The Fall (Book 4): Genesis Game (11 page)

Kell ended up answering questions when it became clear that he would stay in the little room until he did so. It wasn't the matter of principle he made it out to be, but an attempt to measure the sort of people his captors were. When no threats or pressure beyond being forced to sit in a room materialized, he gave in.

The questions told him a lot about what the research here was looking for. There were the standard metrics such as age and the like, but a huge number of specific questions that sent his mind racing.

They wanted to know details about injuries he had suffered, both before and after The Fall. The same for illnesses. There were several inquiries about reproduction, though he lied on those. The memory of his wife and daughter were his and only his. He would not give these people even a grain of truth in that regard.

From the questions he was asked, it became clear his jailers were on the right track. They wanted to know how his immune system functioned now when compared to before The Fall. It was obvious they were trying to build a data set about how fast people healed, what type and degree of damage they could endure, and a dozen other factors.

It made Kell's heart sing, because it meant the chances of finding something useful had been raised significantly. He had no doubt about his own research, but honest examination of the facts meant admitting that his pool or subjects had been too small to do anything like approach a cure. There just wasn't enough data, and not enough points on the map to guide him in the right direction.

After the questions were over, a pair of guards took him down a different hallway which ended in a large room tiled from floor to ceiling. A younger man waited there with a large bag stuffed with fabric the same blue-green the rest of the prisoners wore, as well as several empty bags.

“I'm Trey,” the young man said, swiping a fall of golden curls from his forehead. He gestured for the guards to take their places outside the room, and the men complied.

“First thing, we're going to get you a hot shower,” Trey said. “I'm going to take your clothes and armor. We clean them before we put 'em in storage, so when you get your bags when you leave they won't be stale and gross.”

The words and tone were earnest, but Kell raised an eyebrow. “You're telling me I won't be staying here forever? You're going to let me go?”

Trey shrugged. “That's the plan. We aren't keeping people here for fun, man. We're trying to fix this thing.” He set the bags down and fished a clipboard from inside one of them. These people were organized, that was sure. “I'll take an inventory of your stuff for you to give to the next station.”

Kell sighed. Excited as he might be to see what information could be found, the surprising amount of bureaucracy involved in being taken prisoner was tiring.

He did as he was told, shucking off clothes that had begun to stiffen and possibly attain sentience and handing them out to Trey.

“I'll need that sling,” he said before stepping into the shower stall. “Or
a
sling, anyway.”

A towel that had seen better days hung on the outside of the shower door. Inside sat an irregular bar of soap—probably homemade—and an equally ragged wash cloth. He turned on the water and tested it gingerly and almost cried out in surprise.

It was hot.

Nice.

The long habits of a survivor not to waste resources warred with the even longer habit of a man who enjoyed a nice long shower and hadn't managed many in recent history. Kell soaped and scrubbed himself with gusto, careful to avoid agitating the skin around the healing incision over his collarbone.

He didn't linger. While Kell doubted there would be any serious consequence to taking advantage of the chance to enjoy one of life's little pleasures, he also had no desire to test the patience of the guards while stark naked and defenseless. It was with mild regret that he turned off the water and toweled himself dry.

The bag of scrubs hung on the inside of the bathroom, and Kell dressed himself. It was painful given his healing shoulder, but doable. There were brand new underwear included, which was a small blessing, though the lightweight shoes were woefully undersized. He tossed them back in the bag.

Trey frowned at Kell's bare feet when he stepped through the door. “You can't walk around like that.”

Kell wiped a stray drop of water away as it rolled down his cheek. “Unless you have some size fifteens, I don't have much choice. Or you can just give me my boots back.”

“I'll look and see what we have in stock,” Trey said. “For now, yeah, take your boots.”

Kell slid them on and laced them up with careful boredom on his face. The boots looked absolutely normal, but like many survivors he made sure to keep a few surprises tucked away in all parts of his gear. Getting them back was a stroke of luck, if not stupendously helpful.

“Please take him to the next station,” Trey said to the guards. He handed the clipboard to Kell.

Kell glanced at the paper and was surprised to see it filled with neat, tiny handwriting. The kid had covered his bases. “How many more of these stations do I have?”

“This is the last one before we send you to the bunks. Or probably to the mess, this time of day. Get some food in your belly before you rest. Once you see Dr. Rawlins, you're done.”

Rawlins turned out to be a tall, broad man in his late thirties. His skin was light brown over his soft middle-eastern features. He studied Kell's paperwork from behind a desk piled with folders.

They sat in a room equal parts laboratory, office, and exam room. Kell fought to keep relief off his face when he belatedly realized that his story would only hold up until someone took an X-ray of his ribs. One of the first things Rawlins had done was complain about the lack of imaging equipment, expressing a desire to see how the ribs had healed for himself.

The man had skimmed over the personal history quickly but took his time with, of all things, the list of Kell's belongings.

“It says here you have a jacket with armor sewn into it,” Rawlins said with a barely-there southern twang.

“That's right,” Kell said.

“Was that custom work?”

Not sure where the conversation was going, Kell played along. “Yeah. One of the people I used to live with made molds and cast these plastic discs in them. Thin but tough, the kind of plastic they used in car engines. Took a while to wire them together into a coat, but once that's done all you have to do is sew a shell over it. Lot of survivors have something like it.”

Rawlins glanced at him over the clipboard. “A lot of fighters do, yes,” he said. “In my experience even large communities don't waste custom gear like that on people who can't do the damage of three people.”

Kell shrugged and got a jolt of pain for his trouble. His sling had been taken for cleaning, Trey promising to have it to him before lights-out. “I can handle myself. Or could, rather.”

Rawlins nodded thoughtfully. “Of course. People who couldn't to one degree or another generally died out years ago. What I'm curious about is whether you're going to be dangerous. You come in with a full body set of armored clothing, but you're hurt. So maybe we don't have to worry about you, at least for a while. Your friend has scars head to toe but sports a t-shirt and cargo pants. I would think he'd have learned his lesson about wearing protective gear.”

“Can't help you,” Kell said.

Rawlins set the papers down on his desk, growing the pile slightly. “I didn't imagine you would. I just find it odd, and I don't like odd. Whatever you might think of us here, we're not monsters. My singular goal in life is fixing this mess.”

Kell's lip curled. “Even if it means kidnapping innocent people.”

“Absolutely,” Rawlins said with a nod. “The human race numbered almost seven billion just five years ago. We lost nearly half that number in a matter of weeks.
Weeks
. The attrition rate only slowed because the major population centers took the brunt of the casualties. The dead needed time to spread out and continue feeding. Now? Who the hell knows. There could be as little as a few million people alive, worldwide.”

Kell clenched his jaw. The logic was sound, of course. He himself tended to think along the same lines, though he was unwilling to compromise his personal morals to the degree Rawlins was.

“It's not just rebuilding we have to worry about,” Rawlins continued. “In addition to an almost total lack of modern medicine, people face everything from starvation to exposure because we're not well adapted to coping with things like freezing temperatures without technology. Every person who dies from disease or anything else is a loss to humanity as a whole.”

Kell knew what Rawlins was going to say before he said it. It was obvious.

“I have to cure this goddamned plague just to give us a chance,” the doctor said. “Just to even the playing field. If that means taking the people who can help me do that from their homes, yes, I'm comfortable with it. It's worth it to make sure our species makes it through this choke point.”

It had the sound of a practiced argument, which made sense given the number of people Kell was sure Rawlins had given it to. And while the logic of it struck uncomfortably close to home, even resonated with his own thoughts about coming here in the first place, there was an essential difference he couldn't ignore.

Kell had been—and still was—willing to kill any number of Rawlins's men to get the research kept here. He would lose sleep over it. Those deaths would haunt him for a time. But he could do it because at the root they were people who ruined lives to get what they want. They snatched men and women who had survived hell itself from the scant comfort they had managed to carve out for themselves.

Rawlins saw things more starkly. There was right and wrong, and in his mind he was doing right. That meant everything that didn't go the way he wanted was wrong.

It was a dangerous way to look at the world. Almost megalomaniacal. And not without precedent.

“History is full of people who were sure what they were doing was for the greater good,” Kell said. “The scariest kind of person isn't the guy who'll mug you for what you have and shoot if you resist. It's the guy who'll kill you for what he's certain are good reasons. People like that can't be reasoned with.”

Rawlins smiled, a shallow expression without any real mirth in it. “Dead is dead, Kevin. What matters is how much good can come from it.”

The finality in the words was a clear dismissal. Kell walked to the door and knocked. The guard escorted him from the room.

As they passed through narrow halls, Kell turned over the new information in his head. Everything he observed here mattered. Everything. From the locks on the filing cabinets in Rawlins's work space to the fact that every guard seemed to be a survivor. The rational part of him usually so interested in solving mysteries had changed gears completely. Now every fact needed to be analyzed and understood for one purpose only:

Taking Rawlins down.

Because whatever the man said, the things Kell had noticed in his office proved the lie. None of them were leaving any way but feet first. Most people wouldn't have been able to tell the neat row of containers held samples of brain tissue, but Kell had. More than forty of them. Living people generally didn't give those sorts of samples.

The communal living space was as wide-open as the rest of the building was cramped. One moment Kell was being hustled along the slender hallways, the next he was through a door and standing in a vast room.

The ceiling rose in gentle, sloped angles five stories from the floor, but the additions to the giant space were what kept his attention. Beds were scattered in regular groupings, though here and there makeshift walls marked off private areas. Families, maybe?

A bank of modular bathrooms filled most of the wall opposite the door Kell entered through. The wall to the left sported an open kitchen and long bar made of plywood. There were a fair number of people eating, others going to and from the plastic cubes that were the restrooms, and a few just lounged around.

Kell spotted Mason at the bar and went to join him. Turner and Liam stood behind it, cooking, while Steph stood next to Mason, leaning against the bar while he ate. Kell got the impression she was acting as lookout.

No other prisoners were anywhere close, though a good number were watching with interest as Kell seated himself.

“Hungry?” Liam asked as sat a pan on a small camp stove.

“Starving, yeah,” Kell answered. “What's good?”

In response Liam smiled and pulled a carton of eggs out from under the table. Kell grinned appreciatively. “No bacon, sadly, but they've got some leftover shredded potatoes from this morning if you want hash browns.”

“I'll take anything,” Kell said. “Thanks.”

Liam waved at him with the spatula. “No worries, man. I worked a truck stop Waffle House. This is cake.”

Kell looked up and down the counter behind the bar, which was stocked with a surprising variety of foods, from long-term rations to freshly-canned preserved food. “I wonder if they have any pickles...”

Turner, who was cooking on a separate camp stove, let out a belly laugh. Steph shook her head with a smile. Liam's mouth fell into a surprised little O, and Mason looked supremely proud of himself.

“I told them you'd ask about pickles in the first five minutes,” Mason explained. “Laura mentioned they're your favorite food.”

“There aren't any up here,” Liam said.

“Doesn't mean they don't have 'em,” Turner cut in. “They're easy enough to make and last forever. Saw some cucumbers growing outside, so even if they don't already have some ready, we can make some.”

Mason's smile dimmed somewhat. “I don't plan on us being here that long.”

That brought the conversation to a halt in the same way brick walls stopped cars. It didn't need to be said that being able to leave would require planning and no shortage of violence. They all knew it.

“Did you see what I saw in there?” Kell asked. He didn't aim the question at anyone in particular, but Mason nodded.

“Yeah. Looked like brain samples.”

The other two men cringed, but Steph merely shook her head. “Yeah, that's what I thought, too. Any chance they're from dead people?”

Kell barked a short, quiet laugh with no humor in it. “Oh, I'm absolutely sure they're dead.” He raised a hand to forestall her correction. “Sorry, sorry. I know what you mean, and no. I don't think those people died naturally. What are the chances that dozens of folks here happened to pass away? Has anyone managed to talk to the other prisoners yet?”

Mason shook his head, but Steph said, “Yeah, a little.”

Kell perked up slightly. “Anything we can use?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I was the first one through the little song and dance they did. There were a few people waiting to show me around the common hall, here.” She gestured at the massive room. “Asked them if it was true that people get to leave eventually.”

Mason leaned back on his stool and spun to face her. “Do they?”

“The people here think so,” Steph said, disbelief in her voice. “I don't know how in the world they could, since anyone they let go is another chance someone will come back here and shut this operation down. But they do. The lady I talked to said they get together and see off the folks who're leaving. Watch while they're driven away.”

Mason nodded, absently running his knuckles along one side of his jaw. “Probably have a nearby off site facility. Don't want to spook the prisoners by having someone go into the lab and just never come back.”

“If that's true,” Steph said, “then how do we convince the people here they're in danger?”

“Some of them probably aren't buying it,” Kell said. “I mean, they were kidnapped, after all. That's bound to make some people distrustful despite any reassurances they might get.”

Mason nodded. “He's right. We can't take the time to give this place a serious investigation, not the way we were going to.” He turned to Kell. “I wanted to be subtle about this. Put ideas in the heads of the other prisoners and get them on a slow boil for when we made our move. The longer we wait, the more people will die.”

Mason stopped. “Steph, did anyone mention how often people get driven off?”

Steph shook her head. “I can find out.”

Mason nodded. “Be subtle as you can. Don't raise any suspicions.”

“What about us?” Liam asked, Turner nodding as the younger man spoke. “What should we try to find out?”

“Nothing direct,” Mason said. “One person asking questions, even carefully, is enough risk. I want you two to listen. Liam, since you're a decent cook, I'm willing to bet these people will be thrilled to let you make meals for them. Turner can help serve.”

Liam frowned. “That's it? Just make meals and listen?”

“That's brilliant,” Kell said, impressed. “Think about it, man. People sit down for lunch and what do they do? They talk about shared interests, whatever is going on in their lives. Putting yourselves here is perfect. You'll probably hear more in one meal than the rest of us could find out in a day.”

Mason nodded. “I'd rather not risk more lives than necessary. We'll need a week at minimum to even have a chance at getting out of here by ourselves. It'll take that long to figure out guard patterns, how well-armed they are, what the emergency procedures are, and the other hundred pieces of information we're going to need.”

“What if they're killing people faster than that?” Steph asked.

“That's not something we can control,” Mason said. The words had the barest edge to them. Not angry, but certainly hard. Kell understood the sharpness; Mason didn't like the idea of sitting by while innocents died.

Steph surprised Kell by nodding sadly. “You mean we can't move before we know enough to have a decent shot at escape, right?”

“Yeah,” Mason said, deflating a little. “We're not going to have a chance in hell without a lot more information.” He glanced at Kell. “Can we talk in private for a few minutes?”

Kell nodded. The others made to leave, but Mason waved them back.

“We'll walk. You guys can stay here.”

They moved off at a slow walk around the perimeter of the vast room. Kell stared at the peaked ceiling, trying to put a finger on where he'd seen something like it before. He must have muttered something about it, because Mason actually answered.

“It was a church,” he said. “This used to be the nave. The main gathering hall,” Mason added when Kell blinked at the word. “Brain like yours, how can you not know what a nave is?”

“Eh,” Kell said dismissively. “Never had much interest in church. Or architecture, for that matter. There are lots of things I'm ignorant about.”

Mason smiled, shaking his head. “You can tell me what genes control my eye color, but...”

“What was it you wanted to talk about that the others couldn't hear?” Kell asked just a
little
too politely.

“Ah,” Mason said, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Well, there's a chance one of us might have to escape early.”

Kell's mouth dropped open. “What? Why? Won't that screw up, you know, everything we just talked about?”

Mason raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Quietly, dude. Quietly.”

Fighting the urge to strangle Mason for the apparently infinite well of calm he was able to draw on, Kell took a deep breath. “Okay, explain.”

“I think there's a better than even chance that Kincaid might have come after us,” Mason said, then tilted his head in thought. “Probably sent someone after us, actually. It's what I would have done.”

Kell considered what he knew of Kincaid and decided it wasn't an entirely insane idea. “Anything more than logic or intuition, or whatever?”

“Not really,” Mason said. “But it wouldn't have been hard. Emily is a damn good scout and part of her job is being able to follow at a distance without being seen. While we were still close to Trenton, the secondary roads were shit. We were moving really slowly. She'd have had all the time in the world to zero in on us and watch us get taken. From there all she would've grabbed the bike we left behind and kept far enough back to avoid being seen.”

Kell let the scenario play out in his head, and tried to imagine Emily
not
doing just that. He failed.

“Yeah,” Mason said, correctly judging Kell's expression. “I've been considering it since we left. The only thing aside from knowing she could easily do it that makes me think she did was something I heard just before they brought us inside this place. It was a bird call, so faint I thought I might have imagined it.”

Kell glanced at him. “One the scouts use?”

Mason shook his head. “No. One
I
use. My little group taught the scouts our calls, and this one was from a Kurdish Wheatear. It's not a native species, and it's one we use.”

“What does the call mean?” Kell asked.

“That help is on the way,” Mason explained. “Really, it's meant to mean 'I'm here', but in this context I think they're the same thing. If she came alone, then we've probably got time. Emily—or whoever it might have been, assuming I wasn't hearing things—will have to leave to go get help.”

Kell sighed. “If she had a partner or a group, then they're probably going to move a little faster.”

“Yep,” Mason said. “Which means a worst case-scenario of acting without full information. If it comes to that, you'll be the one escaping.”

“Why me?” Kell asked, confused. “My arm is still barely usable.”

Mason's look was so matter-of-fact, so suddenly and completely bluff, that Kell felt a wash of fear run down his spine. “You're the asset here, Kell. You're the one who matters. If one person has to get out of here alive, it's you. If I can't get a message to whoever might be waiting to spring us from this place, then someone has to get to them to tell them to wait for our signal. If that happens, it's going to be you.”

“Do you think you can get me out without getting yourself killed?” Kell asked.

Mason's eyes darkened. “Sure,” he said, utterly confident. “It'll just mean killing a lot of other people to do it.”

After a few seconds to let the words sink in, Mason clapped him on the back. “Don't worry over it, though. It's possible I was hearing some local bird with a similar call. None of our people are stupid. There's every chance they'll watch us to make sure they aren't screwing up our own plans.”

It made sense. It was perfectly logical. Kincaid, however, had shown Kell that he willing to do whatever he thought necessary to keep his word. That meant making sure Kell got home safely.

“We should probably hurry,” Kell said. “Just to be safe.”