt so I push open the door the rest of the way and enter the kitchen.
The kitchen and adjacent living room have been totally ransacked. Cabinet doors stand open or hanging precariously from broken hinges. All the dishes have been pulled out, forming a pile of broken glasses and ceramic on the floor. Treading carefully over the sharp pieces of broken glass, I walk into the living room. The couch and chairs have been cut open and their stuffing covers everything like snowfall. The paintings have been cut in half and the walls busted open with hammers.
I venture beyond into the bedroom and bathroom to find them in a similar state. Everything has been turned over, ripped open, or smashed. Margaret’s once inviting and bright house now feels ominous and foreboding of things to come. Margaret is nowhere to be seen. They must have carted her back to jail. That must have been horrible for her. Wherever she is, she doesn’t deserve this.
Having found no evidence of Margaret or a note of any kind, I make haste back toward the storage room. As I approach the kitchen I slow down to navigate the broken glass and see something out of place on the table. The table is the only piece of furniture in the state I saw it last. Probably because it stands bare except for a full cup of tea. I rush to the table and topple the cup. The dark liquid pours out, splashing over the table, and reveals what she hid for me. A common thumb sized info-disk. I snatch it up out of the liquid quickly. Stepping carefully over the glass, I rush back into the storage room and sprint to the window. Placing the info-disk in my coat pocket I jump up and grab the ledge of the open window. Injured and totally sapped of energy, hoisting myself through the window takes a great deal of effort.
In the alley I cast two quick glances left and right to make sure I’m alone then push the window shut again as best as I can. I don’t know how much time I’ve used up but I feel that I’m cutting it close. Wanting to try and make up lost time I run as rapidly as my dwindling energy will allow. After repeated twists and turns, I emerge back at the street and slow to a walk. My mask conceals my heaving breaths. The street was almost empty when they dropped me off but is now thick with people. I push through to the edge of the curb and look for the van. To my right only ten meters away the van is beginning to pull out. I could rush out into the street and wave them down, but that might draw too much attention to myself. Pushing through the crowd would be safer but I fear there isn’t enough time for me to make the distance before they turn the sharp bend and drive out of sight. I have to risk it.
Pushing a woman aside, I burst into the street and begin running toward the van waving my arms. The van stops immediately. The door opens as I run up. The instant my whole body is inside the van, Damian presses on the gas and we start to drive. I take my seat and buckle up while Mr. Herrington struggles to close the door. As soon as the door slams they start in on me.
“Are you crazy? There is no way they didn’t see that. We’ll have to loop around the city for a few hours to lose them,” Damian says.
“Were you able to find anything?” Victor says.
“What of Margaret, did you see her?” asks Mr. Herrington.
I take a deep breath through the mask.
“I apologize for drawing attention to myself, but otherwise I would have had to wait until tonight and there is little doubt in my mind that they would have found me. And no, I didn’t see Margaret. The house was torn apart, but I didn’t see any evidence of violence.”
“Let’s be thankful for that at least,” Mr. Herrington says.
“I did, however, find an info-disk that she hid for me in a tea cup.”
“Very good. We’ll have to stop by the uptown safe house to view it. Mr. Herrington doesn’t own a computer,” Victor says.
“Never trusted those damnable things. They’re built by the Caretakers after all, so there is no telling what sorts of eavesdropping they’re capable of.”
“A valid point, but it’s hard to live without them.”
“I’ll disagree with you there, Victor.”
Damian’s gruff voice interjects their terse exchange. “Regardless of how you feel about computers, we need one. I’ll take us to the uptown safe house but I’m not even looking in that direction until I’m absolutely certain we aren’t being followed. If you want to get some rest this would be the time.”
“Wise plan Damian. I think I might get a few winks. Car rides can be very relaxing. You should try and rest too, Evelyn. Your eyes tell me you haven’t rested in quite a while.”
“Good idea, Mr. Herrington. Sleep does sound nice.”
Damian drives slow and steady. Unaware, I drift off to sleep. Sleep, though, offers no rest. The suffering I’ve caused Victoriana
and Margaret through my actions haunts me. In a twisted nightmare, I watch over and over as a sinister version of myself whips them repeatedly as they plead with me, “What did I do?” After witnessing this cruel illusion for an immeasurable span of time the dream re-forms and I am once again inhabiting the body of Antonius Neptus. My finger pulls the trigger that kills a revolution.
I wake suddenly. Mr. Herrington’s light hand rests on my shoulder.
“We’re here, Miss Brennan.”
Looking out the window, I see the telltale signs of the setting sun just before we pass into a garage and the view is replaced by concrete. This garage is much larger than Mr. Herrington’s. Wide enough for four vans. Our footsteps echo in the nearly empty space as we step out.
“How do you afford to pay for a place like this?”
“Our group is larger than the three of us. We have a few dozen members, some of which can afford to pay the high dues needed to rent a place of this size in the middle of the city,” Mr. Herrington says.
Damian leads the way toward the door at the other end of the garage. Passing through the door is a large loft space. A small, well stocked kitchen sits off to the left. Along the far side are four sets of bunk beds made up with white sheets and light brown blankets. Lockers, some of which have heavy deadbolts, line the wall to the right and in the middle of the space is a computer terminal and a few mismatched chairs.
“If you’d like to clean up, the bathroom is through that door.” Victor gestures to the only door in the room, situated in the middle of the left-hand wall.
“Search through the first locker over here, there should be some new clothes that fit you that you can change into. By the time you shower and change I’ll have the info-disk ready to read.”
“Thank you, Victor.”
I pull the info-disk from my pocket and hand it to him. He takes it. His eyes linger on mine. As his face begins to blush, he twists away, making great haste for the computer terminal and begins to type away in the projected light keyboard. Damian heads to a chair and watches Victor work while Mr. Herrington goes to the kitchen and begins pulling out utensils and boxes to cook something. I follow Victor’s suggestion and walk over to the first locker. The door is unbolted. Inside are neatly stacked clean outfits. They’re labeled by size descending from biggest to smallest. I find some my size and pull them out. The clothes I’m wearing aren’t something I would normally wear but I don’t care. Walking across the large loft space I pass by the other three silently and step into the bathroom. The bathroom looks a lot like mine at home with clean lines and glass.
Hot water feels great against my aching muscles but when I apply the soap I find a dozen cuts and scrapes I didn’t realize I had. The water going down the drain is black from the soot and brownish-red from the dried blood. Finished cleaning, I lean against the wall and relax in the jet of steaming water. The tiredness I’ve been trying to suppress calls to me. Desperately, I want to curl up on the tile floor of the shower and fall asleep in the water’s warm embrace. The only thing stopping me is the nagging feeling at the back of my mind that I have more important things to do.
I turn the faucet and the warm comforting stream of water ceases instantly. Without the heat and steam of the water my skin quickly chills and I feel reality wash back over me. I change quickly and return to the loft.
Mr. Herrington has joined the other two in the middle of the room. All of them are eating something out of a bowl with great zeal. Sitting on one of the empty chairs is a bowl for me. I walk over to it and pick it up before I plop down in the chair. It looks to be some form of chili. Never a big fan of chili before, I’m too hungry to be picky so I dig in with similar zeal as the others. Surprisingly, the warm chili satisfies my hunger and leaves me feeling a little more positive. We all finish about the same time. I walk around, collect the bowls, and deposit them in the sink.
“Thank you, Mr. Herrington, I can’t tell you how much I needed that.”
“My pleasure, young lady. I think we all did.”
Victor jumps up from his seat and returns to the computer terminal.
“Ok, everyone, I’ll play it if you’re ready.”
“Let’s see it.” Damian says.
Victor’s fingers dance in the light. The computer screen comes to life with Margaret’s face filling the screen.
“I haven’t much time. They’re onto us. Hopefully you can get out of there unscathed. I’m sorry I put you at risk, young lady, truly I am, but if you’re watching this you must have seen what was stored inside the sphere. I hope it was as enlightening as I’ve imagined it.”
Margaret looks to her left with a concerned look on her face. A loud pounding can be heard in the background. She turns back to face the camera, her face now visibly shaken.
“They’re at the door. I have information hidden on this disk. Bernie will know the password. Use it to take them…”
The video abruptly ends. The screen fills with static. Victor rushes over to the terminal and shuts off the recording.
“It looks like she made this just in the time. I’ll look for the hidden files right away.”
“Do any of you know who Bernie is?”
Mr. Herrington smiles.
“I’m Bernie. I prefer Bernard, but Margaret always insisted on calling me Bernie.”
“I think I’ve found the files. What do you think the password is?”
“It’s a secret I vowed never to share with anyone but Margaret. If you don’t mind I’d like to keep it that way. I’ll type it myself.”
“As you wish. Just fill it in the open box and hit execute.”
Victor steps back from the terminal. Mr. Herrington rises creakily from his chair and steps up to the terminal. He looks lost for a moment then with slow deliberate strikes of his fingers against the projected input board types in the password and strikes execute. Victor, Damian, and I share an amused look. The file opens and dozens of folders flood out.
“I’ll sift through all of this and try and make heads or tails of it,” Victor says.
“I’ll go call everyone in,” says Damian. “We need to fill everyone in with what has been happening.”
Damian and Victor go straight away to their self-appointed tasks leaving Mr. Herrington and I with nothing to do.
“I think I’m going to lie down for a while, Miss Brennan. A man of my age can only handle so much excitement in a day. The cots are comfortable and clean if you’re so inclined.”
The thought of sleep is appealing but the knowledge that I’ll dream makes me hesitate.
“You go ahead, Mr. Herrington, I think I’ll stay with Victor and help him look through the files.”
“All right, young lady, but remember, you may be young but you’re not a robot, you need rest sometimes.”
Mr. Herrington claps me on the shoulder then makes his way to one of the eight bunks. Sitting in the chair nearest Victor and the terminal, I look over his shoulder as he pours through spreadsheets and candid videos of Margaret speaking with Fowler. It doesn’t take long for us to figure out something bad is coming.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It takes a few hours before the other members of the group arrive. From the far corner, I see them come in ones and twos. Soon the group grows to thirty-two people. As the people come in, I take a long look at their faces. I don’t recognize any of them. I could have passed these people a hundred times on the street, but with everyone always hiding behind their masks, it’s impossible to know. They range in age from mid-twenties to their fifties. Mr. Herrington is the oldest member by far. Most of them are men; the group only contains five women. However, each of them has the look of determination in her eyes that I see in myself when I look in the mirror and a demeanor that radiates confidence.
Damian steps in front of the gathering. Their murmuring stops and he addresses them in a commanding voice.
> “We are waiting on Charles and then we can begin. What Victor, and our newest member Evelyn Brennen, have discovered is going to disturb you, so get a glass of water or whatever now, you may not feel like it in a little bit.”
The assembled group begins to migrate toward the kitchen. Their indistinct conversations rise considerably in volume. With concerned faces and impassioned voices, they speculate wildly. Seeing me alone in the corner, Victor walks over to me.
“Doing the meet and great with thirty-odd people can be a nightmare. Don’t worry, you’ll get to know everyone eventually.”
I continue to stare at him. The files Margaret smuggled to us have deeply disturbed me and I don’t feel the need to talk.
“What’s wrong? Is it the files? We’ll discuss it with the group in a minute. We’ll come up with a plan.”
“I know the group will come up with a plan, and they’ll figure out a course of action for themselves, but I need to come up with my own plan.”
“You’re not alone in this anymore, we are a team.”
“I understand that, and I do feel safer knowing I have a group at my back, but with the coming storm, I don’t want to lose my family. It may be selfish, but I need to get them to safety. I need to find a way to convince my mother to let go of her fears, to break free from the prison she has built for herself.”
“I don’t think that is selfish at all. In fact, I think the whole group needs to be considering their families right now. I already know what direction Damian is going to try and sway the group, but if the both of us offer a less reactionary, self-preservation style response we might be able to keep things from getting out of hand.”
“So you think Damian is actually committed to fighting? Doesn’t he realize that is what they want him to do? Violence against the Caretakers only strengthens their position by making them look like victims.”