by J. P. Castle
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” said the subordinate soldier with a salute.
Burn rigs . . . what’s a burn rig? Bastian pondered.
The Lieutenant left just as a new message broadcasted across their radios. “All signals cellular and Wi-Fi are now jammed within a thirty-mile radius. Maintain coms on channel six until further notice.”
The soldiers adjusted their radios.
“What if the higher-ups turn on us and do this to our families, too . . . eradicate us clean off the grid, like these unsuspecting fools?”
“Never happen. There’ll be plenty of people left, trust me; someone has to control them, that’s us. The big dogs ain’t gonna leave their comfy digs to get their hands dirty. Right here’s a perfect example, LT shot him, we’re cleaning it up. This whole ordeal will be over soon enough. Did the teacher deserve better than this? Sure, he did. But it’s them or us, and I choose my family and me,” said the gruff soldier.
“What if they decide the population is still too excessive?”
“Will you get over it already? Trust me, it won’t be. They’ve slated to kill 70 percent and sterilize some more. How could there be too many left?” said the gruff soldier.
“We’re gonna go to hell. How could we not go to hell for this?”
“Would you rather be on the other side of this, receiving the vaccine? Come on. It’s too late to grow a conscience now. If we don’t do our job, everyone on the planet is dead anyway, including us. You’d better buck up before you end up in the burn pile, too.”
Each soldier snatched an arm. Step by step, they dragged Mr. Seng’s limp, frail body through the door. A trail of blood streaked down the hallway. The last memory of a beloved teacher the boys would now carry—a crimson puddle on the floor. An inerasable scar imprinted into their brains for the rest of their lives.
Carter’s stomach churned until fluid rose into his throat. He tried to speak, but Bastian put his hand up to silence him.
“We have to get out of here,” Bastian whispered.
“Is this real? I’m gonna . . . bluhhhhgh.”
Vomit dripped from the door slats and pooled on the floor below. The boys sprung from the closet in an abrupt simultaneous motion.
Ledger caught his tennis shoe on the edge of a broom, causing it to fall from the closet onto the tiles. A loud clang echoed.
“Dang it, man, sorry. They had to hear that,” said Ledger.
Carter’s eyes couldn’t get any wider. His pupils constricted. Lips quivered. “Guys, I don’t think I can . . . stand. I’m really—dizzy,” he said, holding onto his head.
“You have to. We have to scram, NOW,” said Bastian, towing Carter along by his gray cotton jacket.
Bastian and Ledger steadied Carter together. They slow jogged toward Corridor B, glimpsing back over their shoulders.
The narrow emergency hall led to the ground floor. It offered no classrooms to hide in, no windows for escape, nothing. Definitely, not a place to get caught up.
All three eyed down at their wrist-units, seeking help from anyone. The same message kept repeating itself across each screen—no signal. Expressions of absolute dread crossed their faces.
The two soldiers returned with a mop ‘n bucket. The open closet door caught their attention first, then the fresh puddle on the floor.
“Someone was in there,” said the gruff soldier.
“Whoever it was puked, maybe from the vaccine.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Why hide in a closet if you just got the vaccine?” said the gruff soldier.
“What do we do?”
“We’re dead if they get to a media outlet. We have to find whoever hid in there, RIGHT NOW.”
Frantic, the gruff soldier dropped the mop. He radioed out a message. “Red Dog, we have a possible runner on the premises. Monitor all school exits.”
“Copy that,” said the ground floor unit.
He and his partner readied their pistols and scrambled down the hallway, full steam ahead. Another squad rushed toward the school to aid in the search. Nothing could screw up the first stint of this mission—nothing. General Given never tolerated failure and especially not stupidity. He’d have their heads on spikes in no time flat.
General Given resided as law, no trial needed. No one ever made it to court under Girard’s command. He served judge, jury, and executioner of what he considered his men under Girard’s Law.
Guards now blocked all exits in and out of the school. Additional units arrived to set up the makeshift gymnasium hospital. Military personnel hustled in a few pieces of outdated medical equipment for show and set up worn cots along the walls. A few guards wore scrubs, pretending to be real medical personnel, in an effort to ease the overall panic.
The boys raced around the hall corner and past the trophy case filled with several pictures of Bastian and Ledger. A grinding halt made by Bastian scrunched the trio into one another like wrecked train cars. Bastian peeked around the edge and eyed the next hall, Corridor B.
“All clear,” he said.
“Stop. Wait”—Ledger clenched onto Bastian’s blue jean jacket—"where we goin’? We can’t waltz out the front door, genius.”
“My dad’s a janitor. He showed me a drain tunnel, an exit, a long time ago. We have to get to the maintenance room,” said Carter.
With flushed red faces and no choice, they bolted down the hallway. Halfway through the corridor, the soldiers who killed Mr. Seng yelled from behind.
“STOP NOW OR WE’LL SHOOT. There’s three of ‘em!” The gruff soldier cursed the boys loudly.
“Can’t stop now,” Bastian gulped, “after what we witnessed, we’re dead if we do.”
“GO, keep going!” said Ledger.
The trio maxed out every muscle fiber their legs could muster to evade capture.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. The blasts were deafening.
A bullet zipped through the layered tips of Ledger's messy shoulder-length, caramel-colored hair. It shaved the top of his jacket and left a burnt brown streak on the leather. Another whizzed by Carter’s ear. He stumbled. While correcting himself, a third bullet plunged into the flesh of his lower leg, causing him to crash land on the cold floor.
“I’M HIT!” He grasped at his pants.
Bastian and Ledger picked him up, wasting no time to inspect the wound. Their pace slowed with a bullet lodged in Carter’s left calf muscle. They trudged on to the maintenance room door.
Thank goodness, unlocked, thought Bastian. Inside, he shoved a metal table across the floor to bar the entrance. “That should hold ‘em off for a second,” he said.
“You won’t make it with me. Leave me here. I can’t walk much less run.” The flushed red color faded from Carter’s face. He leaned his back against the wall and slid down to a seated position.
“No,” said Bastian. “We won’t leave you behind.” He ripped his belt off and latched it tight above Carter’s wound to slow the bleeding.
“Lift the lid up from the concrete there in the floor, follow the tunnel to the field,” said Carter. “It’s your only chance.”
“Bastian, we HAVE to go,” said Ledger firmly.
Every blow the soldiers threw at the weak door slid it open another inch. The frame finally cracked. The first soldier managed to get his pistol through the six-inch opening, but not his head. Unable to aim, he fired the weapon at random four times. Bullets ricocheted off the concrete walls.
“Stop firing! Don’t be an idiot. The lab can use them for the test batch. They’re young, healthy,” said the gruff soldier.
“They watched LT kill their teacher in cold blood.”
“Who cares, nobody ever survives the test batches anyway. Human test rats don’t last long in Igor's laboratory in case you didn’t know. They’re trapped in there. We’ve got ‘em.”
“Go, Bastian, hurry,” said Carter. “Tell everyone what they did to Mr. Seng. How they murdered him and shot me for no reason. You can’t help me if we’re all dead.”
Led
ger tore at the floor in a wild, primal frenzy to remove the steel lid. Finally, it gave. He rolled the heavy metal disc off to the side.
“Carter, I’m sorry,” said Ledger. With no other choice, he leaped into the black hole, unaware of what laid below.
Dirty water, along with mud, splashed onto his pants. He stood in a half-inch of the same. The cold, soupy mixture penetrated the old worn-out sneakers. A noxious sewer odor entered his nostrils. With his forearm covering his nose, he waited in anticipation for Bastian to join.
Bastian hung his head and placed his hand on Carter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Carter, I’m truly sorry,” he said. “If I make it out of here, I’ll tell them all. I promise. And I’ll try to find you . . . somehow.” Bastian made a brisk turn and joined Ledger down in the musty tunnel.
One out of every five security lights flickered, offering low visibility. The duo charged on into the blackness. Halfway through the tunnel, the soldier’s voices echoed, catching their undivided attention. The only option—flee faster.
“They couldn’t have gone far,” said the gruff soldier, aiming to kill anything that moved.
Each understood the unspoken consequences they’d face if the boys escaped. Word of a teacher shot in his classroom in cold blood would stir up riots, not to mention the rest. The media attention alone would foil the whole mission.
Our heads are gonna end up on Girard’s chopping block, thought the gruff soldier.
The tunnel exited into an expansive, overgrown weed field still on school property. The wide-open area sat on the edge of a thick wood line, leading into the mountains.
“We have to make it to those pines, or we’re toast . . . ‘n I don’t mean the kind you eat,” said Bastian.
Out of breath, they pressed on at top speed across the grassy meadow. The soggy wetness of the field, along with their soaked shoes, slowed their junior varsity pace.
The soldiers caught a flash of Ledger’s leather coat as he entered the forest behind Bastian. An exchange between the soldiers confirmed they couldn’t fire out here in the open. Not this close to Main Street. Too much risk.
“We have to find those brats. It’s either them or us.”
“We’ll have to continue this later. They’ll be captured in the roundups. Can’t get far. They’re punk kids. It freezes out here at night. Can’t call or text anyone. We’ve still got time,” said the gruff soldier.
“Should we mention this to Major General Given?”
“Are you crazy? No way, not yet. We’ll be on a scaffold before dawn if we do. Keep your mouth SHUT. Make sure the other kid gets to the Green Load. Patch his leg. He’ll be an afterthought soon enough, too.”
CHAPTER THREE
Choppers Over Dillon
An hour earlier—
“WHAT, IN THE burnt terds, is this? My cell phone went dead, just now, dead . . . dead as all get out,” said Rani, in her best heroine panic.
Rani embraced a flair for the dramatic side of life. Usually, while she struck her most flattering pose. In fact, the more excitement and attention Rani could squeeze out of any situation, the better.
“Mine’s dead, too,” said Troian.
Troian and Rani lived in two different realities. Troian adhered to a steadfast down-to-earth way of life. Rani, on the other hand, lived in a self-indulged fantasy world where she ruled as queen. She and Troian remained polar opposites on about everything. Everything that is, except Summit High’s brown-eyed heartthrob—Bastian Ballentine.
Anyone in attendance at Summit High knew of Bastian Ballentine. The muscular build, pale creamy skin, tousled coffee-colored hair, and the dimples . . . yes, those dimples. These features, along with his signature grin, melted every heart he crossed.
The saddest part, he presently lingered under the powerful spell of—all things Rani Davenport. In Troian’s eyes, Rani had earned the title of queen alright, the queen of total annoyance.
“Ugh, this weekend started off great,” said Rani with her lips pressed together tight.
Other Science Club members waved their wrist-units in the air, donning confused looks on their faces. Cellular failure absolutely didn’t happen in this day ‘n age, not even in the mountains.
“May as well have one of those ancient handheld devices we read about in history class, or better yet, an old caveman style flip phone,” said Rani. “Who would ever carry a phone around? That’s so lame. I mean, how could a person ever get anything done with a phone in their hand all day long?”
“Yeah, and before that Rani, back in the Arctic ice ages, people stood in one spot and talked through a device connected to the wall. Couldn’t even walk around. Can’t imagine. Anyway, they’re probably working on the satellites again, updates, software, the usual stuff . . . gonna have to be patient ‘n wait,” said Troian.
“Maybe it’s an EMP. An eeelectrooomagnetic pulse,” said Ollie, freshman brother to Rani. Ollie had a mild case of Down Syndrome.
“Haha yeah, good one, Ollie. How’d you even know what that is?”
“I know aaaa LOT Rani. I read books, and you DON’T. I can also SPELL.” He stood defiant with his arms crossed, lips pursed, and gawked at his sister as if her hair just caught on fire. He broke his wide-eyed gaze to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
Ollie loved everybody, even Rani. He never backed down from a challenge, especially one from his sister. Ollie never met a stranger either. Always offered help in any situation. He did have one rule, though. No one—not anyone—could touch his comb. Not allowed, hands OFF. He kept the comb safely tucked into his pocket.
Ollie accidentally got a case of head lice in the second grade. He remembered the nasty shampoo that burnt his eyes. His mother explained to him that the lice came from a shared comb, used at school. Ollie promised himself never to go through that—EVER again.
Noise from overhead broke the group's attention from the cellular disaster to the immediate sky above.
“Must be five or six military choppers up there,” said Rani. “Maybe one can fly me outta here. I’m messing up my nails out here in these wilds. My hair’s flat; I’m hungry. My foundation’s sticky. This can’t possibly be nourishing for my skin.”
“Don’t see those every day,” said Troian.
She ignored Rani’s list of ails and managed to upright her tent after some frustration. Troian’s gifts didn’t include mechanical skills. Books and scholarly type projects better suited her finesse. She’d never miss an opportunity to be around Bastian, though—even if they had never spoken actual words to one another.
“That chopper has a gun on it . . . cool,” said Ollie, mouth open, eyes fixated toward the sky. Ollie distracted easily with some of his childlike ways. Despite his syndrome, he did possess a unique gift related to both patterns and numbers.
“Probably a drill. My brothers in the military, does drills all the time,” said Troian.
“Ugh great. The world’s gonna end, right here, right now. Yep, I’m stuck here, sweating in the wilderness with you pods. My bodies already provided plenty of food for these stupid bugs. Why stop now? Why couldn’t we go somewhere with a hotel? AND room service,” said Rani, in a copious endeavor to swat a gnat.
“Mr. McCrady would never go for that on a Science Club trip,” said Troian, turning away to roll her eyes.
“He ‘n Mr. Seng have dropped us off here to die,” said Rani.
“You stream way too much T.V. Why are you even in the Science Club anyway?” said Troian, in the politest possible tone she could afford Rani.
“Bastian’s in it—hello . . . thought you were supposed to be the intelligent one around here.”
Troian ignored Rani’s attempt to lure her into her favorite pastime, arguing any point. She’d known Rani since grade school. They didn’t exactly run in the same circles. The only contact they shared outside of the classroom, included both the Science Club and the hallway if that counted.
Sophomore Troian, thin, physically fit, with long brown hair, ligh
t green eyes, and an above-average IQ, always made the “A” honor roll. She’d never dated anyone officially; never had any real interest in it, until now. Troian didn’t really even mind Rani, except for the fact that Rani desired Bastian. What’s soooo amazing about her anyway? Is he blinded by her beauty? I’m as pretty as she is . . . at least I think I am. Maybe he doesn’t.
Sophomore Rani, a vision of perfection in her own eyes, overly concerned about social status, always . . . knew early on only greatness awaited her. She became the Breckenridge Ice Skating Princess at age eight, which continued year after year after year. No one in their right mind would seriously ever challenge her for fear of—the wrath of Rani. She harbored the power to destroy anyone’s social life if needed.
Rani’s long red locks and big blue eyes garnered her attention all over town, along with her vicious attitude. To be one of her sanctioned minions, meant to—literally—kiss her pompoms. Rani minionship did come with perks though, that is if social ladders carried importance in a person’s existence at Summit High.
“HEY, here comes Caleb and Bryce,” said Ollie.
Caleb, one of Bastian’s best friends, always watched out for Bryce, Bastian’s sister, younger by one year. Caleb came home with Bastian almost every night—practically a fixture at the Ballentine residence.
He and Bryce ran cross-country together for the last two years. They’d grown close friends over this past season. On arrival at Dillon Reservoir, they jetted off to climb a tall bluff not too far away from camp. The peak offered an expansive view of the mountains surrounding the lake, and the valley below.
“How was the view? Mine sucks,” said Rani, arms crossed to display her disgust of the entire outdoors.
“Awesome, but military trucks, lots of ‘em are driving back toward town on Highway 9. And they’ve set up a barricade at the end of the pass,” said Caleb.
“You saw that?” said Troian. “A roadblock?”
“Yes, with his binoculars. I even did a double-take to make sure that’s what it was,” said Bryce, repositioning her long brown ponytail. “Where’s my brother? I can’t seem to get a call out.”