SILAS

I'm being dragged, sliding on my back, across rough, uneven terrain. There's a hoarse, scraping noise as I'm moved across hard, boulder-like lumps of stone, and occasional pockets of shale, with bits of gravel rattling and rolling next to my ears.

I open my eyes, but this turns out to be a mistake, as my retinas flare with bolts of pain from the intensity of light perception.

I clamp my lids tight. Every sensation is heightened, every input a shock to the system, and my vision is no different. What little sunlight there is seeping through the thick clouds is still too much.

I'm suddenly and viscerally reminded of the time my parents took me with them to visit one of my dad's coworkers, who owned a hobby farm in the countryside. I ended up tripping on a gopher hole and getting poked in the eye by some rusty chicken-wire. This led to an infection, and multiple trips to the optometrist. I had to wear an eyepatch for weeks. Kids at school called me Captain Kidd; which doesn't make a whole lot of sense, and to be honest I don't remember that part all too well. What I do remember is every time I tried to take off that stupid eyepatch, exposing that eye to the light, it hurt like hell. It hurt like nothing else I'd experienced up until that point. It was like someone was jabbing a finger into that eye. A finger with one long, jagged nail.

That was what I'd felt just now. Only instead of a jagged nail, it was more like two rusty stilettos, one puncturing each eyeball.

The pain lingers. Throbbing. Pulsating. So I take a breath. Two breaths. Working to steady myself. To stay calm, and in control.

"He's awake." The voice is female, muffled by a face mask.

A sudden spike of adrenaline. My heart thrums as if trying to break free of my chest.

My feet are bound, braced together. So are my forearms.

I try to roll over onto my stomach. Maybe from there I can push myself-

Fingers of lightning jolt into me, raking across and through my body. Lines of electricity jump between my top set of teeth and bottom in my open mouth. My vision fuzzes, glitching out.

Oh, c'mon, not again-

But then the darkness has me again.

I'm awake. I have no way of knowing how much time has passed, or where I might be. I could open my eyes to look. If I'm honest, I'm afraid to.

Still, as I wait, listening, I realize what woke me. Not the sensation of being pulled and dragged along; I'm deadened to it at this point, the way you no longer notice a fan or the air conditioner running. It's the same with the plodding footsteps of my captors. But there's a new sound, now. A sound that feels so odd and alien to me, at this point.

It's the sound of laughter. Not only that, but of children laughing. Giggling. Yelling excitedly. Playing. Their tiny, padding footsteps make strange, syncopated echoes, as if in a space both expansive and closed off, a dimension all its own, like a school gym. Small shoes—or perhaps feet—tap, scratch, and scrape their across various surfaces. Sliding and thumping on smooth cement. Clanging up and down stairs made of corrugated metal. Across stacks of cardboard boxes. All this I take in through hearing alone, still mustering the courage to risk the pain that open eyes might bring. There’s a screech, something inexplicable, something in that blurred line between an excited shout and a blood-curdling scream, and suddenly, mentally, I’m back on the playground at recess, playing king-of-the-hill on a big tire that's half-buried in the ground, pretending the ground is hot lava and not a thick layer of soft wood chips.

"Told you not to run up there," a man says. One of my captors.

"But we're playing!" A little girl calls back.

"I can see that you're playing," the first voice responds. "But only run on the floor, okay, sweetheart?"

There's a sigh. Then, "Okay, daddy."

There's someone who loves their father. Enough to ignore peer pressure and refrain from doing what everyone else is, even when they're clearly having fun doing it.

"Bring him this way." A new voice, one I haven't heard yet. Though, I'm pretty sure it belongs to the man who smiled at me through the clear mask as he was electrocuting me. I just get the feeling.

The lead connected to my trapped legs pulls at a sharp angle, turning my legs like a rudder. My body tilts a bit to one side as I make the turn. I go along with it, keeping my body as limp as possible. I know from experience I can't break the braces holding my limbs, so there's no point in struggling. And if I open my eyes, or otherwise reveal I'm conscious, they'll just electrocute me again. My best bet is to remain still, listen, and wait for my chance. There's still a chance they'll remove these bindings to transition to a more secure means of containment.

If that happens, that's when I'm going to move.

From the straight line in which I'm being dragged, and the echo of the footsteps around me, I assume I'm being transported down some kind of hallway. After a while, the echoes become less pronounced, and I'm turned at an angle again. Then, the procession comes to a sudden halt.

Someone's approaching. Hard, fast taps of shoe heels on the solid floor.

"Gavin." Female voice. Young. But also terse. Curt. Just like the footfalls themselves. "What is this. What did you do?"

"Look what I found," says the man who captured me, smiling while he did it. I'm certain it's him, now. "C'mere, check it out."

"I can see well enough," she says, coming to a stop with a stomp of her foot. "Where did you find him?"

"It," Gavin says, putting special emphasis on the word, "Was poking around just in range of our sensors. Looking to scout us out."

"And how would you know that?"

Gavin snorts. "Well, what the hell else would they be looking for? How else would you explain that ship that's been buzzing around?"

"You could try asking him," the girl says. "He'd probably know. Instead of making wild, confident guesses."

A condescending laugh from Gavin.

"Nice try, Lolo," Gavin says. "I'm not talking to the machine. It would just lie, anyway. I'll scrape its database, though. Might have some worthwhile info tucked away in its noggin. Strip it for parts, too. Might be able to get some useful tech out of it." There's a pause and then his voice gets low and serious. "Before I do that, though, after it's disabled, I'm gonna hang it from the crane in the main hall. I want everyone to see what we're capable of. I want everyone to see we're better than them."

There are some murmurs and grunts of assent from the rest of the captors, and even one, "That's right." It gives me the image of a preacher, standing amid his congregation, one hand raised. "Can I get an amen?!"

"First of all," the girl says, "My name isn't 'Lolo'. Secondly-"

"I know," Gavin says, voice quiet, almost hushed, boots thudding as he takes a few steps. "But I like it. It's more...feminine."

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

"Gavin-"

"We'll talk about this later. I have to take care of this. Let's go, guys."

There's a yank on the lead, and we're moving again.

"That's what I'm trying to talk to you about," the girl says, following along with us. "I'm not sure you're dealing with what you think you are."

"You don't need to worry. I've got everything under control."

"GAVIN-"

We head around another corner, and the acoustics change again; a smaller, more confined space.

The girl's footsteps follow us. There's an abrupt downhill descent, but only for a couple seconds. Then I come to a stop, and there's a rattling, cranking sound as a heavy sliding-door locks shut at the edge of the room. Something catches on the brace holding my wrists together. There's a click somewhere, followed by a mechanical hum as my arms raise up, legs dangling underneath me.

If there was a chance to fight back, to escape from my bonds somehow, it's possible I just missed it.

By my guess, my feet are a good several feet from the ground when the crane comes to a stop.

"You know my dad used to talk about another facility just miles south of here," the girl says. "Just because you never found it doesn't mean it wasn't there.”

One long, loaded silence.

"I think we got it, boys," Gavin says. "I can take it from here. For now."

The response is immediate. The orders are clear. There's some shuffling, and then the cranking open of the heavy door.

"Just let us know if we're needed," someone calls from the other side of the doorway.

"You know I will," Gavin says.

The door rumbles shut.

A sharp slap. The sound resonates in the space, pinging from one wall to another and back, like a digital delay effect.

I crack one eye.

Both Gavin and the girl are standing on the other side of a table littered with tools, in what appears to be some kind of mechanic's garage. Gavin is no longer wearing his mask or jacket. His jaw is tight. His cheeks are an angry red. He's glaring down at a blonde-haired girl who looks a good five to ten years younger than he is, as well as being several inches shorter. She wears a matter-of-fact, slightly too-big navy jumpsuit, zipped all the way up to the collar. She has the collar turned up, hiding the back and sides of her neck. Her face is turned away from Gavin, and toward me. Her frizzy, jaw-length hair is a mess of chaotic energy about her head and the sides of her face, likely ruffled by the strike that was just administered. There's a crimson mark blooming on her cheek, evident in the wan light cast from the long strip of fluorescent lamp overhead.

She sees me. That is, she sees me seeing her. She has a soft face, but in this moment, her eyes are hard, and cold. Still, there's a glint of embarrassment there. Shame. She doesn't like that I'm seeing this. That the two of us are making eye contact while this is happening. However, she doesn't look away. Her gaze is an act of defiance. A challenge.

"Don't ever contradict me in front of our people," Gavin says. He doesn't seem to notice one of my eyes is open, or that I'm making eye contact with her. "We need strong leadership. Especially now."

"No one made you the leader," the girl says, turning to look up at him. "Let alone a dictator."

"I'm Head of the Watch," Gavin says. "That's close enough. Besides, maybe we need some Martial Law, right now. Maybe it's time for a change."

"You're saying," she says, in a level tone, "We should go against my father's wishes?"

Something strange and scary happens. Gavin's face softens. His body language relaxes. He smiles. It's the same smile he gave me.

"Lolo," he says, slowly reaching up to grip her upper arms from the sides, like a lover's soothing touch. "We all loved your father. He was a man's man, and a great thinker besides. He knew how to take care of us. But...he's gone, now. And someone needs to take his place."

"Someone did take his place." Her voice is quiet. In a way that comes across as dangerous to me. Like a snake's gentle rattle in the tall grass. "I oversee all my father's prior duties. I keep this place running and functioning. That's why I was voted in as a member of the Board. What do you think I've been doing these past months?"

"And you've done a great job," Gavin says placatingly, running his hands slowly up and down her arms. "But let's be honest, when the community looks at you, they don't see Darvin. They see...well..."

"A woman?"

Gavin freezes. Slowly lowers his arms. "You know that's not what I mean."

"Yes, it is. You would never dare to say it. But it's exactly what you mean."

Something passes between them, something I can't fully see.

Gavin takes a step back. He leans. One hand on the table, the other on his hip.

"Alright," he says. "If you're not too sensitive to hear me say it, I'll speak plainly."

"Fine," the girl says, folding her arms. There's a minute twitch of the eyebrows, and she suddenly has the look of someone who's about to watch a man dig his own grave.

"Your father," Gavin says, "Despite his many admirable qualities, was an idealist. I think you know that as well as me. He saw the world not as it was, but as he wanted it to be."

"He had vision," the girl says, unperturbed.

"Sure. But that's not enough. It's not enough to 'be right', or to want the right things. People are attracted to strength. It was your father's strength, his charisma, his stability, that kept everything together. He was the glue. And now he's gone."

"I'm well aware of his passing," the girl says. There's a gleam in her eye, of light catching in some moisture there.

"My point is, what we saw in Darvin, what we believed in..." He gestures vaguely at the girl. "When people look at you, they just don't see it."

"And I'm sure the way you treat me, and the way you talk to me behind my back, has nothing to do with it."

"I only say what everyone else can already see," Gavin says earnestly, taking one small step closer to her. "You're not leadership material. But that's just it. People do look up to me. Between the two of us, if we work together, I think we have a real shot at keeping these people alive for at least the next generation or so. Who knows, maybe we can actually start to make a difference. Maybe we can change things. But survival has to come first. Strength has to come first."

Once he's done, he goes quiet, waiting for her response. She's silent, letting him wait, even as he leans toward and above her, looming.

"And what," she says, slowly, hesitantly, "Do you have in mind, exactly?"

"What do you think?" He says.

He's real close, now. The girl brings up a hand to push on his chest, but he catches it in his own.

"I think," he says, so close she likely feels his breath on her face, "We would make a good team."

Are her cheeks flushed? It's almost hard to tell. She's lets out a long, breathy sigh, eyes pointing down toward the floor.

"No," she says. So quiet I can barely hear.

Gavin stiffens. Unmoving. He won't let her go. As if he's waiting for a different answer. A different outcome. The kind he's used to getting, probably. The one he wants.

"No," she says again, bringing her eyes back up to meet Gavin's. "It's always been no. And it's always going to be no. I told you no, over and over. And so you went to my father, and he told you no. And now you think, because he's gone, I'm just a weak, helpless girl in need of a man, and I have no choice but to say yes. That's how little you think of me."

"Shiloh, that's not-"

"So you are capable of calling me by the name my father gave me," she says.

Gavin takes a breath. And holds it.

"I think," he says, "You make some excellent points. And that, perhaps, we should continue this conversation at another time. After all, I have some work to do here."

He's taking a step back. It's tactical, and it's condescending, but is a retreat all the same. And in that act, there's a level of restraint and self-control I had not before thought possible.

I'm reminded of that time I got into a fight with those boys who insulted my dad. My mom came to school to pick me up, and on the way out, we bumped into the mother of one of the other boys. This other woman had a few choice—if passive-aggressive—words for us. My mother listened and nodded. She was obliging and amicable enough. Only, once we'd said goodbye, and got out to the parking lot, she made one glance around, opened up the Leatherman in her purse, and slashed the back tire of the woman's Hybrid CRV.

My mom, and some of the more erratic parts of her behavior, is a topic of pontification for another time. The point right now is that this guy is more dangerous than he seems. When the time comes, I need to be sure not to underestimate him.

In this case, the girl—Shiloh—doesn't take the out, but leans forward, pressing her advantage.

"I think I should stay and help," she says. "Like I said, I don't think you know what you're dealing with."

Gavin watches her, gauging her hard expression. Then, in real time, I see him pivot. She wants to get serious about it, so he decides to be loose and relaxed.

He grunts, giving her a half-smile. "Fine by me. The more the merrier. We'll need the equipment, though. We're not set up for it, in here."

"I'll take care of it." Shiloh turns and heads toward the door. But then she stops, swiveling back around to face Gavin on her heels, hands in the pockets of her jumpsuit.

"But, Gavin, if you ever raise a hand to me again, you'll pay for it. I'm serious. This is your one and only warning."

"Promises, promises," he says, still half-smiling.

"It is a promise," Shiloh says. "Believe it."

She pulls a lever, and the door slides open, clinking and clunking. It shuts behind her.

Within a second or two of the door sliding shut, Gavin reaches for the walkie-talkie holstered on his belt. It beeps as he squeezes the button on the side. "Miles. I need you to follow Miss Darvin. See what she does. If she goes to speak with somebody, listen to what she says. Then report back to me."

Once the orders are given, he deflates a little, taking a moment to gather himself. His eyes flit down, sorting through some of the objects littered on the table. Then they come up to meet my own eyes.

"I suppose you were awake for all of that."

I open both eyes fully. No need to maintain the façade, anymore. "My mother always said it was rude to eavesdrop."

"You don't have a mother," Gavin says, matter-of-factly. He's rummaging through his tools, looking for something.

"You could say so. But I did. At one time."

"No," Gavin says, glancing up from his work. "You didn't." Then he cocks his head, staring at me. "You really don't know, do you? Your memory banks must be on the fritz." He shrugs, head down again. "No matter. We'll extract what we can. And you'll see for yourself. Soon enough."