Surviving the Dead 03: Warrior Within (36 page)

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Logan Morrison.”

He wrote the name on the folder, and then glanced up at me. “From here on out you will address me as ‘sir.’ Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

He picked up a piece of paper and set it on the desk in front of him. “Where are you from, Morrison?”

“Tyler, Texas, sir.”

He scribbled it down in flowing, easily legible handwriting. “Date of birth?”

I told him.

“Did you graduate from high school?”

“Yes, sir.”

“College?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you study?”

“Texas A&M, sir.”

“What did you major in?”

“Business and English, sir.”

“Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“A place called First Strike Martial Arts, sir. My dad was a huge MMA fan. He had me start training there when I was eleven. I kept at it until I left for college.”

“What was your father’s name?”

“Roland, sir.”

“His full name.”

“Roland Albert Morrison, sir.”

“Mother’s name?”

The questions kept coming, one after another. A droning, mind-numbing litany. Morrow had warned me about this. Warned me about what he was going to do. Grayson had been selected to join the Legion the same way I had—by fighting and beating other slaves. Afterward, he had been dragged away and questioned for more than two hours by the very man sitting across from me. Aiken looked exactly as Morrow had described. Tall, strongly built, squarish features. Salt-and-pepper hair, neatly trimmed beard, and cold, lifeless eyes.

The purpose of the questions was not so that he could get to know me—he didn’t give a rat’s ass about me. As far as he was concerned, I was just another expendable piece of meat to be used and disposed of at his discretion. The purpose of the questions, rather, was to try to trip me up. To get me to reveal dishonesty. To root out any deception.

To make sure I was who I said I was.

The first round of questions took about half an hour. Then he started in again, same questions, different order. Then he wanted to know more about my family. My favorite subjects in school. Pets that I had owned. What cars I had driven, girls I had dated, movies I liked.

Where had I traveled to? What was my favorite flavor of ice cream? Had I ever been in a car wreck? Had I ever been injured? Had major surgery? Ever been in trouble with the law? Ever got a speeding ticket? Endlessly, the questions came.

It was good that I had drilled for this with Steve. This Aiken guy was thorough. If I had come here unprepared, he would have gotten me. As it was, I had to give the conversation my full focus to remember everything I was supposed to say. If I screwed up, if I left a single thread dangling, Aiken would seize it, pull it, and my whole story would come unraveled.

After more than two hours, I was mentally exhausted. Aiken, however, seemed to have enjoyed the exercise. When it came to mental endurance, I was a sprinter, and this guy was a triathlete. Satisfied that I wasn’t bullshitting him, he called the guards back in and ordered them to escort me outside. They had me sit down on the floor while one of them kept a rifle trained on my head.

Aiken took his time before leaving his office. I imagined he was looking over his notes, trying to find any discrepancies in my story. If he found anything, I was going to be tortured without mercy until I told them the truth. I did a few silent breathing exercises to calm my nerves, emptied my mind of fearful thoughts, and resolved that I would not let them put me to the question. If it came to it, I would fight like a madman until they killed me, and make damned sure I took a few of them along for the ride. Death was far preferable to giving up information that could get my loved ones killed.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Aiken emerged and ordered his men to escort me back to the warehouse. Once there, they had me sit on the floor and wait while Aiken went over to talk to his brother. I kept my head down and feigned disinterest.

“You’re out of here next week, right?” one of the guards said, keeping his voice low.

The man beside him whispered, “Yeah, man. Back to Haven. I can’t wait; I haven’t seen my son in a month.”

I almost snapped my head up, but managed to stop myself. I felt like someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water on my head.

“I’m fuckin’ jealous, man. I got another two weeks before I rotate back. You mind checking in on Marcy and the girls for me? Make sure they’re doin’ okay?”

“No problem.”

Lucian stood up from his desk and began walking in our direction. The guards went abruptly silent. Their leader snagged a chair, spun it around, and sat down facing me with his arms draped across the back.

“I have good news, and I have bad news. Which do you want first? You have my permission to speak.”

Stay calm. Breathe
. “It’s been a while since I had any good news, sir.”

He grinned. “You passed the first test. Aiken thinks you’re on the level. Which is good, because if he didn’t, I’d have my men string you up with fishhooks. As for the bad news, I’m afraid we can’t accept your application at this time.”

He saw my confusion and held up a hand. “Not that I don’t think you would make a good soldier. You obviously know how to fight. It’s just that right now, I need workers more than I need soldiers. I’ve got big things planned in the next few weeks, but before that happens, those tunnels need to be finished. The more hands I have digging, the sooner things can happen. So for the time being, I need you in the mines. Don’t worry though, I’ll make sure they double your rations and tell the guards to take it easy on you. But don’t forget,” he pointed a finger at me, “the rules still apply. You do what you’re told, when you’re told, and you don’t talk to the other prisoners. We don’t want them getting any crazy ideas. It’d be bad for their health.”

He stood up and motioned to the guards. “Take him back down and pass along my orders. Make sure he’s treated right. As for you, Morrison, once the tunnels are complete, we’ll see about getting you on a salvage crew. How’s that sound?”

“That sounds like the best idea I’ve heard in years, sir.”

He laughed, and reached down to clap me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. You’re almost done paying your dues. Keep your nose clean, do your job, and we’ll have you out of the mines in no time.”

He walked away, and the guards helped me to my feet. Gently this time. As they led me away, the guards’ words kept echoing in my head.

Haven. My son. Marcy and the girls
. Did these guys have families? What the hell was Haven?

And what did it mean for the coming fight?

*****

Over the next few weeks, life was easier.

Word spread among the troops that Lucian had authorized me to join the Legion. The guards no longer hit me at the slightest provocation, I didn’t have to wear chains anymore, and they fed me twice a day instead of just once. The portions were actually enough to live on.

This did nothing to endear me to the other prisoners, especially the ones I had beaten. They divided their time between staring longingly at my food, and glaring daggers at me whenever the guards turned their backs. Whether it was because I had beaten them, or because they were jealous of my forthcoming ascension, I wasn’t sure. Probably, it was both.

It bothered me that they hated me so much. If I could have shared my food, I would have. If I could have split my water ration with them, I would have done it. But I couldn’t. The guards were always there, and I had come too far to risk blowing my cover over something so small. But with every day that passed, my resolve to rescue these men became stronger.

Work continued on the tunnels at a furious pace. Lucian was relentlessly pushing the engineer in charge of the project to get it finished. I saw the engineer a few times, dressed in clean clothes and wearing sturdy rubber boots, as he come down to inspect our work. From his chatter, I gathered that the connector loop was nearing completion.

Early one morning, nearly five weeks after I had been captured, the two men working at the edge of the tunnel shouted for the guards. The one in charge walked over.

“What is it?”

“We broke through, sir.” 

“No shit …” The guard held up a lantern and stepped forward. A hole the size of a basketball emerged from the gloom, with dim yellow light glowing from the other side.

A voice called out, “That you, Central?”

The guard smiled. “Who the hell do you think it is?”

“Goddamn, I’m glad to hear your voice. Come on, you fucking maggots. Finish this shit up.”

The guard stepped back and motioned to the diggers. “Go on, get this wall down.”

While the slaves worked, he ordered one of the other guards to go back and notify Lucian. He showed up a few hours later with the engineer in tow, offering smiles and handshakes to the troops who emerged from the other side.

“Well, it’s about damn time,” he said jovially. “Now we can start staging supplies and equipment for the offensive. Fenton, how long do you think it’ll take to lay down the planks?”

The engineer—a thin, balding man with thick glasses—tapped a finger on his chin as he thought about it. “If we get twenty more people from each site, I’d say about another week. Maybe less.”

Lucian turned to the senior guard. “Go topside and find Kas. Tell him to get a crew together. We need twenty men. Ask for volunteers first, but if nobody wants to do it, then
volun-tell the motherfuckers. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” He turned and left.

As the leaders stood around talking for a little while longer, I sidled closer and listened, absorbing as much as I could. There were still more questions than answers, but I was starting to build a picture of just how big the Legion’s operations really were. When they had finished, Lucian stopped to speak to me on his way by.

“Morrison, I think you’ve been down here long enough. It’s time to see about getting you on a crew. Follow me.”

He strode down the corridor, and I followed.

Finally
, I thought.
Time to set things in motion
.

*****

Lucian turned me over to one of the men in his personal guard. “Take him through orientation,” he said with a wave. “Explain the facts of life, get him outfitted and, for fuck’s sake, get him cleaned up. He smells like shit.”

He walked off to where his senior lieutenants had gathered around a large table, poring over a set of maps. The guard looked me over and wrinkled his nose. Hygiene didn’t seem to be much of a priority with most of the Legion troops, but even by their lax standards, I must have looked a mess. I hadn’t bathed in nearly six weeks, my beard had grown out, my hair was tangled and matted, and every square inch of me was covered in a crusty layer of dark brown dirt.

“First thing we need to do is get you cleaned up and get you some new clothes. That shit you’re wearing looks like it’s about to fall apart. Come on.”

He set off toward the far end of the warehouse, motioning for me to follow. We reached the same door that Rat-Face Mike had thrown me through more than a month ago, back when this nightmare first started. When he opened it, I had to swallow a few times at the lump in my throat.

It’s hard to describe what it’s like to go for weeks on end without seeing the sun. Humans are diurnal animals, and access to sunlight is as important physically as it is psychologically. Without sunlight, our circadian rhythms are thrown off, our moods destabilize, and it becomes difficult to sleep. Combine that with sixteen hours a day of backbreaking labor, not enough food, and constant dehydration, and you have a recipe for insanity.

When that door opened and I stepped out into the sunshine for the first time in five weeks, even though it stung my eyes like a firebrand, it was like being reborn. I stopped outside the door, smiled, and turned my face up to the sun, soaking it in.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

I held a hand over my face and looked at my escort, trying to blink away the glare. “What’s that?”

He pointed upward. “The sun. I spent about two months down in the tunnels before I finally fought my way out. The first time I went outside, I cried like a fucking baby. The guys in my crew still give me shit about it."

It took me a minute to force my eyes to focus, but finally they adjusted and I could see the man standing in front of me. He was a little shorter than me, late twenties, dark hair, long beard, strong Southern accent.

“It was a couple of months before I stopped hating the tunnels,” he went on. “But now it doesn’t bother me anymore.”

“You were a slave, too?”

He nodded. “Yep. Just like you.” He pointed at the office building next door. “Let’s head over that way. Quartermaster is on the second floor.”

We set off toward the building. On the way I said, “The last time I went over there, Aiken’s men took me through a tunnel.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t like coming outside during the daytime. Not sure why.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “A word of friendly advice: Stay the fuck away from Aiken.”