Thank god. There’s still hope.
Encoding is standard procedure for the Scientific Collective when leaving a message in the open. The plus-eleven is part of the key to unlocking the message, but we also use a private rotating key that changes weekly. Luckily, I have them all committed to memory—part of my training. I take a pen and paper from my backpack and jot down the writing.
A quick peek at my watch shows 7:38 p.m. Less than seventeen hours until the meeting time. That’ll be cutting it close if Zach turns out to be sick. By then, he’ll have a terrible fever. But at least it gives me more time to decipher this code and hopefully have a clue for what to do next.
I turn to search the rest of the bunker for more clues when a faint noise off to my left breaks the silence. It’s quiet but unmistakable. Something down here moved.
I spin around on my heel, shining the light and pointing the pistol in the direction of the noise. “Who’s there!”
A moment later, three figures holding guns walk into the beam of my flashlight. I don’t recognize them, but their combat gear and how they carry themselves scream militia. One turns on a flashlight and points it at me, shining it in my eyes and obscuring any more details.
“You with the other one?” a woman calls out.
“I’m alone. What do you mean,other one?” I keep my voice calm.
“Blond bastard. Tall,” she replies.
Fuck. Connor’s been here. But I play ignorant. “No. Just me.”
“Good answer,” she says in a level tone. “If you said yes, we’d shoot you on the spot. He killed two of our men. But nobody has to die here. Just drop your gun and your backpack, and you can walk away.”
That’s not going to happen, so I say nothing.
“Drop the damn gun!” a man yells cocking his pistol.
“I’ll be on my way,” I reply, my voice firm. “But I need my supplies.”
“I think you’ll find we need them more,” the woman says. “Is what you’re carrying worth dying for?”
I sigh. “Yes,” I say quietly.
My instincts kick in at the sudden movement from the three armed people. I dive for the cover of an overturned lab table to my left. Gunshots ring out, and a strobe of muzzle flashes brighten the room as I hit the floor hard. Dust rains down as the bullets impact the cement wall behind me, creating large divots.
Footsteps head toward me, closing the distance between us, so I act quickly. I pull the pin of the last grenade and throw it over the desk. It clatters along the floor. “Better run!” I shout.
“Shit! Grenade!” one of them yells, and there’s the sound of frantic footsteps running away. I plug my ears.
A concussive blast fills the entire bunker. The table I’m behind, which has a soapstone top and must weigh several hundred pounds, slides back a few inches. The sound of metal shrapnel embedding into the overturned tabletop makes a staccato rhythm inches away from my head.
Wasting no time after the blast, I jump up and race for the door. I shine my flashlight around the bunker as I run but see no sign of them—just a big cloud of dust. But then gunfire erupts out of the darkness. I crouch down. With the door only feet away, I shoot several times for cover, then sprint toward the entrance. After sliding through the narrow opening of the circular bunker door, I shove it closed with all my might and drag a large chunk of broken concrete against it.
I race up the ladder as fast as possible, going two rungs at a time. Every ten or so feet, I peek back down but see nothing. When I reach the top, I shine my flashlight down into the abyss. No movement.
Without looking back, I run to the Audi and drive off as fast as the electric motor will go. My destination is Volunteer Park on the top of Capitol Hill, a neighborhood in the middle of Seattle. There, I’ll wait at the Black Sun statue and hope against hope Zach remembers the rendezvous details I wrote in my letter.
When I get to the park, I leave the car a short distance away, not wanting to attract attention. I head directly to the statue, hoping to see Zach’s warm smile. The rendezvous isn’t until tomorrow, but maybe he got here early.
But he’s not here. I miss Zach so much. I miss his smile, I miss his humor, I miss his smarts. I even miss his tendency to panic sometimes. I misshim. I desperately want to find him. And I’m worried beyond belief that when I find him, he’ll be sick.
Or that I’ll never find him.
I shove that thought away and continue on.
The statue is a black, round disk about ten feet in diameter with a hole through the middle, standing on top of a pedestal. It resembles a large misshapen doughnut. Through the hole, the Space Needle is framed directly in the middle. Clearly, this was the intent of this statue.
With no Zach in sight, I search for a place to set up camp. Nearby, an old stone water tower from over a hundred years ago rises up. The tower is no longer in use, but its doors are open. Plaques on the wall make it clear this is a historical marker.
Spiral staircases wind their way up to the top of the tower over seventy feet above the ground. At the top is a large flat surface. It’s a good spot to set up a tent. Windows line the perimeter of the wall, providing an excellent vantage point for the entire area.
