This is Episode 6-12 of a serial urban fantasy & paranormal story.

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Part 6-12: Tent

There were six of us in the back of the van. Four toughs, and two victims. Though I had no reason to believe that Deluxe wasn’t enjoying her own black-bagged ride to curly-hair HQ, her absence left a rolling ball of ice in the bottom of my stomach. What if they’d shot her? The Terradyne woman certainly had no reservations about executions.

To take my mind off of the poisonous thoughts, ghost-me joined the driver and his passenger in the front, and I tried to see if I could tell where they were taking us. I was no expert on the town layout, but we passed enough landmarks and road signs for me to estimate our trajectory as southwest.

The buildings thinned out and became more industrial, the roads wider and cleaner. We were in the district of big parking lots and charmless two storey offices.

I floated my head out of the top of the vehicle, relieved to find that we appeared to be part of a convoy. It gave me hope that my best friend was indeed on the same route with us.

As we approached what I estimated to be the edge of what was considered ‘town,’ one last complex hove in sight. A big hangar type structure with a smaller spawn of offices held court in the middle of an asphalt plain. Our line of heavy duty vehicles slowed and veered toward it, halting at a nondescript security hut. I didn’t see anyone inside, but when the driver thumbed a walkie talkie, producing a series of pips and squawks, the yellow and black barrier arm dutifully arched up.

Ignoring the parking lot’s lines, we made for the jut of low set offices, which I realized were not so white collar after all, the closer we came. There were many metal-ribbed garage doors lining the wall, and very few windows. One of the doors rose to admit us.

If I was expecting a high-tech, James Bond villain headquarters inside, I’d’ve been disappointed. The truth is, I wasn’t sure what we were getting into, but a greasy mechanic’s shop would not have been at the top of my list.

Yet, here we were. The convoy drove deep into the interior of the place, which was evidently hollow: it was a long and tall hallway, a boxy tunnel of sorts. An arrangement of car hoists made a horseshoe shape around the big door we’d come in, each surrounded by an untidy collection of tool chests, tire piles, hoses, oil stains, and car guts. A few of the hoists even held some vehicles, most of which looked like pickup trucks in various states of disrepair.

What threw it all off was the lack of dudes in greasy overalls, and the presence of a dozen straight up army personnel with heavy artillery. Also, there was no wifi sun. Perhaps they hardwired everything for security.

My ride parked at a sharp angle, and the G.I. Joes marched forward. I felt an iron grip seize physical Alena’s bicep, so I devoted some mental energy to getting her to her feet and complying. Ghost-me hopped out of the van and tried to take in the bigger picture while desperately scanning for a sign of Deluxe.

To my relief, she appeared fast: two soldiers hustled her out of the back of the third van and clumped the three of us together.

“This place stinks,” said Fergus, and was rewarded with a rifle butt to the shoulder for his unfavourable review.

They herded us towards a tent, bags still over our heads. It was a huge canvas thing, probably designed to withstand intense weather. They’d erected it over top of the neighbouring ‘horseshoe bay,’ as far as I could tell. It had the classic mottled brown and green camouflage treatment I’d come to expect to see on leggings versus serious military operations.

As we entered the flap, different teams of people separated Fergus, Deluxe and myself. As this was happening, I took a quick look around the interior. The super-tent had rooms—big drapes of canvas sliced the place into at least three partitions. Fergus and Deluxe got manhandled toward one end, myself toward the other. The middle area reminded me of the alleyway, full of scattered tables, fat wires, and a few computer consoles. I caught sight of some weapon racks and other big crates, but no sign of a head full of springy, metallic curls. Terradyne was not in the main room, so it seemed, so I followed the crowd that was in charge of Deluxe.

The side room was full of cages, draped over with dark blue tarps. A makeshift jail. My friends were herded into separate steel boxes. I checked in with myself, and found that I had my own special treatment: orange tarps! Perhaps I was a VIP.

Once Deluxe was inside her cell, they tightened the tarps and locked her in. I couldn’t tell how dark it was, but assumed it was hard enough to see, based on how she carefully felt around. There was nothing in the DIY prison except for a stool, which she found, perched on and exhaled.

“Here goes nothing,” I said, and sat down too—right inside of her.

 

 

Continued in Part 6-13

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