Activate The Ravagers Ep1v2 (8 page)

He made one final stop that night, to a spot no one else knew about, not even Sheila Clarke, and left the Diasteel box there. He returned to his home not long after, a grim smile on his face.

The East might have them beaten before the war officially started.

But he’d ensured the fight would be anything but a massive victory on their part.

And they’d never see his strike coming.

…collective memories of human wanderings in the Hinterlands and the dangers faced after sundown led to a general cessation of public activity and business after dark in even well-lit city streets, with rare exceptions…

T
he Voice provided a detailed
overview of his mission during the ride to his office space. The mission sounded suicidal, and he’d thought to protest, to ask for more time or resources. He knew the Voice wouldn’t listen, though, and had considered those objections in the timing of the demand that he act immediately. Protests would result in the migraine-inducing internal shrieking noise, pain that would undoubtedly cause a crash while cruising along empty streets at night on his scooter. He’d be unable to continue his mission if comatose on the ground.

He decided he didn’t trust the Voice enough to test him—or her—about the willingness to lose someone completing a vital mission.

The roads were dark and unoccupied, of course. Nobody left their homes after dark. A few people pushed the limits by ten or fifteen minutes, but there was little purpose in moving about at night. Restaurants, shops, and entertainment venues closed their doors at least thirty minutes before nightfall to allow employees time to reach home before the sun set below the horizon.

Still, Wesley couldn’t help but think he was being watched.

He parked his scooter in a restaurant parking lot a quarter mile from the building, pocketed his keys, and rechecked his backpack. He found everything in order, though he’d been tempted to suggest he’d left something behind. He suspected he’d wake up here hours from now in the broad daylight if he tried. Freedom of movement and expression when one possessed a disembodied Voice in one’s head.

He jogged at a slow, steady pace, through the brisk night air. In the emptiness, his gentle footfalls sounded like the beat of a bass drum, thumping away at a steady beat. He tried humming a tune in time with the beat, but soon became distracted by thoughts about the mysterious room the Voice claimed he’d visit that night.

The lights were out at Jamison & Associates. He ignored the building as he always did, moving past the lush landscaping and smooth walls to the parking garage entry beyond. He never parked his scooter here; it gave his employers too much ability to restrict his ability to leave when he desired. But on foot? He slid past the vehicle barrier, wondering if the badge reader would even work for him at this hour. He found the stairwell and moved at a brisk, silent pace down the concrete steps.

He froze before exiting the landing.

Someone was out there, moving in the parking garage.

He swallowed. They’d timed his arrival to ensure that those working the overnight shift—and only a secret military base would possibly have such a thing in this world—were all situated inside the Bunker. No stragglers from the previous shift ought to remain behind. Who could be moving in the garage?

He’d noticed the vibe of the population as he rode through the city from his Hinterlands spur to this one, a vibe suggesting imminent eruption of anger and despair in the form of random violence. Perhaps the first shots in that effort would commence in the parking garage of an accounting firm sitting on a spur outside.

Just his luck.

He squinted as the figure moved toward one of the dim lights illuminating the underground space at this hour, and nearly gasped. The General was here? What would rouse the man from his sleep at this hour? Or did Micah Jamison routinely test the general curfew observed by civilians?

It didn’t matter. His presence here put Wesley’s mission at risk. He couldn’t be seen or heard. Wesley slid slowly back into the shadows, never taking his unblinking eyes from the General.

Wesley, have you entered the facility?

Of all the times for the Voice to initiate a conversation…

Wesley remained silent, watching as the General placed a box upon the roof of a car. Though the General showed little strain, the roof of the vehicle sagged under the weight. He frowned. What was the General taking with him?

Wesley, why are you not responding?

And where was Jamison’s driver? He squinted again. The car was unmarked, a private, personal vehicle. So Jamison was driving himself. At this hour of the night?

Jamison unlocked the vehicle, opened the rear door, and moved the heavy box inside. He shut the rear door and slid behind the wheel.

Wesley, I expect a response. If I do not receive one, I shall be forced to ensure your continued survival through unpleasant means.

Jamison shut the door.

Wesley exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d held. “Jami—”

Jamison rolled down the window, and Wesley ceased speaking immediately.

What was that? Who is Jamie, Wesley?

Wesley grunted once. Jamison’s head snapped toward the stairwell. Damn. The man had better hearing than he’d thought.

Wesley, I am disappointed with your lack of responsiveness. And…

He didn’t hear the rest. Jamison backed from his parking spot and drove toward the stairwell. Wesley risked slinking further into the shadow as the General trained his headlights into the opening.

…will initiate punishment in ten seconds if you do not provide a status. Ten… nine… eight…

Wesley felt a bead of perspiration leak from his forehead. A second dribbled down his back. He tried to keep his breathing steady and silent, even as his muscles tensed.

…seven… six… five…

He could hear the vehicle inching forward, the tires rolling over the small pebbles and loose pavement lining the garage floor. He could almost feel Jamison straining his ears, trying to determine if someone watched from the shadows, or if it was mere imagination.

…four… three…

He risked inching his arms up to his head even as he slid silently to his knees. He would die here, killed by the General after he screamed in pain.

…
two…

The car accelerated away.

“Jamison’s here,” he whispered.

The countdown stopped and the Voice went silent.

“I think he’s gone now.”

Are you inside the facility?

Right. No apology for scaring him out of his wits. “Still in the garage. Had to wait for the General to leave.”

If the Voice wondered why the General might still be here at this hour, she—or he—made no mention.
Head to the first rendezvous point and communicate when you’ve arrived.

He rose from the ground, raising his arms in alarm. Had he sweated
that
much in his thirty seconds of terror? He shook his head, checked that his pack remained affixed to his back, and walked at a brisk pace across the garage to the Bunker entry, his head swiveling around as he searched for any other surprises.

He found none.

Ten minutes later, he was in the hallway, breathing in the antiseptic scent of the cleaning performed after each shift change. He didn’t care. The nameplate on the door opposite him monopolized his vision.

General Micah Jamison.

“I’m here,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure why he bothered whispering. Nobody should be wandering the hallways at this hour. Of course, he shouldn’t be here either, but he had important work to do this night.

Enter the following code to unlock the General’s door: two-four-six-oh-one.

Wesley whispered the numbers back to ensure accuracy. He pulled the pack off his back and located a thin pair of gloves, which he donned before entering the code on the keypad by the General’s door.

The lock clicked open. Wesley didn’t wait to be told the next step. He turned the handle, slid inside, and closed the door silently behind him. “I’m in.”

Sit at the General’s desk. You will note a small drawer at the top of the right side of his desk. Open the drawer.

Wesley did so. “It’s… empty.”

The bottom may be removed to reveal what you seek.

Huh? He reached into the drawer and pushed on a corner. To his surprise, the bottom moved. He maneuvered the bottom from the drawer, revealing a small foam container holding…

“It looks like a security badge,” he said, frowning.

Take the badge and move to the end of the hallway, Wesley. Ensure the door is closed behind you.

Shaking his head, Wesley grabbed the badge and moved to the end of the hallway.

“It’s a dead end.”

Wave the badge in the precise center of the wall seven feet above the ground.

Feeling more foolish than he’d ever felt in any of his limited memories, Wesley waved the badge, wondering if the Voice had him on camera now and was laughing.

To his shock, he heard the click of a releasing lock. “It—”

The badge reader is centered above a door with no visible seam. Push on the right edge of the door to open it.

Well, every other foolish command had worked. He estimated where the “right edge” of the invisible door ought to be and pushed. He heard a faint whirring noise, and a seam appeared in the wall. The door slid away from him and then slid to his left, revealing an opening leading… somewhere. He scrambled through the doorway. Ten seconds later, the door slid back into position.

Wesley glanced around. He stood on the slatted metal intermediate landing of a long staircase. The metal steps rose before him, seemingly without end, likely terminating at ground level. A secret escape out of the Bunker. He wondered if the General ever made use of this exit.

To his right…

Take the steps to your right down to the bottom. The badge in your hand will open the door there. That is your final destination.

He shivered at the word final, wondering just how
final
it might be.

He started down the steps at a brisk pace before realizing each footfall generated notable vibrations and excessive noise in the space. He slowed down, using the handrails to lighten his footsteps until he reached the bottom. A massive metal wall greeted him, with another door and badge reader in the center.

He walked to the door and found the badge had fallen from his pocket.

He growled and looked around, spotting the badge thirty feet away on the smooth concrete. He glanced at the metal stairwell as he passed, grabbed the side, and shook. It gave away easily. He wondered why Jamison didn’t get anyone to tighten a few bolts. It seemed like a safety hazard, and the excessive noise might be heard in the nearby offices.

He snorted, realizing that was likely the precise reason the General left things as they were.

He picked up the badge and jogged across the concrete floor to the door, swiped the badge, and entered after the lock disengaged. The space inside was nearly dark, with just a faint bit of track lighting on the nearest wall. He spotted a light switch on the wall and flipped it on, blinking as the lights burst to life.

Are you in the room, Wesley?

“Yes,” he replied as his eyes adjusted.

The room was roughly a fifty-foot cube, the interior dominated by a large round holding tank. The upper portion, rising nearly twenty feet off the ground, was made of a clear material that provided a view to whatever might be inside. A quick glance told him that the burnished metal wall of the lower portion, like the clear upper dome, was nearly a foot thick.

Whatever might be inside that tank had to be dangerous. He moved closer and saw large piles of a thick black ooze, a substance that looked like mold. Was Jamison running a science experiment in a secret underground lair with a tank that could withstand all manner of assault?

“What are they doing with that tank? They could detonate small bombs in there without making a dent in the walls.”

One must detonate the correct type of bomb to make a dent in those walls, Wesley.

“But—”

And then he knew. The bomb that he’d received in the mail. That was the “correct” type of bomb to make a dent in the walls of the tank.

Move to the far side of the tank, Wesley. You will find a deposit chamber there. The badge will open the door to the chamber. The chamber will seal before the package is delivered into the tank.

He nodded, though the Voice couldn’t see him. He moved and found the deposit chamber, waved the badge, and watched as a door three inches thick slid into the ground. He cringed. They’d built this tank with metal, probably Diasteel, and had meant it to contain
anything
capable of threatening the populace.

He pulled off his backpack, pushed aside the lock picking kit he’d not needed after the code to the General’s office worked, and found the bomb. The bomb was the size of a piece of paper, perhaps three inches thick. There was a small touch screen built in, with a faintly illuminated icon reading “Activate” in red text. The Voice had told him about the button on the ride here. He pushed his gloved hand against the button, and the Activate icon vanished. He placed the bomb in the deposit chamber, screen down, and checked the tank’s control panel. He tapped the icon to close the chamber and slid around the side, watching as the bomb slid out ten seconds later, landing in a pile of the black ooze. The coloring of the bomb made it nearly impossible to notice unless one knew where to look.

“What
is
that oozy stuff? It looks like some kind of mold. What good will detonating a bomb do?”

You do not recognize the oozy stuff, Wesley?

He frowned. “Should I?”

Return to the General’s office, Wesley, and replace the badge. You are then free to return home. Your work here is done.

His frown deepened. Why hadn’t the Voice answered his question? The non-answer made him think he
should
know what the substance was, and his lack of knowledge was something the Voice found advantageous.