Tether

by Jeremy Robinson

  So we let them see us…

  The Black Hawks move back a little farther when a pair of news helicopters swoop in to see what all the commotion is about. News crews are trained to see things the rest of us might miss. Over the rumble of their helicopters, they might not have heard the gunfire, but an eagle-eyed pilot would have no trouble spotting it.

  Bathed in more light, I speed forward like I’m not going to stop.

  And then I do. Hard. A wave of gray smoke billows past us, as the SUV screeches to a stop in the bike lane across the street from Walgreens. I kick open the door and hop out, about to shout for Rain to do the same, but she’s already out the passenger’s side.

  All four helicopters fly past overhead, cutting broad circles as they swing around. We have just seconds.

  I sprint around the SUV, grab Rain’s arm, and drag her into the Central T station stairwell. Once we’re clear, I let go of her arm, and lead her down into the darkness. We pause to catch our breath, listening to the sound of the helicopters overhead.

  I’m sure the Black Hawks are demanding the news helicopters vacate the area, but news crews are very much aware of their rights. They won’t take orders from unmarked helicopters unwilling to identify themselves. They’ll buy us some time, but not much.

  Lighter in hand, I flick a flame to life and hold it to the candle I took from the house. With our meager flames to guide us, I move deep into the bowels of the Boston T system. The air below ground stings my eyes. With the power out, and the ventilation shut down, the air underground is becoming stagnant with the smell of oil and smog—like Boston’s South Station in the summer.

  “Where are we going?” Rain asks. She’s not afraid—I am—just confused about where I’m taking her.

  I hold the candle up, trying to read signs. Then I remember, I don’t need the signs. There won’t be any subway cars coming, and I know which direction we have to go. I slide up over the turnstile. Even if I had my Charlie Card, it wouldn’t work. When I turn to help Rain over, she proves she doesn’t need me by leaping over with the kind of grace that says she’s spent time in a gymnastics class.

  “A short walk,” I tell her. “It’s not far.”

  And then I lead her onto the boarding platform, pausing at the bright yellow line with the text DO NOT CROSS stenciled in it. On any other day, crossing the line means certain death. Today, the opposite. I lower myself down and turn to help Rain, who once again proves I’m more of a Pippin than an Aragorn in our fellowship of two.

  “This way.” I strike out southeast, leading a stranger into the dark abyss beneath Cambridge.

  No, I correct myself. I’m Gandalf, leading the way through the mines of Moria, and Rain is—

  She leans forward and blows out my candle. Plunged into darkness, I’m about to complain, when her hand clamps over my mouth. From the stairwell, lights. Voices.

  “I can see,” Rain whispers, the sound of her voice is the only proof that she exists. The darkness is absolute.

  How can she see?

  I flinch when her hand takes mine, proof that she can see, and then I’m dragged into the tunnel, desperate for just one thing I can’t have. Morgan.

  Rain is Legolas. And I am that pitiful thing.

  Gollum.

  My precious… Where are you?

  I don’t get an answer. I’m starting to think I never will.

  8

  Behind us, lights.

  Like the helicopters and the SUV, the G-men tracking us down have working flashlights. The beams carve away the darkness, stretching deep into the subway tunnel.

  But not deep enough.

  Thanks to Rain’s uncanny ability to see in the dark, and my willingness to follow her lead, we make quick time down the tunnel. The only real threat to our escape is the acrid air tickling my lungs, prodding me to cough.

  “The tunnel splits ahead,” Rain whispers. In the tunnel’s tight confines, a voice at normal volume might echo all the way down to the men hunting us.

  I imagine where we are, overlaying my internal map of the city over where we entered the tunnel and how far we’ve gone. “Stay to the right.”

  As we round the bend, the lights behind us disappear. We’ve lost them, I think, but I feel no relief. We know nothing about these men, their resources, or their capabilities. And if we find a place to hide, what then? I want answers, and I hope Rain can provide some, but what happens when I get them? Am I going to turn her in?

  Just thinking about it gives me a sour stomach.

  Despite mounting evidence, I have trouble believing that Morgan knowingly worked for people whose moral scruples match Vigo the Carpathian’s.

  Even if Rain was once a killer like them, she doesn’t remember that life. Should she be punished for crimes she can’t remember?

  I’m getting ahead of myself. There are too many unanswered questions. Too many variant paths for my internal Choose Your Own Adventure, and most of them lead to death.

  Focus on the immediate, I tell myself. Ride out the night. Wait for the search to end.

  And then what? They’ll be watching my house. My credit cards. My phone… Damnit, I left my phone at the house! It might be a useless brick now, but I hope not. So much of Morgan is stored on it, and being paranoid, I don’t use the cloud.

  I look ahead and see the subway tracks.

  Where is the light coming from? It’s a dull glow, like moonlight, but there are no lit bulbs. No light from in front or behind. The power is still out. Probably will be for the rest of the night.

  “I can see,” I say.

  Rain glances back at me, revealing the light’s source—her face. She’s glowing dull blue.

  “Can you feel it?” she asks.

  “I can see it,” I say. “Your face.”

  “We’re not alone.”

  My arm hair stands on end, as a shiver runs through my body. I search the darkness beyond my personal human-turned-glowworm, but I find nothing beyond endless darkness. Can those men see in the dark, too? I wonder, but I quickly discount it. They were using flashlights for a reason.

  “I can’t see anyone,” I say.

  “Neither can I,” she says, her voice haunted. “I can feel them. Two of them. They don’t want us here. We need to hurry.” She tugs my hand and leads me deeper into the tunnel.

  The glow emanating from her skin flares. She falters. Falls. I catch her and help her move forward. She’s crying now, but not in fear. Like she’s lost someone. Like she’s remembering.

  I decide not to ask. We need to push forward and get the hell out of this tunnel.

  After another hundred feet, the glow starts to fade. Rain’s emotional state flatlines. She finds her footing, and as darkness consumes us again, she resumes her role as guide to the blind.

  Ten minutes later, she says, “There’s a station ahead.”

  If my sense of direction is on the nose, this will be the Kendell terminal, emerging beside the sprawling M.I.T. campus. “This is our exit.”

  She leads me to the five-foot-tall platform. I plant my hands on the cold concrete, leap, and hoist. For a moment, I’m fluid, recalling how easy this kind of thing was when I was a kid. Then I get stuck. I’m folded over the edge, belly squished, arms struggling, legs not quite flexible enough to reach up and around.

  I hear a subtle scrape to my left—the only evidence that Rain is on the move. Then she’s above me, grasping the back of my belt and helping me up. The whole thing is somewhat humiliating, so I offer a quick “Thanks,” and vow to never speak of this again.

  Because you’ll be dead, an inner voice taunts.

  I flinch when Rain takes my hand again. “This way.” She might not have noticed. Might be on task, like I should be. But I can’t see her anymore. That otherworldly glow has faded completely.

  Questions twinkle to life. Stars shining. Supernovae. So many. Hard to ignore.

  I use an old sleeping trick to quash them, imagining a nuclear blast irradiating every image and idea in my thou
ghts. It’s a grim technique, but it works.

  Free from pursuit, I pause to light the candle once more. The station glows a horrific orange around me. Without the artificial glow of technology, the underground conjures a primal fear. I need air. I need the sky.

  It’s my turn to take the lead again, up the stairs, over the turnstiles, and up another set of stairs until—fresh air.

  We emerge beside the familiar M.I.T. campus, which is essentially a small city unto itself, except filled with the smartest people in the world, some of whom are no doubt already hard at work trying to make sense of what happened here tonight. They probably won’t make much progress without power, but I’m sure they’ll have answers before I do.

  They’re not just smarter, and well-funded. They’re also not being hunted.

  I scour the dark streets for signs of danger.

  Aside from students, gathered in clusters, the streets are dead. No power. No black SUVs or helicopters. The chop of rotor blades echoes in the distance, but aside from a few high-flying news helicopters, the skies directly above are clear.

  “Were you stuck down there?” A young Asian woman asks. She’s wearing Pikachu footie-pajamas, has her hair put up in twin pony tails like Harley Quinn, and is wearing a pair of thick glasses on her face. She looks ridiculous—says the middle-aged man—but probably has an IQ thirty points higher than mine.

  “Uh,” I say, unsure of just about everything in the universe, never mind how I should reply to the question.

  “Hiding,” Rain says, turning her head to the sky. She infuses her voice with fear. “Did you see it?”

  “Who didn’t?” Pony Tails says. “A-plus intense, right? I think the environmental science boys are going to be up all night trying to figure that one out.”

  I want to tell her it wasn’t environmental. That it wasn’t a storm. But these aren’t the kinds of things I can share without raising eyebrows, drawing attention, or endangering people.

  How the hell am I going to get answers? If Rain can’t remember anything, it’s possible that even Google isn’t safe for me to use. I have a VPN at home. My job—my previous job—required me to search for things that might land me on a watch list, and I’ve spent more than my fair share of time researching on the Dark Web, but I’m not at home, and I don’t remember my password.

  “I bet they will,” I say before wandering away, trying to act casual. The girl watches us for a moment and then returns to her group of friends, giggling about who knows what.

  I try to keep up a fast pace, but the night’s insane level of activity is catching up with me. I’m a writer who works at home. My daily activity generally involves walking from desk to kitchen and back, from the desk to the bathroom and back, and from my desk to bed. I was in better shape as a reporter—physically at least—but now… My legs are burning and leaden. My eyes are heavy. My thoughts drifting.

  Oh damn.

  It’s the Ambien.

  During the adrenaline-fueled run-for-my-life, the drug’s effects were kept at bay. But now that the rush is over, and the body’s natural chemical energizers are wearing off, the drug is working again. And now that I’m physically exhausted, it’s hitting me hard.

  Either that or I have a self-inflicted concussion.

  I take a deep breath and push onward, moving through buildings until we reach the Charles River. Across the water is Boston’s Back Bay, my alma mater, and Fenway Park, all of it cloaked in darkness. But there is power beyond. To the east, Boston’s downtown skyscrapers glow with power. The light is tempting. Calling to me. But I’m in no shape to make that walk, and where will we hide when we get there? Whole Foods? Hotels are a no go.

  I turn right and follow the river and M.I.T.’s campus to the west. We move in a zombie-like silence, Rain walking cautiously, me stumbling along like a bona fide member of The Walking Dead.

  One foot in front of the other, I tell myself. One foot in front of—

  Holy shit…

  Rain is glowing again. The color is faint, but impossible to ignore in the dark night. If she’s seen, it won’t take long for word to spread.

  “You need to shut it off,” I say.

  “I can’t,” she says, looking at her hands. “I don’t know what it—” She clutches her gut in discomfort, but keeps walking.

  I’m wide awake again, scanning the area for interested eyes, shielding Rain with my body.

  She grunts, the brightness inside her flaring. I pause with her, and in my search for onlookers, I notice that we’re standing in front of the Hayden Library…on Memorial Drive. Visually, the library is nothing special. All concrete, glass, and angles, like something transplanted from cold war Russia. But I’m transported back in time, to newspaper stories before my time, stories that inspired my article about violence at Boston universities.

  A student was murdered here—right here—in 1992. The thief took $33 and the young man’s life.

  What was his name? He was Norwegian…

  “Raustein,” I say.

  The light in Rain’s core flares again. Her back arches, mouth open wide. Gasping. Bent awkwardly, her muscles twitch as she turns to gaze at me with luminous eyes. “Hjelp! Jeg trenger hjelper!”

  9

  “Jeg blør! Ikke la meg dø! Han stakk meg i magen med en kniv!” Rain reaches for me, grasping my arm while keeping her free hand pushed hard against her chest. Like she’s wounded. Like she’s trying to stop bleeding…

  Details from that decades-old murder surface. The young man was stabbed, twice. In the heart. Right where Rain is clutching her chest.

  Concerned voices rise from behind us. Students enjoying the mysterious night.

  “Our flashlight is working!” I declare to no one in particular, hoping it will provide a reasonable explanation for the blue glow surrounding us. Several students rush away. A return of power—any power—might mean they’re connected to the world once more. Means they might be able to find answers about what they saw, or at least be the first to tweet about it. But there are still a number of people watching us.

  And Rain’s unintelligible shouting isn’t helping.

  So I pick her up. She’s light enough to fling over a shoulder. “You had way too much to drink,” I declare, hopefully loud enough for people to hear, and convincing enough that they don’t go in search of security or the police. As I scurry away from the library, Rain goes slack, the glow fading quickly. By the time we reach the mathematics building, Rain is tapping my back and saying, “I can walk.”

  I put her down and hurry around the building’s far side, stepping onto the plush grass of Killian Court. Almost there.

  “You want to tell me what the hell that was?”

  “Wish I knew,” Rain says. “What was I saying?”

  I trip over my own foot and stumble for a step. “You don’t know?”

  “My memory starts in that cell,” she says, growing irritated. “I have…feelings about things from before, but nothing concrete. But I’m sure I don’t speak that language, because I know I speak English. And German. And Spanish. I know how to ride a bike. And shoot a gun. I’m pretty sure I know how to fight. But I don’t remember learning any of those things, or why. But what just happened…” She shakes her head. “And that language…it sounded…Scandinavian.”

  “Norwegian,” I whisper. Holy shit.

  “Do you know what I said?”

  I shake my head. “Just…guessing. What was it like? What did you feel?”

  “It felt…horrible. Like I was dying. I felt scared. And desperate…but mostly…” She looks up at me. “I felt anger. Rage. And…lost. I wasn’t in control, not entirely. I felt my muscles, like I could move if I wanted to, but I felt guided.”

  Like you were possessed, I think, but I keep that to myself. I don’t believe in an afterlife, let alone spiritual somethings capable of taking over a human body. That kind of superstitious mumbo-jumbo has no place in my life, and here, at M.I.T., it feels like blasphemy.

  Whateve
r is happening is beyond explanation, but that doesn’t mean it’s otherworldly. Morgan’s work was scientific. Whatever is happening here is a part of that.

  The chop of a helicopter turns both of our heads skyward. The speed and altitude suggest it doesn’t belong to a news channel. They’re broadening the search area, probably scanning subway exits in both directions, which includes M.I.T.

  “C’mon.” I jog for the back door.

  Most of the doors on campus are the traditional lock and key variety, with security provided by sensors, internal alarm keypads, and a full-time security force. With the whole city in chaos, I’m hoping the security team will already have their hands full.

  As I approach the building, a rising sense of dread catches me off guard. Something’s wrong, but I can’t put a finger on it, like when you leave the grocery store, knowing you forgot something, only to return home and discover the one thing you forgot was your sole reason for going in the first place. Arriving at my destination reveals the mystery.

  The lock on the door will be electronic. It’s battery operated, so it’s independent from Cambridge’s power grid, but the electro-magnetic pulse took out everything.

  Unless…

  C’mon, Reggie. Be who I think you are.

  I vault up the stairs and pause beside one of the two columns framing the tall doorway. After a quick and very suspicious looking scan of the area, I step up to the entryway. I peer through the windows lining either side of the door, which also stretch a good twenty feet up, and I see no one on the other side—either because they’re not there, or because it’s pitch black.

  But is everything in the lab powerless?

  I’m about to find out.

  I flip up the shield on a digital lock to the side of the door, and even though I’m hoping to see it, I flinch when the screen glows to life. “Yes! I love you, Reg.” I place my index finger on the display and swipe out the pattern Reg taught me. But it doesn’t matter what pattern I trace out. The display isn’t reading the pattern, it’s reading my fingerprint. The point of memorizing the movements is to make it look authentic. If someone tries to reproduce it, the security system remains secure and records the fingerprint of the would-be intruder, cross-referencing it with law enforcement databases. If it gets a hit, the system alerts the authorities.