The Storm (NUMA Files 10)

They leveled out after going no more than fifty feet and then continued forward on much smoother ground. Finally they stopped again. The driver and passenger climbed out, slamming their doors behind them. The lights of the second truck crept closer, penetrating the tarp as they came.

As Joe listened to the sound of the engine and the sound of the shouting voices, he detected an echo. He noticed the smooth ground beneath them after bouncing so long on the desert road and the fact that the truck’s engine had been shut off for the first time.

I’m in a warehouse.

That meant civilization: computers, phone lines and running water. Maybe even a Coke machine in a break room somewhere. A smile crept over his face.

When the lights of the next truck inched up tight and then shut off, Joe was certain of it. He only had to wait until all the trucks were parked and shut down for the night and then he could probably slip out unnoticed.

The smell of diesel fumes grew thick as the other trucks maneuvered back and forth in what must have been a fairly tight space. Finally the last engine shut off. He heard more talking.

“Come on,” he whispered, “everyone out. It’s got to be Miller time by now.”

Voices echoed through the dark for a whil

e longer, but they were slowly growing more distant. The sound of heavy doors sliding shut rang out, and the silence that followed told Joe he was probably alone.

Choosing to be extra cautious, Joe waited in the silence. After a few minutes, he felt it was safe to move. If there were guards, they were probably posted where they could keep people from getting into the warehouse, not out.

Joe made his way past the other barrels and toward the rear of the flatbed.

Kurt really should have come with me, Joe thought. In a few minutes he’d be free of trouble and dialing up NUMA. From there a description of the Be-200s could be relayed to the military, a satellite sweep could identify the traveling planes and Special Forces could be called in. Leilani Tanner would stand a much better chance of being rescued by them than she did with just Kurt and the stolen 9mm pistol he’d taken from the guard.

But this way Joe would be responsible for saving both of them. He was glad for the chance and he looked forward to the satisfaction of having Kurt foot the bill at Citronelle and admitting that he had rescued him.

He reached the tailgate of the flatbed. He pulled the tarp up a fraction and peered out. It was pitch-black in the warehouse. All he could see was the nose of the other truck pressed right up against the rear bumper of his.

Nice parking job.

He listened again for any signs of trouble. He could hear something. It sounded like a distant rumbling. Almost like another truck beyond the walls. Or even the diesel engine of a freight train in the distance. Trains meant rails and rails led places. He found himself growing more excited by the moment.

He untied the rear flap, slid his legs over the edge and lowered himself down. As he turned sideways to fit between the two trucks, an odd sensation came over him, like dizziness or vertigo. Perhaps he’d been sitting too long. Perhaps the lack of water had begun to affect his balance.

He put a hand on the hood of the second truck, steadied himself and let go. He edged out into the space between the two rows of vehicles. The rigs were parked so tightly, they’d had to fold in their mirrors to stop them from breaking off.

With just enough room to walk between the rows, Joe headed toward the end of the rows of trucks and what he assumed was the door through which they’d come in.

The vertigo hit him again and he felt his knees almost buckle. He began to fear some of the microbots had gotten out of the barrels and into his ears. That was the problem with things too small to see: one never knew where they were.

“A Q-Tip,” he mumbled, rubbing his ear, “my kingdom for a Q-Tip.”

His balance came back and he moved another step. This time the sensation came quicker, more pronounced and smoother somehow. Joe felt it in his legs and felt it in his neck as if he was being pushed back and forth. He heard a creaking sound.

He held as still as possible. The sensation repeated itself yet again. It wasn’t his imagination. It wasn’t vertigo. It wasn’t even the bots, throwing off his balance. The feeling was real and extremely familiar.

His heart began to pump. He moved faster, slipping between the trucks, his feet sliding across the metal floor. By the time he reached the steel door at the end of the rows he could feel the floor moving beneath his feet in a slowly repeating pattern, smooth and steady, up and down.

The sound of a foghorn far above confirmed what Joe already knew.

He was on a ship of some kind, not parked in a warehouse. The odd sensation beneath his feet was the deck moving on what he could only assume to be a freighter of some kind riding out past a breakwater and into the swells at an angle.

The deck rose and fell and also pitched and twisted. The movements weren’t pronounced, just enough to throw him off in the darkness, but they were unmistakable now.

Joe found the latch to the rear door. It was bolted heavy and tight.

He recalled his boast to Kurt. There are only so many roads and so many places a truck can go from here.

Yeah, he thought. Unless you put the truck on a ship. Then it can pretty much go anywhere.