The Garden of Eden (Silent Moments Series: Book 5)

Chapter 8

"You see this?" she asked, pointing to the floor near my feet.

Shaw approached, his attention drawn to something on the ground. He knelt beside me, examining a small pool of blood. "Blood alteration like they had on Eligius III," he observed. "Two suns, no sunscreen needed."

I felt a twinge of concern. They knew now about the blood alteration – a secret I hadn't intended to reveal. The realization that my bleeding had inadvertently exposed this vital information sent a chill down my spine.

"Must be how they survived down here," the woman concluded, piecing together the implications of our survival on Earth.

Her next command was pragmatic and unexpected. "Bring me a med kit. Over," she spoke into her walkie, her tone crisp and businesslike. As I processed this, a new thought struck me – the radio. They had a working radio, something I had tried and failed to replicate for years. The possibility of accessing it, of using it to my advantage, sparked a flicker of hope amidst my dire situation.

"On my way," crackled the response from the radio.

Despite the pain and the precariousness of my position, my mind was now racing with possibilities. If I could just get my hands on that radio, it could be a game-changer. But first, I needed to navigate the immediate threat posed by these strangers, their motives and plans still shrouded in mystery. In the room, the tension hung thick, a tangible presence amid the uncertainty of what was to come. The woman's gaze on me was calculating, her mind clearly working through the implications of her newfound knowledge about my blood.

The woman settled into a chair directly in front of me, her demeanor a mix of calculated calm and underlying intensity. "We got off on the wrong foot, you and I," she began, her voice steady. "We had no idea that there was anyone alive down here. How could we have? We were just trying to get back home."

Her words floated around me, but my focus was split. The chatter over the radio was a constant distraction, each call sign, each check-in sending a spike of worry through me. My thoughts were with Madi, hidden and alone, hoping against hope that she remained undiscovered.

"Surely you can understand why I'm upset," the woman continued, her gaze searching mine. "Just like you were upset when we took your village. Nobody else has to die today. You tell me what I need to know, and we can come up with an arrangement that works for all of us. Sound like a plan?"

Her offer hung in the air, but I remained silent, my expression carefully neutral.

Shaw, pacing behind her, chimed in, "Maybe he doesn't speak English."

The woman waved off the suggestion. "He speaks English," she asserted confidently, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized me. "He just wants us to think she doesn't so we'll speak freely. Every time patrol checks in..." She trailed off, glancing at the walkie in her hand.

My heart sank as she continued, "He's tracking our movements. That's all he cares about." Her analysis was spot on; I had been too focused on the radio, too concerned about Madi's safety.

With a sigh, she stood, her next words sending a chill down my spine. "You don't want to talk, that's fine. But we'll see how you feel when we find whoever it is you're protecting." She brought the walkie to her lips. "Change of plans, ladies and gentlemen. No more prisoners. Shoot to kill."

Her order was a cold, calculated shift in strategy, escalating the danger for Madi and anyone else still out there. In that moment, the stakes had never been higher, and my resolve to protect Madi at all costs only hardened. In the dim, confined space where they held me, time seemed to stretch and warp, each second laden with a heavy silence. My resolve to remain silent was tested with each passing hour, my mind racing with thoughts of Madi's safety. Despite the growing discomfort from the chair's hard edges pressing against me, my focus remained unwavering. They wouldn't find her. She was too clever, too attuned to the woods that had been her playground and sanctuary. Shaw's approach broke the monotonous tension. He took a nonchalant swig from his flask, its contents unknown but unmistakably strong by the aroma. Offering it to me, I hesitated before accepting, the liquid burning a fiery trail down my throat, offering a fleeting, bitter warmth.

"Come on," Shaw coaxed, his tone softer, more personal as he crouched down. His eyes sought mine, searching for a glimpse into my thoughts. "What harm can come from telling me your name?" But my lips remained sealed, a silent fortress guarding my and Madi's secrets.

He stood, shaking his head, a wry chuckle escaping him. "This is the best conversation I've had in over a hundred years," he mused, lost briefly in a memory of a time and a world long gone. His reminiscence about being an altar boy, the rides on his Harley – they painted a picture of a man who had once lived a life vastly different from his current existence.

But my attention was elsewhere, riveted to the static-filled communications emanating from the radio. Each update, each call sign, was a razor-sharp edge against my nerves. And then, the dreaded update came. "Someone just ran out of that cave!" The words were a physical blow, my fear for Madi surging like a tidal wave.

Panic and desperation intermingled as I listened to their pursuit of her, my heart racing in tandem with each radio call. When the moment came – "I got a shot" – my silence shattered. "No," I gasped, the words torn from a place of raw fear. "She's just a child."

The woman, who had been an imposing figure of authority and control, regarded me with a new interest. "He speaks," she noted, a hint of intrigue in her voice.

My plea was desperate, my voice hoarse with emotion. "None, it's just the two of us," I confessed, the words a surrender to my overwhelming need to protect Madi. "I am begging you. Tell him not to shoot."

Her command to "Fire at will" was a gut-wrenching moment, but I clung to a sliver of hope, revealing the crucial information about the hunting grounds and the potential trap.

Shaw's affirmation of my truth was a pivotal moment, swaying the woman's decision. The relief that flooded me when she ordered the stand down was palpable, a momentary respite in a sea of turmoil.

When I heard confirmation of Madi's escape, a deep, shuddering breath escaped me. My body sagged against the constraints, the tension easing just enough to allow me to focus on the woman's next words.

"Thank you," I whispered, my gratitude mixed with an undercurrent of caution.

Her response was as pragmatic as it was chilling. "Thank you, for telling the truth," she said. The implication was clear – our lives hung in the balance of this fragile truth.

As she settled back, ready to delve into the past, her final question caught me off guard. "Start with how the world ended."

My reply, "Which time?" was not just a response; it was an acknowledgment of our shared, complex history – a history marked by survival, loss, and the relentless passage of time in a world that had repeatedly remade itself.