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flow returning. He was filled with relief that he was, at long last, alone.
    Jack stood, swung his arms and rolled his head on his neck. It was good to move and breathe freely. He was fairly certain that all of Sturgis’ mercenary men had cleared out, but just in case, he stayed low and jogged down the street that led to house number 232-A. Down the brick-paved avenue lined with the eerie green glow of genetically modified trees that acted as streetlights. Back to the house where they’d found Dr. Randall. Back to one of the last places he’d seen Erika.
    The locking mechanism beside the door was still black from when Ian had shot it. The door was still ajar as though they had just come out of it a few seconds ago. Jack took the stairs in one large step but stopped on the porch just outside the door. A pitch-black entryway stared back at him. He took a deep breath, entered the house and closed the door behind him.
    Jack spent three days in Dr. Randall’s stale, smelly townhouse. There was no television, computer or phone. He assumed the soldiers came back to finish cleaning things up in the town square, but he was far enough away that he couldn’t hear them if they were there. No one came to the door, and there was nobody in the street.
    He rummaged through the refrigerator and rifled through the doctor’s musty books. Dr. Randall had several books on biochemistry and genetics. Jack tried to read a few pages, but the science was beyond him. The only fiction was a worn copy of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. Odd choice of reading material.
    Jack decided on Dickens over biochemistry. The language was dated and Jack was unfamiliar with the details of the historical period involved. It was better than chemistry but still nearly impossible to muddle through. He’d read a page and realize he had no idea what he’d read.
    His mind was a jumble and his stomach in knots. He was safe – for now. But in his gut, he worried that Erika and Ian weren’t. And he had no way to communicate with them let alone help them. I’ve got to remember to ask Sewell if there’s a way to contact them.
    Jack sat on the floor in the small living room, staring at a page in the Dickens book, when someone tromped up the stairs of the porch. His heart rate quickened. He quietly closed the book and crept to the wall by the door. The lock was still broken from where Ian had shot it, so there was no swoosh of a card through a reader.
    The door flew open and a voice whispered, “Are you still here, Mr. Wilson?”
    Sewell. Jack peered around the wall. Mr. Sewell stood alone just inside the door. His face was its usual bright pink. He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his face as he glanced around.
    “I’m here,” Jack said. He came out into the small vestibule.
    “Ah, good. I trust you were able to find something edible here?”
    Jack nodded. Edible was about all he could say for the canned tuna and stale saltines he’d lived off of for three days.
    “I assume you’d like to get out of this place.”
    “And never set foot here again. In fact, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to go into a basement without suffering from PTSD.”
    Sewell laughed. It wasn’t the nervous twittery laugh Jack had heard from Sewell before. It was honest and from the gut.
    “I can see that. Life below ground isn’t for everyone. How Croft thinks that the Makers and their families will live here for long periods – years even – is beyond me.”
    “Is that what this was built for?” Jack was going bonkers after only a week without sun. He didn’t wish a life underground on his worst enemy.
    Sewell nodded. “Courtesy of the U.S. taxpayer. Of course, regular guys like you and me won’t be asked to the party. Only the elites of the world, handpicked by the Makers. Well, by one of them anyway.”
    “That Croft guy?”
    “Yes.”
    Jack had heard theories about a so-called ‘New World Order’, N.W.O., on UFO and alien conspiracy