A teenage boy picks me up just past the allotment. From the outside, you’d think that this Ford Fiesta from the nineties is on its last legs, but inside it's clear he cares for it. It's clean and in good repair. It even smells nice. It's the complete opposite of what you’d expect.

“Is that a pizza?” he asks when I get in.

“Yeah,” I say.

“From Ma Barker’s? That’s the shit!” he says.

I look on the box and sure enough, there’s “Ma Barker’s Pizzeria” printed there in stylized Art Deco, though I wasn’t sure what she has to do with northeastern Ohio. It sure was tasty though.

“You want a piece?” I asked.

“Sure!” says the kid. “There’s napkins in the glove compartment. I keep extras from fast food places? They always give too many.”

I take a few and hand him a slice.

“Where you headed?” he asks.

“Down by the highway? Seventy-six,” I say. “Just the way you’re going.”

The boy nods as he chews. “Yeah, I’m going right by there.”

We talk a little about nothing. His name’s James Monroe. “No relation to the president,” he says and winks.

“Ben Walker,” I say and we talk about the weather and what he likes to watch streaming. I’m not sure how many of the shows I’ve watched are a thing here, but I recognize lots of the titles he mentions. He seems to be a big fan of anime and Korean television.

I’ve seen some anime but can’t say I’m a big fan.

He lets me off by a park near the coordinates. I leave him the rest of my pizza and wave as he pulls away. Nice kid.

The cold and dark feeling is not far away.

I walk through the park and know I’m getting closer to its source. The park's more of a wild space rather than anything landscaped. The path I’m walking is paved but narrow, wide enough for two people side by side. There’s a dog park, a big empty field, and a couple of pavilions. The bad luck feeling leads me into the surrounding woods. I see structures ahead as the path turns but I’m pretty sure I’m looking at where the ugly luck is coming from.

There’s a large ranch-style house surrounded by a chain link fence here, one of those big detached garages for car enthusiasts, and a couple of oversized sheds. It has the feel of a makeshift compound, and there are a whole lot of motorcycles leaning almost on top of each other in the backyard where they can’t be seen from the road. Big men in leather and denim carry boxes to a U-Haul parked in front. There’s what looks like a white church bus parked in the driveway between the house and the moving van. I can hear it idling from here.

Some of the men have holstered pistols on their hips and one guy, smoking something long thin and dark, has an AR-15 style rifle slung over a shoulder.

That cloud of cold evil intent swirls and spikes from the house. I push at it, but it doesn't do much more than calm things down a little, kind of like soothing a big black dog that’s quit barking but is still growling and about to tear your face off for dinner.

Nothing they’re doing seems illegal or dangerous. Whatever’s wrong is coming from inside the house.

I don’t see any sign of the authorities at all. For all I know they’re minutes away, but it could be hours. Maybe if I can bring them some kind of evidence, recordings from my phone, pictures, something like that, they could do something faster.

There are a lot of people here, all of them men, all of them biker types, all of them armed that I’ve seen so far. Maybe twenty? There’s a lot of movement. The afternoon is warm for October. Some of the guys have taken off their shirts or at least their motorcycle jackets. There’s an emblem on the back of each one of those. I can’t make it out from where I am, but they’re all the same. I figure what I’m looking at is some kind of motorcycle club or gang.

I figure my current outfit would fit right in. Before I give it too much thought, I push a bit harder than I was and hurtle the fence, trying to do it without it making that “Hey-I’m-jumping-this-chain-link-fence sound” that sounds a little like Christmas bells you put on your cute dog, only in a minor key. My luck holds and the fence makes no noise at all.

I keep pushing and walk toward the house like I belong there, scratching the left side of my face with my right arm to partially hide my face as I pass the armed guard. I nod at him as I pass.

He’s just gotten a text on his phone. He’s looking at it when he nods back, not half paying attention.

I’m inside.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

It’s a living room packed to the walls with boxes and a couple of wooden shipping crates.

A strange motorized growling is coming from the kitchen. The floor plan is open so I only need to take a few steps that way to see a greasy generator vibrating on a counter. Cables run from it to the open door to the basement.

“What’s up? You the IT guy?”

I have to be, right? Who else would be crazy enough to walk right in here?

I look over and see a short man with a heavy gray beard and motorcycle jacket looking up at me from an easy chair. I didn’t see him before because it’s dark in here and bright outside and he’s sitting in a chocolate brown recliner that’s a couple of sizes too big for him. My eyes couldn't adjust to the light fast enough to spot him. There’s a bottle of beer in his hand and a shotgun on his lap.

Not knowing what else to do, I nod hook a thumb over at the basement door and arch my eyebrows.

“Sent for ‘em already, did he?” says the guy. “Better go get ‘em then. We need to get the fuck outta here.”

“He say why?” I ask because why the hell not?

“We think maybe one of them got a message out,” he says. “Can’t be sure.”

“Where is he?” I ask.

The man smiles and holds up his bottle. “Beer run,” he says. “What’s the matter? You look nervous.”

“Don’t want to screw up is all,” I say. I’m totally wondering what the fuck I’m doing. I’ve got to be out of my mind. “I’m Ben.”

Why am I giving him my real name?

“Otter,” says the guy with the beard. “Just make sure nobody takes anything and shut everything down. We’ll take the hard drives out for ya for when you get back. You know where you’re going?”

I nod and head for the stairs.

“You’re gonna need these,” Otter says.

I turn and he hands me bundle of tiny keys. I’m pretty sure they’re for handcuffs.

“Send ‘em up one at a time,” he says. “They won’t give you any trouble. They know better. Then me and you take ‘em to the new set up. You get ‘em hooked up there and get everything running and you’re done. No problem.”

I nod and go down the stairs.

It’s the high school computer lab from hell down here. It’s dark, with the only lights coming from a couple dozen computer screens, and it stinks. Close to thirty people, all young men, are chained to their very own computer station. Nobody’s wearing pants and each of them sit on one of those portable toilets you can set up in the living room when you break your leg or something. Each of them has some of their desk space dedicated to cereal boxes, bags of snacks, some fruit, and bottles of water.

I have no idea what I’m looking at. Apparently, I’m supposed to get them all upstairs to go to the ‘new set up.’ Probably on that bus. Okay, he also said that we’re the ones taking them there, right? So, I’m driving? I can work with that.

The dark swirls are moving quickly now, but now they’re punctuated by little spots of light. Things are already improving. I keep pushing as I move over to the first computer.

The kid can’t be older than sixteen. He’s playing a computer game, of all things. He says, “Please, I’m almost level twenty. I need, like, another ten minutes. Maybe twenty.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re not in any trouble. Just shut everything down as I uncuff you, okay?”

He complies without a word.

He’s handcuffed to a ring on the end of a short pole that’s been sunk into the concrete of the basement. Looking around, I see they all are. The first key works and the cuff springs open.

Some pants are hanging on a hook beside him. He stands with some difficulty and puts them on commando, then he heads up the stairs at a stately pace without a word.

The next two are playing the same game. Both comply and shut things down for me like I ask as I set them free. One is in his early twenties, the other is only thirteen if he’s a day. I’m willing to bet their faces are on a milk carton somewhere.

I’m angry and sick, but I know better than to give any outward sign of it. The safest thing for me to do is play along. I have to maintain and get them on the bus.

The fourth young man has two screens in front of him. Both look like chats.

“How’s it going?” I say.

He points to the left screen. “I think this one’s about ready to meet,” he says. He points to the other. “This one? I dunno yet. I think I need more pictures to send.”

Some kind of catfishing maybe? Blackmail? I grunt and say, “Tell them you’ll talk to them later. It’s time to go.”

“Oh, goody.”

Most of the others are playing games. One by one I free them and send them upstairs.

The last kid, the one farthest from the door, has the fanciest setup. Three monitors, the central one over-sized and curved, and all of them look to have documents up. The big one has four windows up, one of them displaying search results, one looks like a commercial website, one’s a chat room with a lively conversation scrolling down it, and the third, well, I think he’s coding. His fingers rattle over the keyboard and text that makes no sense to me appears.

He's rail thin, pale as death, and wearing a sweater three sizes too big.

“I’ve just about got it,” he says. “Two minutes.”

I take out my phone and show him the text Myra sent me: 01001000 01100101 01101100 01110000.

He looks at me in horror. “Oh my fuck,” he breathes. “You a cop? We’re so dead.”

“Nope, not a cop. I’m the guy you robbed.”

“Walker? Who in fuck are you? Don't tell me you're with them?”

“No, I'm not. I know you've got questions,” I say, ‘Later though. We’re getting out.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m the reason for all this,” he says. “I got past the firewall but not as cleanly as I thought. They know someone got something out but not what or who. Their IT guy’s gotta be good. That isn't you?”

“Nope.” I’ve unhooked him and now I’m helping him stand. "I can barely spell I.T."

He snorts and puts his pants on, nearly falling over in the process. “If they find me, I’m dead. Fuck, they have to know it was me. Larry’s the only other guy even close to good enough and it’s not like they’re gonna give me a fair trial or anything. They'll just kill anybody they suspect. Or everybody. We’re dead, Walker. Dead!”

“Shut up,” I tell him.

He opens his mouth.

“No, shut up,” I say. “We’re getting out. All of us. Right now. Come on.”

“Don’t forget about the girls in the closet then,” he says.

“The—?”

He’s pointing at a dark door.

Five little girls are sitting, shivering on the floor of the closet. They squint their eyes in the faint light and start to cry as soon as I open the door. They’re all in their underwear. They’re dirty. None of them are even into their teens.

I want to kill every biker there.

I choke it down.

I say in my sweetest voice, “I need everybody to stand up.”

They cry harder.

“They don’t speak English,” says the hacker from behind me.

“Um… arriba?” I say. I keep my voice even, devoid of anger. I know I’ll burst into tears if I scare any of them more than they already are.

They help each other up and stand in line.

The hacker kid and I walk them up the stairs.