The Echo

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Well,” Franklin said. “If this is how they were wasting my money all those years, I should have cheated more on my taxes.”

Jorge was in no mood to endure the old man’s gallows humor. All he could think about was his wife and daughter out there somewhere, facing danger and uncertainty. And he was helpless.

The soldiers had marched them at least five miles through the woods, leading them to a massive outcropping of rock. Jorge had been sure the soldiers were going to shoot them there and leave them for the buzzards, especially because Franklin was cussing and taunting them every step of the way.

Instead, they were led into a narrow crevice that opened into a wider alley of rock, where a thick steel door was set into the stone and held in place with concrete. Franklin had called it “Hitler’s Hideaway” and Sarge had punched him in the stomach, and Franklin had fallen to the concrete floor and coughed and laughed for a full minute, until Sarge kicked him in the head and knocked him unconscious.

Jorge kept his mouth shut so he was largely left alone, although he took in the surroundings of cold steel walls, rusty iron girders supporting the weight of the earth above, and lockers and shelves stacked with supplies. A string of dim bulbs illuminated the long corridor, barely brighter than the lights on a Christmas tree. The passageway was lined with about twenty tiny rooms, the first holding a desk and some communications equipment that looked like it had been gutted and then smashed in frustration. Another large room with cinderblock walls was occupied by uniformed men playing cards at small tables, smoking cigarettes, or reading magazines. Most of the other rooms held twin sets of bunk beds.

It was in one of these beds that Franklin’s limp form had been deposited. Jorge had been ordered into the room, and the door was locked and bolted from the outside. The door featured a narrow grill through which he could see several feet down the hall in each direction. A little slot near the bottom served as a food access, and a metal pail on the floor was apparently intended as a toilet.

Jorge wasn’t sure how long he’d been brooding when Franklin groaned from the cramped, uncomfortable bed. The room only held one weak light that did little more than illuminate the center of the room. Jorge guessed it was powered by a solar-panel system similar to Franklin’s, although occasionally he heard a deep thrum that might have been a gasoline-powered generator. He supposed it was possible the military had shielded some equipment and gear from the sun’s effects, just as Franklin’s Faraday cage had protected his radio and batteries.

Franklin staggered to the door and yanked at the little window grill as if trying to tear it loose, although the opening was far too small for him to crawl through even if he’d been successful.

“Hey, I want to call my lawyer!” Franklin shouted down the hall. His words bounced off the concrete surfaces.

“You should save your energy,” Jorge said.

“Aw, come on, Jorge,” Franklin said. “You can’t take this shit too seriously.”

The man’s eyes fairly glistened with good humor. Jorge couldn’t understand it. But the man had no family to worry about. Maybe he was relieved to have his conflicts resolved and to be given an opportunity to serve as a martyr for his cause. After all, this tyrannical treatment confirmed everything Franklin had ever believed and preached.

“I remember something you said to me once, while we were digging potatoes.”

“Potatoes,” Franklin said. “The eyes have it.”

Jorge was worried that the man had truly gone over the edge. And here they were, confined in an eight-by-ten room where clocks no longer held sway.

“About ‘The End is Near’ sign,” Jorge said.

“What about it?”

“Take a guy walking around with a sign that says ‘The End is Near.’ Even if he turns out to be right, he’s still an asshole.”

Franklin started guffawing as if he’d never heard the saying before. He slapped his knees, then bent over and wheezed himself into a coughing fit. Finally he sat down on the little bed, still chuckling.

A commotion erupted down the corridor, shouts and blows and curses. Franklin and Jorge crowded at the window to get a look. At first they saw only a group of soldiers, clumped together and waving their arms. Then Sarge emerged from the pack, pulling a rope that was tied to a man’s hands. The man was shaggy, his gray suit hanging in shreds, most of the buttons missing from his shirt. His bearded face was covered in bruises, and blood seeped from one of his nostrils.

“Whoo-hoo,” one of the soldiers whooped. “Finally got you one, Sarge!”

“Bastards are harder to catch than a butterfly in a hurricane,” Sarge said. One of the soldiers opened the door to the room across the hall from Jorge and Franklin. Just before the man was shoved brutally into the room, he turned to face Jorge.

Glittering eyes.

“Get in there, you freak,” the sergeant screamed, releasing the rope and driving a boot into the Zaphead’s spine. The mutant whipped forward and skidded across the rough floor.

Another soldier held up a gleaming knife. “Let me see what makes him tick, Sarge.”

“Time enough for that later, dumbass. First we have to watch him and see what they’re up to.”

“Looks like a commie Russian spy to me,” Franklin said. “Or a commie U.S. spy.”

Sarge charged up to the grill, jabbing a menacing finger. Jorge backed away but Franklin stood his ground.

“You better watch your mouth, or I’ll toss you in there with that thing,” Sarge said. “We could use a little entertainment around here.” He leered in at Jorge. “Maybe we will find us a spicy little mamacita to play with.”

Jorge leaped at the door, bones clanging against the riveted steel panels. Sarge walked across the hall and slammed the door on the Zaphead.

Soon after, the lights went out, but Jorge’s mood could not have gotten any darker.