Locked (The Heaven's Gate Trilogy) (20 page)

My eyes raced through the
text.  Bingo.  Cabbagetown, a historic district that had grown up around an old
mill, was right next to the Cemetery and had suffered extensive damage during
the tornado, some of it still not repaired.  Rail lines, and the MARTA commuter
rail, ran along the north of the neighborhood.  It had to be the spot.  I
jotted down the address of the Cemetery entrance – it was enough to navigate my
way to the neighborhood.

Not stopping to think how
I would find them amid all the wreckage, I threw on some running pants and my
fleece and tucked my hair under a baseball cap.  I flew down the stairs,
stopping in the kitchen to grab ace bandages, gauze and ice packs, and then
headed into the garage.

My mom’s car, almost her
only self-indulgence, sat waiting for her return. I looked at the industrial
clock mounted to the garage wall.  Two-thirty.  I didn’t have much time. 
Without thinking twice, I tossed my makeshift medical supplies into the front
seat.  Then I shimmied past the car to the tool shelf and reached behind the
coffee can of nails to where Mom’s spare set of keys hung.

She would never know
I’d used it
, I told
myself as I wrapped my fingers around the key.  But my stomach gave a queasy
lurch when I came to the driver’s side door.

I paused, unsure if what
I was about to do was such a good idea.

Go.
  Henri’s urgent voice whispering in
my head – the voice that had been silent for all this time – was all I needed
to prod me on.

Climbing behind the
wheel, I scanned the dashboard.  It was a lot more complicated than my Dad’s,
full of bells and whistles I didn’t know how to use.

“Wish me luck,” I said
softly to no one, hoping that the weeks without driving around for “emergency
preparedness” with my Dad hadn’t made me rusty.  I turned the key in the
ignition and the engine roared to life. Slowly, I eased the Audi out of the
garage, praying that Mrs. Bibeau was not a night owl.  I punched the address
into my mom’s GPS as I inched out of the driveway, and accelerated past the
neighbors. 

I had to get to Maria and
her sister before it was too late.

The roads were nearly
deserted, my only company the big rigs hauling their freight like the
dependable army they were.  I sailed through the 400 toll and into downtown,
quickly finding the GPS steering me toward unfamiliar territory.

Out of the restaurants,
liquor stores and pawn shops a clearing, spotted with trees and rocks, suddenly
emerged.  Across from it, etched against the night sky, the white granite
arches of the Oakland Cemetery loomed.

I pulled the car over and
parked.  I was close, but in the middle of the city, it wasn’t obvious where
Cabbagetown lay and I cursed myself for not bringing a map with me. 

I swung one leg out the
door and then, with a second thought, opened up the glove compartment. 
Good
ole’ Mom
, I thought as I spied the flashlight. 
Always prepared
. 
Sliding from the car, I looked around again for any sign of an old factory, but
nothing stood out.  Maybe from inside the Cemetery, I thought, so I darted
across the street, the slender beam of light from the flashlight my only guide.

The iron jaws of the gate
were closed against intruders.  I pushed at them, hoping they were loose, but
they just clanged in protest, refusing me entry.  Along the brick wall,
however, I found a foothold and managed to shimmy up and over.  A short jump
found me inside the graveyard.

A paved path rose before
me, leading straight uphill through row upon row of grave markers and trees.  I
began to climb the rise, clutching my fleece about me.  The monuments seemed to
press in on me, a swarming thicket of marble and granite.  I tried to ignore
them but their eerie forms demanded my attention.  These were no simple slabs. 
Tree trunks, effigies, baby lambs, artfully draped sheets and flags, Roman
figures holding emblems of salvation and remembrance, all sparkled in the
moonlight, the sheen of spent rain lending mystery to the stone, the glance of
my flashlight’s beam making them dance.  Angels, wings spread over their dead
in one last gesture of protection, mingled with the rest.  I turned my collar
up against the reminder that struck too close to home, and continued on.

I broached the crest and
gasped.  From the top of the hill, one had an uninterrupted view of the
cemetery, fields of graves falling away from me and spreading out at my feet
like a patchwork quilt of stone.  The ghostly fingers of trees, leaves long
taken by the trespasses of winter, reached up into the sky, guiding my gaze to
where monumental spires mingled with the skyscrapers of downtown Atlanta.

“A city of the dead,” I
whispered in awe.  I couldn’t help but feel an intruder.

I turned around, shining
my meager light.  A solitary train whistle split the night and I wheeled toward
it eagerly.  There, outlined against the moon, rose two smokestacks.

It took only a few
minutes to navigate my way back to the car and then around the block to where
Cabbagetown lay nestled into the city.  I turned into a narrow street and
pulled over.  The streets were close, with housing pressing right to the curb,
barely any space between them.  I didn’t want to attract attention by driving
through.  I would be better off on foot, I thought, turning the engine off. 
The headlights extinguished themselves and the night seemed to settle even
deeper into its quiet.  In the moonlight, the dark pavement shone, slick from
the rain that had swept through the city.   I stashed all the medical supplies
in my pockets.  Then, flashlight in hand, I set out into Cabbagetown.

The houses were tidy,
plain little boxes, neatly laid out one next to another.  Their sameness gave
away their origin as mill town row houses.  But residents had tried to put
their own, individual stamp on things as the neighborhood had gentrified.  Here
and there, , crazy artistry burst forth – sculptures forged from odds and ends
that others would call junk, funky kaleidoscopes, aggressive murals that dared
you to look again, gardens criss-crossed by fountains and arches and pathways
that tumbled into the yards of neighbors who always seemed so close.

It would be hard to hide
a secret in a neighborhood like this, I thought, with everyone on top of one
another.

I shivered as a gust of
wind tore through the deserted street, and pulled my fleece closer.  As I
passed under a lonely streetlight, I caught a glimpse of my shadow – misshapen
and lumpy from all of the things I carried with me.  Unsettled, I walked
faster, straining to find a building that did not look like a house, or anything
that looked like the aftermath of a storm.

I turned a corner and
suddenly, the mill emerged, lurking beyond the row of homes.  I ran toward it. 
As I grew closer to the dark shape I began to make out its outline.  It was not
a monolithic building, but a compound of sorts, bookended by two large brick
structures.  Fences surrounded it, gating in the buildings to protect the fancy
condos that had claimed them.

My heart fell.  I leaned
against the fence, twining my fingers through the chain link and shaking it in
frustration.  This couldn’t be the place.  The parking lot was lushly
landscaped and full of fancy cars.  A pool – closed for the winter – radiated a
turquoise blue.  Here and there, in the dark expanses of brick, lonely lights
twinkled in windows.

She’d said it was in ruins. 
Where else could they be?

But then, in the shadows
of one of the factories, something caught my eye.  A two-story warehouse or
machine shed – one of the few mill buildings that had not been converted into
fancy condos – rose ahead of me, its entire roof collapsed in on one side. 
Even in the dark, I could see the rusted hulk of machinery inside of it.  I
heard the sounds of an express train rolling through town behind the factory
and knew Maria and her sister had to be inside.

I rattled the chain link
fence.  How to get inside?  I had no better idea than to walk the length of it,
hoping for a break big enough for me to slide through.  Instead, I found a back
entrance that someone had mistakenly left open, allowing me to walk right
through.

I moved in closer to the
abandoned building, looking for a way in.  Supporting arches made of concrete
stood skeletal in the night, leading to what seemed like the old entrance.  Above
me I saw grimy windows with cracked panes, but they were too high up for anyone
to get in – let alone someone with broken bones to get out.  With the beam of
the flashlight as my guide, I picked my way around broken glass, pieces of
brick and empty cans until I found two big doors.  The handles were draped in chains,
the padlock binding them conspicuously dangling open.  A huge sign leaned up
against the outer wall, screaming “Danger” in neon orange.

No kidding
, I thought to myself.  Moving
silently, I pushed the door handle and let it swing open.

The beam of my flashlight
caught dust motes as I walked in.  It was like a cavern inside.  Naked, rusting
bolts studded the steel walls and row upon row of abandoned machines, strung
together with cables and wire, stood silent guard.   The floor beneath me
creaked as I stepped forward, turning in circles to scan the entire room.

“Maria?” I whispered. 
“Are you here?”

My question echoed back
to me.  Nothing.

Cautiously, I moved
forward.  A heavy rubber curtain – the kind that, as a child, seemed to smother
our windshield and bury us in soap when we went through the carwash -- covered
the entrance to another part of the building.  Grease and dust coated the
rubber.  Setting aside my squeamishness, I pushed through its fringe and
stepped into the next room.

I was at the bottom of a
decrepit metal staircase, a large expanse of open space dropping away and up
from its rail.  The building had a basement – something I hadn’t noticed on my
walk, but it was so dark and deep I couldn’t see what was in it.  I shone the
flashlight down – the steps to the basement all seemed intact, though the metal
was red and pockmarked, eroded from neglect and the elements, making it seem as
delicate as lace.  Gripping the rusty rail, I started my descent.  The air in
this part of the building was colder, and it had a funny smell I couldn’t quite
place – the tang of iron and something else.

I looked up and saw the
gaping hole in the roof through which the stars winked.

“Maria?”  The darkness
seemed to swallow my voice as I called out her name once again.

Clinging to the rough,
cold steel, I felt my way past a slick patch where the rain had hit the stairs
until I was on a stable – albeit earthen – floor.  From this vantage point, I
could just make out the large bins that loomed in the dark – bins which could
have held water, or grain – or gas.

I caught a whiff of the
strange smell in the air and recognition flooded through me.

Sulfur.

“Maria!” I shouted her
name, now, more afraid of being killed in a gas-leak fueled explosion than
being caught by a bunch of criminals. 

“You have to come out
now.  It’s me – Hope.” I ran through the basement, swinging my flashlight in
hopes of finding her hidden in the corners as I ran through the basement. 
“It’s not safe here, Maria.  We need to move – now.”

I heard a soft flutter
behind me and wheeled around.  “Maria?”

The darkness began to
shift as the flutter grew more insistent, growing and stretching into a mass
that seemed to breathe with life. The flutter turned into a roar and dark shape
came rushing at me until I found myself absorbed in its cloud, battered by
wings and claws that pummeled me into the unforgiving ground.  Every time I
tried to move, the cloud whirled and turned, moving together with one mind,
barreling against me and pinning me down.  I huddled on the dirt, covering my
ears against the shrieking and rushing of wind.

Eventually, I realized
the blackness had subsided.  The only sound was my own screaming.  I stopped,
gasping for breath, afraid to lift my head.

“She’s not here, Hope.”

The voice gripped my
heart in its icy fist, striking new fear in me.  I had lost my flashlight, but
I didn’t need it to know that it was Lucas standing in the shadows.

I heard his step echo as
he moved closer toward me, and then heard soft skidding sound.  My flashlight
rolled gently toward me, coming to a stop as it bumped against my fist.  I
grasped it, raising my head and scuttling back as I shone the beam wildly into
the night.  Lucas stepped into the ray, his eyes glittering with an emotion I
didn’t recognize.

“You don’t seem happy to
see me, Hope,” he continued, smiling a taut, brittle smile.  He was no longer
in his customary letter jacket.  Instead, he’d wrapped his body in a dark
leather jacket and denim that showed his every muscle, making me realize how
small I was in comparison.

I tried to speak, but all
that came out was a whimpering squeak.  He laughed, taking one step closer to
me.

“No,” I managed to
splutter, trying to keep the distance between us.  I found myself backed into a
wall stacked full of baskets, which teetered and fell about me.