CHAPTER THREE
I’VE WANTED TO escape the pain of that recur- ring nightmare for so long, but this is somehow worse. Watching the relentless memory of that day drift into an insubstantial dream is like losing a limb.
Burned in my brain, I know every detail. A cloudy day, not clear. The sun was a blinding hole, not eclipsed. And her face always held the mask of bravery, not… something else.
The sweat-dampened sheets of my bunk don’t help with the frigid air. Never have. I ignore the chill and try to clear my head.
Wait. I thought I passed out in the pod. Maybe I really am going crazy.
I look around the room, unsure about reality. The door is closed and the lock still mangled, but the pieces have been picked up. The bunker’s quiet except the distant howling of the unchecked wind outside. Stumbling out of bed, I shamble down the narrow hall.
Dad’s office is quiet and the security pad blinks red. When he’s here, he doesn’t bother with the lock. Light, dark, light, dark, I shuffle to the farthest end of the bunker, past the armory and into the kitchen. I’m pretty sure the island was made to support a body, or maybe a bunch of test tubes, and the sink wasn’t for scrubbing plates. For me though, it’s the kitchen.
A note hangs under a plain black magnet on the mini- fridge. Used to be, Mom would mediate those rare instances when planets aligned and I shared space with Dad. Now, that job has been relegated to a minibar reject.
Be back soon, went for supplies. For emergencies, today’s code is 4RG677. Outer door is shut and
proximity alarm reset. It will stay that way. The pod isn’t a bunk. If you’re in the safe room, you
shut it up tight and hit the beacon immediately.
Even after last night, it reads the same as every other note he’s ever left. I’m not sure why he bothers. He could save time by printing one and changing the code. Reading between the lines today is easy: “Failed again, need a breather, almost forgot to feed you and clean the cage.”
I swipe the note off the fridge and let the magnet clatter to the floor.
I’m alive another day. I can’t remember the last time I tried to choke down some food. Maybe I’ll celebrate.
Opening the fridge, I’m met by stagnant air and the familiar hum is gone. Compressor’s shot, again. A quart of lukewarm milk is all that’s there anyway. I grab the container and head for the pantry. The cabinet contains mostly empty space and a couple of generic white boxes with even more generic names. They all share an “insert grain” plus “insert shape” theme.
I suppose this is nutrition, but I look like I’m on a hunger strike. At least Dad stopped saying I’d fill out. When I was a kid, he’d say I’d be tossing full-size cars around like Hot Wheels in no time. What bullshit. I pour a bowl of cardboard and get liberal with the room-temp milk.
Powdered milk was my biggest motivation to get the fridge running. Dad wasn’t too happy with it disassembled and strewn across the floor. He kept repeating that the only reason he’d installed the fridge years ago was for a “mission”. When pressed for details, he gave a vague response about antitoxin storage. That’s all he would say.
When I finished, our “unnecessary power drain” was running like a champ.
And figuring out that “mission” wasn’t exactly rocket science. News stations worldwide covered the “Anthrax Kid” incident. Everyone knew how Dad stopped that psycho, Jason Carver, who had filled a mosquito fogger truck full of weaponized anthrax and toured downtown Atlanta.
After Dad caught Carver, he didn’t come home for weeks. My guess was he got quarantined in a bubble somewhere. He never said. Just another hole in his secret life.
Carver cooked up his own Augmentation formula while working at the CDC. He left journals detailing how he thought being immune to any disease, poison, or viral infection the planet had to offer might help him do his job. Other entries mentioned a failed marriage and trouble with his boss. Whatever the cause, he got his homebrew process wrong and went freaking nuts.
Not that he was the only Augment for that to ever hap- pen to. Secret labs funded by governments used to crank them out by the dozens, and even with all those resources, accidents weren’t uncommon. But still, they kept churning them out. By the time people knew the program had gotten out of hand, the Augments knew they held all the cards and started going free- lance, for good and bad.
Following Dad’s exploits used to be my favorite pastime. My dad, a freaking Augment. One of the good guys. Every kid wants a dad that cool. Too bad nobody could know.
Telling everyone your dad is an accountant (foreign currency and international markets so, no, he doesn’t do stateside taxes), or an insurance salesman (global corporate insurance so he can’t help you with your car), or an actuary (on-call and strictly does contract work for his employer), or any other profession which assures obscurity gets embarrassing.
But once I understood the truth, I kept up on everything related to the Crimson Mask. The strongest of them all. The best.
That was back when I was a stupid kid. What have those powers done for him? Or me? When they really mattered, they were worthless.
Raising the spoon, my arm throbs again. Maybe Dad’s going off the deep end next? Maybe they all go crazy? For all I know, he knows exactly where she is. If he did, crazy or not, I’m damn sure he wouldn’t tell me. Why else would it take so long? If I had all that power I’d find her.
Mom’s face from the dream claws into my thoughts. No fear or resignation, but the look you might get from your teacher when you accidentally say something smart in class after man- aging to keep your mouth shut all year. What does it mean?
Before the dream, when I stood up to Dad yesterday, I wanted to float away with her. I’d moved past any kind of pain he or this place could dish out. And then she changed. Why?
I leave my bowl of half-eaten sludge on the island and head into the hall. The milk carton goes with me. I pop open Danger Bay and set the milk in the colder air. The door rumbles shut.
Fine, so the fridge is an unnecessary power drain, whatever. He doesn’t get me like she did. Taking that fridge apart, the keypads, the terminal, the server—it all kept me sane, at least until recently.
I thought I was out of options. But I’m not. As I tinkered, a plan percolated below the surface, born of wiring diagrams and circuit board landscapes.
It’s time to put the secrets to rest. I need to see exactly what he’s hiding. And I need to get the hell out of here before one of us misses the last stop on the crazy train. Might be too late for that, though.
- Enjoying the story? Come back next week for more of Spencer's adventure! Also, don't forget to follow and upvote! For more about my fiction, visit my [webpage] (http://www.russlinton.com) and for a free eBook with stories from the Crimson Son Universe click here: http://smarturl.it/tft2ou *