Raindrops pattered on Erik Torreon's map just he reached the red brick shelter. A rumble filled the air and, as if on cue, the sky opened and lines of sleet began beating the ground. Erik flattened himself against the wall, thankful for the thin lip of the roof protecting him from the sudden downpour. Moments later pellet-sized hail plinked on the tin roof. It was dark, he was tired and hungry, and he hoped he could find a way into this squat structure to save him from having to wrap himself in his tarp, condemned to a restless sleep on the cold sodden ground.
He edged his way to find an impenetrable steel door. Happily for him, the structure's far wall had caved inward, bringing down a portion of the roof with it. Erik jostled a brick free from the broken mortar and tossed into the blackness, listening for the scurrying of anything--or anyone--using the place as a hideout, but heard nothing but the crinkle of leaves as it landed. He climbed over the rubble and pulled out his reader, shining the dim backlight into the gloom. The one-room structure held only some empty metal shelves. On the floor he saw a few shredded food wrappers, the work of hungry animals. A cursory search suggested the walls had been hastily constructed, the mortar slopped unevenly across the brick walls, and soft turf sank under one side wall, bringing it down under its own weight. But it was more than adequate shelter and Erik felt no need to discriminate.
In the pale light he saw a corner where debris had accumulated, blown in by the wind. Clearing away the dirt and leaves he found a large metal hatch. He pulled the handle half-heartedly, expecting to find it locked, but it turned easily. He pulled gently and the door swung upward on oiled hinges. Erik thrust the light in the hole hoping to find a stocked food cache, but instead saw the top of a metal ladder and a guttering dome light mounted on the wall some ten feet below.
Erik stared at the ladder for several seconds, listening to the rain pelting the roof. Then he dropped one foot into the hole.
At the bottom, a crudely carved tunnel extended about fifteen yards through a black corridor, opening on what appeared to be a small, well-lit space. Erik felt his way along the dirt wall, moving slowly and silently. He heard shuffling paper and muttering, a man's voice. He slinked to the end of the tunnel, careful with each footfall. He shielded his eyes as he peered into a small low-ceilinged room brightly lit by a half-dozen of the dome lights. A refrigerator and two case freezer crowded one corner and a portable range occupied another, all plugged into a humming generator. He was taken aback at the sight; he had never seen more than three electrical items working at once. In the opposite corner, a white-haired man in a filthy lab coat sat scribbling on a note pad, the table and floor covered in crumpled pages and small glass phials. He wore thin metal braces that ran from the base of his neck down to each of his wrists.
Erik heard a small tik and the man gasped, tensing, before his whole body visibly relaxed. He heard a second tik and an empty glass phial dropped from the man's elbow to the ground. The man whipped his head around to see Erik standing in the tunnel, staring at him. The man's face was wild, his eyes glassy, and it was then Erik realized the man was jacked out of his mind.
Erik stumbled backwards as the old man sprung from his chair in surprise. "Wait," the man cried. "Don't go. Forgive me. I know I look a mess but I never expected you'd come."
Erik fell as he raced back up the tunnel as the man implored him to stop. He had one foot on the ladder when the man grasped his shoulder. Erik drew back his arm ready to strike but he saw no malice his eyes, only a feverish glee. The man pressed a clipboard into Erik's chest. At the top was a dispenser of jack. The man nodded, a streak of sweat racing from his temple. Erik squinted at the note scrawled on the pad:
I have a large stash of jack I will freely give you if you use the dispenser and indulge me my fantasy.
Use the dispenser.
If you're going to kill me, that's fine, but you won't get the jack.
--MM
"You'll give me jack if I play along?" Erik asked.
The man's face wrinkled in confusion. His mouth worked but no words came out. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand the question. I'm a bit scatterbrained at the moment," he said with a nervous smile, smoothing his hair. "I have a lot on my mind. But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you Mr. President?"
Erik contemplated him. Then he slipped the dispenser onto his finger and clicked the trigger; the rush followed a few seconds later.
He awoke, groggy and nude beneath a soiled sheet on a bare mattress. His mouth was dry and tasted like copper. The dome lights were harsh in his eyes. He had no idea the time, but the older man, dressed only in his boxer shorts and dirty sweat socks, stood over the range mixing the contents of a pan. He glanced at Erik, his face creased and haggard, and said without feeling, "I hope you like your powdered eggs scrambled. I have coffee or tea."
A wave panic flooded over Erik, but something in his host's eyes calmed him.
"Come. Sit. Eat."