Gray (Book 2) (20 page)

Reaching up, she plucked the metal toothpick from her teeth. Could she fit both these things into the lock? She took the hook out, put it back in at the top, and stuck the toothpick underneath it. Tight fit, but they both were in there. Of course she had no idea what she was doing with them. But she had all night to fiddle with it.

She settled into lotus position and began to experiment. One tool up top, one on bottom. Up top was where the action was. Soon she had found a two springy things up there. Push them, they sprung back. Push them, they sprung back again. Push them, hold them, wiggle the bottom thing, nothing.

Hmm. She tried the doorknob, hoping somehow she’d miraculously unlocked the thing without knowing, but it was still locked. There had to be better tools for this job than the ones she had on the knife.

She swore, if she ever wandered into a hardware section of a Walmart with Benjamin again, she was going to make them camp out there for a month while she learned how every damn thing in the aisles worked.

She brushed her hair back—oops. No hair. Weird that the urge to push it back as still there. Habits can be strong.

Hmm. She wondered what habits of the cult she could exploit to help her escape. She’d think on that later on, after she’d gotten through this lock. She stretched her neck back and forth to ease the tension and began again.

Finally, she figured out there weren’t just two springy things but more. The third one was so tight, it took several minutes to figure out that’s what it was. The spring was tighter or something. She wiggled the toothpick under it and pushed, but the toothpick’s narrow point wasn’t enough surface area to gain pressure on the thing. She reversed it so the back end, thicker, was in there. It took her a minute to find the edge of the spring thing—whatever the hell it was called—again, and this time, when she fought the pressure of the spring, it retreated with a solid
click.
And it stayed there.

Aha. Now she was getting somewhere. She tried turning her hook again like a key. No dice. Toothpick in again. Damn, the strong spring had released again. So back to it, push that out of the way until it stuck, and dig deeper. Another springy thing. Push that one. The hook-key still wouldn’t turn.

It took many more minutes before she realized that if she kept the bottom thing half-turned, like a key, the spring things up top, whatever they were, stayed in place once she had shoved them back. Finally, she figured out that there was a fifth spring, too. Two loose ones, a hard one, another easy one, a hard one.

Full dark had fallen, bringing with it a drop in temperature, and now she had to stop every few minutes to warm her fingers by sticking them in her armpits. The cabin was pitch dark, so she was working entirely by feel and sound. Every little click made hope rise in her chest, but the lock wouldn’t budge.

Until, with a loud snick, it did. The hook turned, like a key, and the door popped open, brushing her face.

Damn! Coral did a seated happy dance. She had a new career as a lock-picker. Although, in the post-Event world, really, a person could normally bludgeon a door, tear it down, and leave it in ruins, and no one would complain. And there weren’t many doors left in the world anyway. So it probably wouldn’t be much of a career.

Beat the hell out of alien brood mare, though.

She was cold and stiff. She hadn’t noticed the cold so much while she was focused on her task. But now she realized how freezing she was. After tucking away her knife, she rubbed her arms, shook out her legs, and entered the kitchen. There was a lamp somewhere in here, and matches.

Oh, wait. Maybe not a good idea. Could they see the light? She tried to imagine the building. No windows back here. As long as she kept the door between the dining area and kitchen shut, she should be able to risk putting the lamp on low.

She fumbled along the counter until she found it. Then she pawed around until she found the matches. She struck one and turned on the lamp, turning it low. It went out. She tried again, and this time she turned it down without putting it out. It cast a pale yellow light over the kitchen.

There was no reason to steal food for the trip—not yet, at least. On the night they escaped, maybe she could pick the front lock, too, now that she knew the procedure. She almost started eating the carrots from the bin, but then she realized it would be better if they didn’t know she had gotten in here. No one was obsessive enough to be counting the carrots…but still, for now, she let them be.

She found the stack of dish towels and took them out, tying them together at the ends, until she had a small, lumpy shawl. She stuck it over her head and shoulders. That was better. Between that and keeping active, she might not freeze to death this night.

She carried the lamp into the back alcove. There was the radio. That was what she had wanted to get to—ever since she had first seen it. Somewhere out there, people were still alive. If this Farm place, and if another in Oregon had survived, so had other people. And a few of them must also have radios.

Her ignorance about radios was as pure as her ignorance about lock-picking. She studied the dials on the front of the device. Taking a deep breath, she flicked the off-on switch and listened. It was entirely dead. No static. Not so much as a click when she turned it on.

So the stationary bike must make it work. Someone had complained about the charge, but they hadn’t said it wasn’t working at all. And they had gotten the news of the baby being born, right?

She hoped the thing was all hooked up, because she was entirely out of her depth here, and biking was the one part of it she did know how to do. She climbed on the bike and began pedaling. Almost immediately, a light glowed on the radio. She stopped pedaling, the light went out.

Huh. She couldn’t be in two places at once, so this might not work at all. Still, at least biking would warm her up. So she set to it, pedaling fast, until she began to pant. The light on the radio burned brightly. She pedaled and pedaled, until she was gasping for air, then stopped. The light didn’t go off.

Eureka! How long would the charge last? No matter, she could always pedal some more later.

She pedaled again, more slowly, while she thought about this. What if the radio were set at a place where only the Farm people were listening? It probably was set to a, whatsit—frequency, that was the word—where the Oregon Farm and maybe others had agreed to meet this one. So maybe she should turn some of those dials before she started talking.

Off the bike, then, with a plan. She leaned over the desk, adjusted the lamp a bit higher, and studied the dials. Preselect, range, gain, mode, unlabeled. All that meant nothing to her. Wait. Mode had an “AM” setting—as in AM radio? AM, CW, SSB, FSK. It was pointing to SSB.

Really, she didn’t have a clue what any of it meant. Preselect, though, might mean what it would mean on any radio. It was on 2, and there were 10 settings. She’d avoid 2 for now. She clicked through each setting, listened, but heard nothing but faint static. She hoped that static meant she was on the right track. She turned up the volume, and the static grew louder. She turned it back down. She made it through all the numbers, turned back to 2, and listened for a longer time.

Nothing.

So, okay, try and talk. The radio light was beginning to dim, so she got back on the bike, pedaled again until she was beginning to sweat and the lights were bright, and then she got off and sat at the radio. She went through the preselects one by one again, avoiding the setting she had found it on, this time saying, “Hello? Anybody out there?” Then she turned off the mike and listened. She said it a second time, and when she didn’t get an answer, went on to the next. She’d save setting 2 for a last resort. The last thing she wanted to do was alert the buddies of this group that she was on this radio.

They might not be able to tell where she was calling from, but why take the chance? Try and find someone sane, instead.

She tried different “modes.” She had to pedal again to charge up the radio—or the battery inside or whatever.

She tried her greeting again and again. No one was there. At least, no one was on a radio this late at night. She figured it must be ten o’clock or so, give or take. She’d better get someone soon, because the more time passed, the less likely someone would be awake and listening.

One by one, she tried the other knobs. The unmarked one changed the tone of the static, gave her a sharp whistle that faded when she turned the knob further. Okay, so set everything back the way it was, and twist that one.

The static was quite a bit louder.

And then, out of the static, she heard a voice. A human male voice, talking. She turned up the volume, but she couldn’t make it out. It spoke, it faded to quiet, and it spoke again. Was it looking for people? Talking with someone else who was too far away for her to hear?

She grabbed the microphone again and said, “Hello. Can you hear me? Can you hear me?” She let go of the switch and listened. There was no change in the voice. It went on with its announcement or conversation. She fiddled with the unmarked dial, but the voice grew softer. When she turned it back again, trying to find the right spot, the voice was gone.

Damn it! So close. She spent long minutes trying to get the person back, but he was gone. Time to bike again. She pedaled furiously, wanting to get back to the radio before more time slipped away.

Turning the unmarked knob again—tuning the radio, she supposed—she turned all the way to its upper limit. Then she turned it back, a fraction at a time, listening, leaning forward. Nothing.

Well, hell. What now? Okay, listening wasn’t working, so try talking again. She started at the far limit of the knob and spoke into the mike. Listened, spoke again, twisted the knob a fraction, tried again.

Time was wasting. But she forced herself to go slowly and methodically. Again, she had to stop and pedal the bike to recharge the radio. At least the pedaling warmed her up.

Then a voice spoke to her. Crackly and faint, but a human voice. “Come again,” it said. “Is this Winnipeg?”

She touched the dial. The static receded. “Is that you, Giles?” it said. Much clearer this time. She turned up the volume, and with a trembling hand, tried the microphone again, saying, “Can you hear me?”

“Say over, if you’re done. Over,” said the voice.

“Thank you. I don’t know a thing about radios, over,” she said.

“You’re not Giles.”

“I’m—” she realized that she couldn’t use her name, not if this had any chance of being another Farm. “I’m a captive of some mad men. I broke into their radio room.”

“Damn,” said the voice. “Sorry to hear it. You okay?”

“Been better, but I’m alive for now. I guess you don’t know any way to get some police to help me?”

“No police or anything like it left. Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Somewhere east of Boise and north of the Interstate highway.”

“I’m in Alberta,” he said. “Canada.”

He wasn’t going to be running down to rescue them any time soon. So put aside that hope. There was something else important to talk about.

“Do you know what happened?” she said. “Back in June? Over.”

“Best info I have, an asteroid hit. Or two, nearly the same time. One in Venezuela, one about Dallas, Texas.”

Dallas. Wow. If true...that was farther away than she would ever have guessed. “Do you know anything about Ohio, in the States? I have family there.”

“Only part of the States—the mainland, I mean—not in trouble at the start was New England, like Boston and north of there. But now I hear the weather has gotten so bad, they had food riots and some say cannibalism...so now it’s bad there, too.”

“How are you making it?” she asked.

“We could survive maybe six more months. Hoping summer comes back next year.”

His voice faded at the end. The radio was dying.

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back in five or ten minutes,” she told him. She jumped back on the bike and pedaled hard, until the light on the radio shone brightly again.

She grabbed the mike again. “Do you have contact with anyone in Ohio? Or Michigan?”

“Can’t reach that far, but sometimes I get a lady in Ontario. She might get to Michigan.”

“Can you write this down to tell her?” She gave him her hometown, brothers’ and grandmother’s names. “I know it’s a long shot, but if she hears of anyone in that town, pass along to them that—” she hesitated giving her name, still worried a fellow cultist could hear this. Well, screw it — “that Coral is okay.”

“I will,” he said.

“I don’t know what else to ask you,” she said. “But I hate to let you go. How many are alive up there?”

“Maybe one of twenty. I lost my son.” His voice broke.

“I’m sorry. Numbers were even worse down here. If one in five hundred are alive, one in a thousand, I’d be surprised. I’ve only seen maybe thirty survivors in total. And four recent suicides.”

“We have some of that.”

She really didn’t know what else to say, what else to ask him. He was too far away to help, too far away to walk to, and in the wrong direction to get warmer, in any case. He was a lonely voice in the cold. “I guess I’ll let you go.”

“I was just about headed for bed.” His voice was fading again as her radio’s power ran down again.