Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (27 page)

“What would that be?” Emotion back in control, I thought Paul might be pushing conversation as a distraction.

Do I tell my father-in-law about the awful trauma of long-ago sexual assault or do I steer to more commonly understood injuries? “David told you about how I had ribs broken in that transport explosion. This chest bruise is kind of like that. It hurts when I move or breathe.”

“When David was a little boy, he got too close to the wrong side of a cow that was in for milking. I saw her hoof go up and grabbed for the kid.” Paul made a small snorting sound. “Took one to the side of my neck. Thought I was going die there. That was pain.”

“Well, we could talk about giving birth, if you want to swap pain stories.”

He laughed, short and not like the great guffaws Paul often let roll. “You women always drag out childbirth. Got to say I wouldn’t want to try it.”

“I wonder what the kids are doing.” I peeked at my communication band again, saw the number eight show, then disappear. Sarah would be putting the children to bed. Phoebe would be nervous, suspicious about my absence. Noah and John might be frightened. And Andrew might be worried about losing this home if another parent disappeared.

“Sometimes it helps Sarah relax if I hum.” Paul cleared his throat. “Would you like that?”

The thought made me smile. Paul’s choice of songs might include country-westerns from thirty years earlier or random melodies drawn from worship services. I’d heard him calm the kids, quiet himself while he was working on equipment, fill the air as he walked a field. Gently I squeezed his hand, then extracted mine to be able to shift on the cot. “If you’d like to hum, go ahead.”

He pulled his hand back across the narrow space between us, rolled to his back, and cleared his throat. I couldn’t name the song he butchered, but his bass tones did have a comforting effect.

I rested one hand over the communication band on my other wrist, not mentioning the pulses that signified Lao’s people were trying to break through the firewall installed by the Peterson crew. Four quick pulses followed by a long vibration, an emergency code queried if I was safe. Under the cover, I pressed the answer key three times, three quick jabs, signaling that we needed help.

Lights came on in the outer hall.

“Food or water for either of you?” The young man who had carried me down the stairs appeared with a jug of water and sandwiches. “We won’t be down again until after the morning broadcast.”

We blinked at him, vulnerable as fish out of water, stranded on our cots.

“I gotta have your wristband, General Manager Hartford.” He approached my side. “And the captain wants you in separate rooms.” He extended a hand toward me. I worked at the band’s latch. One part of his mission complete, he turned to Paul. “I’ll move your things, sir.”

“I can’t leave my daughter-in-law alone. She requires medical attention. That ankle means she can’t get up on her own.” Paul rolled to his side, then stood easily.

Our visitor looked puzzled at Paul’s protest. He lifted the blanket up over my feet, saw the swelling.

“My chest is bothering me more,” I volunteered. “Hurts to move, even hurts when I breathe.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He dropped the blanket. “Let me help you up for your meal.”

I waved him away. “I ate a large dinner with my children.”

“You have to eat.” He bent down, his arms extended as if to scoop me up. “The lights are going off after I leave, so this is your opportunity.”

Paul approached, stood close to the man’s side. “Leave her be. Neither of us needs food or water right now.”

Our captor’s representative straightened. “I can’t take that upstairs with me. Captain Peterson gave very clear directions that you were to eat.”

“Remind the captain that he’s on a farm,” Paul said, “and we’re fond of that old expression that you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.”

“You’ll sleep better if you eat at least a few bites.” The young man delivered these words with a stillness that suggested caution.

“Take the tray and get out of here.” Paul picked up the tray, shoved it into the guard’s chest.

Biceps showing through snug fabric, he accepted the tray, then put it down on a work surface. “I have to relocate one of you, sir. Perhaps we should help General Manager Hartford to the restroom and move the cots.”

“Not going to happen.” Paul folded his arms over his chest, stood close to the guard. “My daughter-in-law needs medical care and assistance. She could have a concussion from cracking her head on that conference table.  Medical protocol says observation for the first twelve hours.” He swayed onto his heels. “I’m not medically trained, but I’ve cared for a few guys with concussions in my days.”

“Paul, we can’t send this soldier upstairs with none of his mission accomplished.” I propped myself up as far as possible. “A helping hand to the restroom is fine. But Paul is right that I need someone close tonight. I’m a bit nauseated and dizzy. If you move that cot, my father-in-law will drag it back after you leave.”

I accepted the strength of the guard’s arm to stand up, then hobbled at his side to the bathroom. Once I was finished, I splashed water onto my face and looked into the mirror as I dried my hands. Except for a pale face, all looked normal from the neck up. I patted my head to feel the bump, pulled down my T-shirt to inspect the ugly abrasion and bruising below my breastbone. If we got out of here, I wanted revenge. I opened the door.

Paul and the guard stood talking about South Dakota, the young man speaking animatedly about his parents’ place near Brookings and his days at South Dakota State University before he joined the Marines.

“I’ll let you help her back while I use the facilities,” Paul said. He made an odd hand motion, like smoothing a blanket over a child, that the guard could not see. I took it to mean I should fuss, delay my helper.

The jolt of pain accompanying a purposeful stumble nearly brought me to my knees. “Holy crap,” I muttered, now fully aware that the ankle bone was connected to a lot of other bones and tendons and nerves and muscles. My hand tightened on the guard’s arm. He held steady, waited until I could take another step.

“No pain meds down here?” He looked toward the empty lab. “I thought labs always had good first aid kits.”

“That’s where we found the small cold pack. My father-in-law raided the pain meds last night for his arthritis.” We took a few more steps, me holding onto his arm as if I was an old woman walking on ice. “I’m worried about the pain when I breathe.” I touched my shirt above the bruise, “This needs more attention than my ankle.”

With strong but gentle hands, the young man helped me lower myself back to the cot. He moved the pillow, grabbed Paul’s blanket, and rolled it to fill the space to keep my foot elevated.

“I’ll report on that bruise upstairs, ma’am. I think it is more painful than physically threatening, but I’m sure it makes moving uncomfortable.”

“If you’d like to feel my head, Paul is right that I hit it hard against the table.” I closed my eyes. “Maybe that’s why I feel so disoriented.” The lie slipped out easily. “I didn’t even think of concussion.”

“You didn’t tell me you were disoriented.” Paul waited at the door. “I’m not leaving this room.” He wiped his hands down his pants leg. “Changed my mind and had one of those sandwiches. Heavy on the mayo.”

Not happy, the guard carried the tray with him. Paul sat on the edge of his cot and the lights went off. Anxiety tweaked my mind as I lost sight of him.

“Want me to start humming again?” Paul asked with a teasing tone.

“No, thanks.” I closed my eyes against the darkness. Sarah would go silent at such times and we knew she dug into her deep spiritual belief for comfort. Because her faith was so organic, we gave her free rein to share with our kids, even asked her to lead the state-mandated weekly spiritual sessions now and then. But rock-solid belief in God was a part of Sarah’s natural goodness. My own spirituality shattered during the depression and redeveloped in a fractured set of beliefs that teetered between knowing that God existed and wondering why God treated people so inhumanely.

In the darkness, with fear surpassing pain, I remembered Sarah’s simple prayers for strength, for patience, for wisdom. This basement space could withstand tornados, operate independently of the estate power grid, maintain structural integrity under insane conditions. Paul and I would not escape. So I prayed for the safety of my children and my husband. I tacked on one for Paul and me to find strength to outlast Peterson’s siege. And under those prayers for help, I remembered to add words of thanksgiving for all David and I had built in these Ashwood years.

Paul thrashed around on his side of the room, the creaking of his cot breaking my meditation. The smell of warm ham added to the odors of two bodies in a space never ventilated for sleeping adults. I thought the sandwich had passed through Paul’s system quickly, wondered if they fed him tainted meat.

“Sorry, Annie,” Paul whispered. I sensed him leaning across the space between our cots. “When I tucked that sandwich down my pants I didn’t think ahead to where I’d put it after that guy left. I think it’s laced with something. We’ll have it tested when we get out of here.”

“You’re a wonderful optimist,” I whispered back.

From the sounds I knew Paul was climbing out of his cot. “So are you, Annie my dear, so are you. I got to find someplace to stash this thing.” He stood. “Be brave,” he said just inches from my head. “I’ll be back in a minute. If I don’t come back, send out the dogs.”

For an older man, Paul moved with impressive silence through the white noise now filling the lower level. I fought anxiety by counting backwards from one thousand.

“I’m here,” he said, leaning close as I finished the three hundreds. “Doing okay?”

“You’re a wonderful man,” I answered.

He moved his cot closer to mine then settled, this time for the night. I felt the love as he extended a hand over my arm. Near tears, I thanked God for Paul. Over a decade ago I sat through the longest night waiting for my mother to take her last breath. Through ten hours of nighttime labor I struggled for Andrew to be born. But held in this place with no light or clock or glimpse into the other world, I prepared to experience what could be the worse night of my life.

Chapter Twenty-Five

My screams woke us up sometime during what I wanted to think of as the tail end of night. My sleep consisted of a mixture of pain, fear, and dreams of Phoebe searching through ashes for her parents. My fear of the dark seemed like the lesser evil than the dreadful emotions unleashed during my sleep.

Paul’s hand applied a calming pressure on my arm. I listened for his breathing and slowed mine to meet his rhythm.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” His voice sounded thick, coated with slumber. “Would it help you settle if we walked around?”

“In the dark?”

“It’s not absolutely black in the labs.” Paul spoke slowly, the voice of a man who drank coffee sixteen hours a day. “A few still have active equipment with monitor lights. I even know where we can find a clock.”

“Okay.” Almost any place beyond our small, dark quarters sounded attractive. I tried extending my legs, started with the injured left ankle. Anticipating stiffness, I pushed myself upright and felt pain move through my body like a steel ball in an old arcade game, lighting nerve endings up and down my spine. My foot jammed against his cot.

“Paul.” His name came out in a wavy, weak squeak. “I’m not doing very well.”

“Sit still.” The suggestion was easy to follow. “You’re lucky I’m seventy, not eighty, or I’d never be able to get my body out of this damn bed.” I heard much creaking from the cot as Paul moved.

The hand that touched my arm was strong, but too small to be my father-in-law’s. “Shhh, Anne” sounded as I blurted “Paul” out loud. Another hand came over my mouth. A familiar scent of Ashwood-made soap reached my nose even as my lips prepared to separate and bite the unknown skin. “It’s Lao, Annie-Panny.”

The code Lao and I put into place years ago sounded like music. Paul stumbled across us as he bent downward. Hearing wasn’t his strongest sense. “What the hell,” he growled.

I pulled him close to my face, “Lao’s here, Paul.”

His hand extended as Lao’s arm came up to showing an active communication device.

“I’ll be damned,” Paul whispered. “Answer to Sarah’s prayers.”

Lao, crouched on the floor, updated his team. We stayed quiet, barely breathing, until he gathered us in a tight circle.

“Can you crawl, Anne?” he whispered. “Can you pull yourself across the floor on your arms?”

To get out of the building I would make my body do anything. “I’ll manage,” I said.

“We’ve deactivated lower sensors throughout this level giving us three feet from the floor for movement.”

His hands moved across my back, and down my ribs as he talked. “We’ll head for a dead-end ventilation trunk that leads to the residence.” I flinched as he touched a tender area near my waist. “I’m going to put a numbing patch here. You’ll move easier.”

I heard the slightest swish of packaging removed and then felt gentle hands pat my back.