Читать книгу Being Emerald - Sylvia Ryan - Страница 7

The distant explosion vibrated the worn wood floor beneath Rock’s feet. Oh yeah. That one’s going to hurt. Exclamations echoed in the cavernous space of the beautiful Sapphire Zone Historical library. Bright light filtered through the massive doors as a handful of patrons filed out to investigate. Rock turned his attention away from the diversion and wove through the stacks. He cut sharply down a roped-off nonfiction aisle where three books lay exactly where Xander’s letter had said they’d be. He scooped them off the shelf and dropped them into his bag. With the task complete, Rock joined the others on the front steps, blending into the crowd of faces pointed toward rising smoke in the Emerald Zone.

Since the Gov realized they’d been stumped by codes taken from old paper books, nonfiction was off limits without an official escort. Patrick O’Connor, the first guardsman to jump ship and fight for what was right, had known their value to the newly formed Resistance.

His bag weighed down with more knowledge, Rock whistled as he descended the stairs and turned toward the Emerald Zone.

General Morgan was shrewd enough to know he couldn’t ban books and cunning enough to present his library restrictions as “safety precautions” for the good of the people. Like all good politicians, he knew the delivery of the words were as important as the words themselves. If it still appeared they lived in a democratic society, the masses wouldn’t notice or care that their reading materials were controlled.

Rock couldn’t contain his smile as he walked toward the smoke billowing from the Peacekeeper’s armory. Two birds, one stone. Nothing brought him more joy than another opportunity to piss Morgan off or bring him down. Xander, his best friend and leader of the Amber Resistance, was a brilliant strategist. To help Rock occupy the few days between Onyx Zone recovery missions, Xander always had a spectacular plan waiting. It was Rock’s big old fuck you, signifying he’d made it back alive from another mission. Morgan had to know it was him doing the destroying, but Rock hadn’t been caught yet. He glanced up at the rolling black cloud melding with the white puffy ones of the beautiful New Atlanta day. The sight filled him with absolute glee as he pressed on, his long strides devouring his four-mile hike home to the Emerald Zone.

The Resistance was winning this conflict because, after a quarter century, Ambers, the dregs of society, had a unique way of thinking outside the box to solve problems. It was also how they waged war. Since the first pandemic survivors arrived in New Atlanta, continued existence hinged on finding alternative ways to meet their needs. With no medicine, they used roots and herbs. With no families, they forged surrogate ones. With a wall built to keep them in, they made nirvana and kept everybody else out. His father had always told him a man could go crazy focusing on what he couldn’t do or didn’t have. Instead, in a culture of love and unconditional acceptance, Ambers had flourished, focusing on everything else. They’d been forced to since the Repopulation Laws had been enacted.

A squealing streak of pink ambushed him with an “Oomph!” He staggered back and then hoisted the young girl into his arms.

“Please can you look for crayons? The store is out.” A smile marked with dimples graced the blue-eyed girl’s cheeks.

The girl’s mother stepped closer. “Dallas, leave the nice man alone.”

Ignoring her mother, Dallas hugged his neck tighter. “Pleeease,” she whined.

“Hmm, crayons. That’s a tall order, sweetie.”

“I know. My mom told me they were all melted.”

“Not all. They’re just much harder to find now.” Smiling at her sweet innocence, he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” She tightened her arms around his neck and smacked a loud kiss on his cheek.

He set her down with a pat. She ran back to her mother, excitedly relaying their conversation.

While the public filled the walkways and gawked at the latest act of war, he ducked down a side street to avoid being noticed again. When he was on the streets in uniform, as he was now, and sometimes even when he wasn’t, people approached him. Often, it was just to thank him for his service, and occasionally with requests for specific items paired with promises it would be worth his while if he brought them back. He was a minor celebrity, a Santa Claus of the post-pandemic era.

By midafternoon, he sat in a bar, eating a hamburger. In front of him sat the first of many beers he planned to consume before he passed out.

He perpetually worked for the Resistance. The few days he spent inside New Atlanta’s walls was no exception. Few friends to the Resistance had access to the bar the National Guardsmen frequented after shift. Those who did wouldn’t be caught dead there. Too dangerous. He didn’t care. He liked to take advantage of the power-drunk National Guardsmen, who always got a little sloppy when pumped with free shots.

Raising his arms and feigning more intoxication than he actually felt, he shouted “Another round for the house!” His role in this crowded bar filled with Guard was easy. Keep them lubricated and keep them talking. Getting information from them was like taking candy from a baby. “Hey, where’s that guy?” Rock snapped his fingers a few times. “Uh, Irish, red hair, about four feet tall?”

Jason, a lanky kid who’d been a gold mine on previous nights of drunken intel gathering, laughed. “Shaugnessey?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

Jason leaned in. “He’s one of the missing.”

“Yeah, missing the ability to hold his liquor.”

Jason didn’t laugh. “No.” He looked over his shoulder, darting a glance at the men nearest them. “Guard are going missing,”.”

“Since when?”

“Nobody’s really sure when it started. So many people disappear in New Atlanta, but Guard command noticed about six weeks ago. Put us through training on how to increase the chances of surviving an abduction. Since then, five or six more have dropped off the face of the earth.”

“The Resistance?” Rock asked, though he knew it wasn’t.

“Don’t think so. We think someone is fixing to take over and is getting rid of the obvious wild cards.” Jason raised his arm. “Be right there,” he called to a group entering. “Hey. I’ll talk to you later, man.”

“Yeah.” Rock slapped him on the shoulder. “Later.”

Rock stayed, buying drinks and talking up the enemy for hours but heard little else he could pass along, so he headed home.

After a short drive, he entered the enormous house and dropped his bag on the kitchen island. After opening some windows and praying for a breeze, he pulled out one of the books he’d stolen. The Modern Clinicians Guide to Hypnotherapy was a training manual. He dropped it back into his bag and grabbed Privileged Information: Top Secret Mind Manipulation During the Second Cold War and Keeping Secrets. He kept Privileged Information.

Slightly buzzed and utterly exhausted, he settled on the couch and read until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

* * * *

“No!” Rock jerked awake. His raw bellow had provided escape from the nightmare but released only a tiny part of the desperation bottlenecked at the base of his throat. He struggled to catch his breath as air heaved fast and raggedly in and out of his lungs. Touching his hand to his chest, he found he was soaked with perspiration, not the thick pool of blood in the dream. Twenty-four hours in New Atlanta was all it took for flashbacks to invade his head. They were always a problem in the dead quiet of this house. So much easier to avoid the demons when they were drowning in the noise of the Amber Zone. He swung his feet to the floor and attempted to leash the rampage every muscle of his body was primed to let loose.

His heart raced and hands shook, spurred by the unspent adrenaline saturating his system. It was no small task, but his body eventually settled.

He stood, drawn to the solitary kitchen light illuminating the center island and casting long shadows on the cream-colored walls of his great room. He filled his lungs, pulled his shoulders back and rolled his neck before letting the breath go. He never slept well inside the city. This place was toxic, with the stress of imminent danger never leaving until he was outside the walls again.

He walked to the rich dark wood cabinets lining the back wall of his kitchen and grabbed a glass. With trembling hands, he filled it with water, leaned against the counter and downed it.

The nightmares made him pissed all over again. Then they made him hurt to the depths of his soul. Sometimes he thought the torment of Emily’s absence would never leave him, remaining as his hell on earth eternally.

Surrounded by the prison of slick granite counters and monstrous stainless steel appliances, his temper rose. He hated this fucking house. He detested his life and loathed the man he’d become since he’d been forced out of the Amber Zone.

“God dammit!” He flung the glass at the far wall. A satisfying crack, then exploding shards sprayed the kitchen, tinkling as they hit the floor. Rock clutched the edge of the counter, trying to rein in his fury. His bare feet against the tumbled marble tile filled his vision as he forced himself to regain his composure. During his year in the Emerald Zone, he’d only been inside the city walls for a handful of weeks, but even that was too much. Every second since he’d been condemned to this home had been miserable. He’d never even bothered to walk upstairs, preferring to sleep on the couch in the living room whenever forced to be inside his lavish prison.

Rock sat on a high stool at the island and stuck his earbud in his ear. “Call Dad.” He thanked God his dad didn’t give a flying fuck their conversations broke the law banning communication with Amber citizens. “Let them listen. Let them try to do something,” his father had shouted through his earbud when the new injunction had been put in place. “They all can kiss my ass.”

“The dream again?” his father asked in a rough, sleepy voice.

“Yeah.”

“It’s been a while since the last one. I thought maybe you were done with them.”

“Me too. I got my next assignment today. Go date is July fourth.”

“Jesus,” his father hissed. “That fucker is messing with you.”

“He’s good at the game. My job is different too. I’ll bodyguard the woman who runs the Fine Arts and Artifacts Program. I’ve got a couple of months to train her before we go to DC.”

“The new assignment explains the dream coming back after so many months.”

“You think?”

“Being responsible for a woman. The anniversary of Emily’s death as the go date. Hell yeah, he’s stirring things up, fucking with your head.”

“So, same shit different day.”

“Yeah, son, same fucking shit. Have you met the woman yet?”

“Yeah, briefly.”

“I saw a video highlighting the mission the other day. It’s been on steady rotation in the feeds. She was in it.”

“Laila?”

“Yes.”

Rock could practically hear his father rolling his eyes. It bothered his dad that he left women relatively unnoticed since Emily’s death.

“In the interview,” his dad said, “she seemed certain she knows where the Declaration of Independence and Constitution are being stored.”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

“She’s pretty.”

The words grated. “Subtlety still escapes you, Dad. Always has, for both of us.”

“Huh.”

Rock knew that sound. Knew it wasn’t good. “What?”

“He’s putting you in a position to have to protect another woman. He has to know it would crush you if you failed.”

“You think Morgan’s going to try to kill her?”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t put it past him. He’d be completely absolved of any wrongdoing if the mission just never returned. Plus, I think having the people’s focus on the freedoms this country was built on is the exact opposite of what he wants. You have to wonder why he’d bring so much attention to the retrieval of documents that will so blatantly undermine his rule in New Atlanta.”

Rock hadn’t considered that. “You think he’s counting on us not to come back?”

“Well, in your case, isn’t he always?”

He weighed his father’s words. “Maybe this time he’ll plant someone to make sure of it.”

Normally, being killed outside of New Atlanta wasn’t a worry because he trusted his team, but his usual team wouldn’t be with him this time. “Shit.”

“Some people think this Washington trip is a suicide mission.”

“Every mission is a suicide mission, but I get what you’re saying. I have to find out more about the program and the woman running it before I get a good sense of what fucked up scenario he’s throwing me into. Whatever it is, I’ll handle it.”

“I don’t doubt it, son.”

“I’m getting tired of this bullshit. I’m done, Dad. I can’t anymore.” Months ago, his plan to leave New Atlanta permanently had come to him like a lightning bolt of divine inspiration. The Onyx Zone recovery missions had given him a sense of freedom that, over time, had grown to an almost uncontainable need. He was more alive in the dilapidated and overgrown places he’d traveled than he ever was in New Atlanta. Often, he walked off by himself and enjoyed the absence of restrictions, and the relative safety of being away from the Gov’s eyes and long-armed reach. Ironic. When he’d first started working in Onyx, Rock had hoped to die in there. His general aversion to being alive had diminished over the last year, but not his aversion to life inside Emerald Zone walls.

“All right, son. I suppose I knew it was coming.”

Rock ran his fingers through his hair again and stopped the motion, gripping a fistful of it on top of his head. “You need to visit with Xander.” His mention of the Amber Resistance leader’s name caused several seconds of dead air. His father didn’t know it yet, but Xander held a letter for him. It outlined the plan. They would meet at the drop house and disappear together.

“All right.”

“I’ll talk to you soon.” He disconnected the call. The man was his lifeline. He’d been waiting for the right way to break the news he was leaving. Now that the tunnel from Amber to outside the walls was completed, his father could leave with him. They would be together under one roof again soon. Most days, that knowledge was the only thing that kept him going and kept him sane.

It had been almost a year since he lost the woman he loved and the companionship of his father, friends—every important relationship in his life. A year since the devastating removal of the physical touch he needed. For twenty-seven years he’d been wrapped in the soft comfort of another’s bare skin brushing his countless times a day.

Then it was gone. He’d never get used to the deprivation of it, the hollow feeling in his belly that seemed like a permanent part of him now.

He was dead inside. He still drew breath. He still had thoughts, though he tried as hard as he could to eradicate those causing him to feel anything, but he wasn’t the same man who’d lived and loved in the Amber Zone. He’d constructed layers of protection around himself. That shell, like the bark of a tree, shielded the ever-hemorrhaging wound with a rough, dark barrier. He rarely allowed himself to acknowledge his raging anger and desperate need for human contact. If he allowed himself to feel all the emotions that crowded him every day, he’d have probably killed himself, or somebody else, by now. Every waking minute held potential for Rock to totally lose it, to explode in a dangerous fit of pent-up fury. He was like a diamond created under immense pressure, becoming something hard and cold.

This next mission would be his last. He was going to walk away. He couldn’t wait.