Chapter 26
Ezra
The ties that bind us increase in strength. The longer I remain near Atlas, the more I feel a part of myself entwine with his being, merging until our essence becomes one. He certainly acts unperturbed, but my composure is leaning, crumbling before my very eyes.
I don’t want it to be like this forever.
Atlas introduced me and Conin to his parents; his father has bright, fervent red hair due to his Scottish lineage, and his mother is Latina-Caribbean—the two had met when his father served his LDS Mission somewhere on the Caribbean islands.
Atlas’s mother moved to start a family in Utah, and they settled in Eureka almost a decade ago.
I can’t imagine their family as devout members.
The LDS Church took a neutral stance on the matter, though many of their more conservative members chose to side against recidivists.
My family and I have never been religious, but I do have a small vendetta against the church, as I grew up surrounded by its influence.
It doesn’t help that the church neglected our family when we were in need. Conin’s stories of his time as a member are also horrifying.
As Atlas leads us into their basement where he says the bunker is located, an uneasiness prickles at the nape of my neck.
Not all those who are part of a denomination are prejudiced, and I shouldn’t act as if they are, because that isn’t fair, but I have these overwrought thoughts that this is a trap.
I snap out of my daze when Atlas pauses in front of an aluminum door reinforced with a locking mechanism, where he punches a code in to gain access.
An abrupt hiss emanates from the threshold.
Several locks click. Atlas pushes the door open and leads us inside an unexpected luxury.
The bunker is state-of-the-art with a modern sleekness that does not resonate with the rest of the MacPherson household.
I wonder as I gawk at its homely coziness, why their family doesn’t live down here full-time, especially when at risk with Atlas.
What I would’ve killed for to bask in the luxuriousness of this cellar.
Most of its technology, some of which I can’t put names to or recognize, is mind-boggling to see.
Conin lets his guard down. It’s enough for me to witness his impressed look.
Atlas leads us through the kitchen, passing what appears to be a living room mixed with an entertainment center, to a bedroom with rows of twin-size beds.
I deflate. While Conin appears relieved, maybe even unburdened by our change of scenery, I can’t help but feel that I have lost a part of what’s comforted me throughout this trip: Conin’s back pressed against mine, the warmth and heat of his body, the gentle rise and fall of his stomach and chest. Him.
Right next to me. And now there are no more excuses.
What could I possibly say that wouldn’t out myself to him?
The fear of him thinking differently of me plagues me enough with worry that I keep my mouth shut. I won’t ruin this.
“This is where you two will sleep. You can leave your stuff in here and then I can give you a tour of the bunker,” Atlas says with a subtle grin quirked at his lips.
We place our bags on the spare beds, claiming them as our own.
Conin keeps the Glock in the hoodie’s pocket.
Atlas tries to act as if he hasn’t noticed.
When we’re ready, he nods and proceeds out of the room and into a hallway aligned with a closet, bathroom with shower, and laundry room.
This makes me question the extent of our stay.
“The bunker was my grandpa’s idea and the Angelics helped bring it to life.
The goal was to design it as impenetrable and impossible for intruders to get in.
It’s where we keep AWOL powered individuals until the Angelics can extract them and take them to Proctus, the Angelic safe haven,” he continues as he presents a bathroom the size of my room in the Gray household.
“Tell me more about the Angelics,” Conin says.
“Besides what I already told you, essentially, they were founded about twenty years ago or so. The Angelics were small back then. They grew through the wealth and influence of Esther Brown, their founder. She bought some small town sequestered in California after a wildfire and established it as the Angelic safe haven, or what we call Proctus.”
“How are the Angelics able to stay off the radar? I can’t imagine no one’s stumbled upon an entire town of AWOL recidivists,” says Conin.
“It’s been years since I’ve visited Proctus, but back then Esther had to spend millions to hush not only the government up, but any poor soul to stumble upon it.
From what I understand, one of their own possesses an ability to mask it using a force field of sorts.
He’s a more recent addition,” Atlas says.
“The government knows?” I ask.
“Well, you buy an entire town—granted, one that burned in a wildfire—and that’s going to draw attention.
As far as I’m aware, California is one of the more accepting states.
In more recent years, they passed legislation to protect recidivists.
After the attack on Buford Elementary—Well, there’s a lot of work to be done, but Esther plans on more widespread influence.
She’s been brewing on bigger courses of action for years, though nothing concrete yet. There’s not enough of us.”
Conin nods. He nudges my shoulder, catching me fixating on Atlas.
This draws the boy’s attention, and I subvert my gaze when he peers over with a curious expression.
He says nothing about it and for that I’m grateful.
Atlas proceeds with our tour of the bunker.
He takes us into the entertainment center, complete with a grand television set, and a wall lined with shelves that sport a plethora of books, movies, and vinyl records.
The record player, a fancy system with a glass cover and conjoined speakers, sits on a nightstand at the end of a large, L-shaped couch.
I’m excited to see it, but immensely jealous. I could never afford one of my own.
A large abstract painting takes up most of the accent wall, outlined with crown molding.
The rest of the space is furnished in a very homely way, albeit sleek and modern.
There are video games, a couple of arcade machines, and other shit I can’t put a name to.
The kitchen is across from the living space, adjacent to the door that leads to the house.
All the normal amenities are there with a stocked fridge and pristine, white cabinetry.
It appears as if no one’s used the bunker in a hot minute.
It’s nice—too nice. It seems too good to be true.
As if reading my mind, Atlas says, “It’s cool, isn’t it?
Esther was very generous when my grandpa presented the idea to her.
He was a devout Angelic and wanted to do what he could here in Utah.
Esther liked the idea so much that she stationed small groups of Angelics in every state, and made sure there was a safe space for AWOLs to stay at until they could be taken to Proctus.
She pays them handsomely, that’s for sure. ”
He sits on the plush couch, sinks into its cushions.
Conin places himself on a rocking chair and I take the other half of the couch, leveling my knees to my chest and propping my chin on a kneecap.
Atlas props his feet on the glass surface of the coffee table.
He’s perfectly at home. He probably spends a lot of time down here, more than he’d admit.
“So, is that how you know Tommy?” Conin questions after a momentary silence.
“Tommy is a newer recruit. It was sort of a chance meeting at a protest in the city last year. My grandpa and I went; he liked Tommy’s ‘spunk.’ His words, not mine,” Atlas says in an attempt at a joke. He coughs and plays it off when it’s clear neither Conin nor I found it amusing.
“Weren’t you afraid of attending the protest? What if they had you arrested or you were found out?” I say.
I always wanted to participate in one, but I never had the courage. There was an immense, persistent fear of my discovery or the possibility of arrest. Atlas looks me dead in the eye. A small frown tugs his lips downward.
“You can’t live your entire life in fear,” he says, his focus entirely on me.
Conin shuffles on the rocking chair. It’s silent longer than feels comfortable. Ms. Bernard’s words drift in like a whisper, brushing against my skin, raising the hairs on my arms. A cold shiver takes root.
“Anyways, it was a peaceful protest—nothing the police or government could act on. And there were hundreds and hundreds of just normal citizens, all there in support of recidivist rights. If the authorities had done anything, shit would’ve gotten ugly quickly.
And many were fearful of the recidivists in the crowd, of what they could do.
The unfortunate truth, but we used it to our advantage. ”
I possess nothing useful to contribute to the conversation, so my lips stay zipped.
“How long do you suppose we’ll be here before the Angelics can extract us? Who will it be? Esther herself or a smaller group of cohorts?” says Conin.
Atlas’s posture straightens.
“I’ll need to contact Ambrosia in the morning. She, along with several others, is usually in charge of extractions in Utah. Depending on whether they’re in California or somewhere nearby, it could take up to a week. Shouldn’t be any later than that.”
He stands abruptly. I mimic him, cursing my legs for betraying me, and almost sit back down, so as not to out myself that his entire presence has me on edge.
Atlas studies me for a moment; our gazes locked, tension potent, palpable enough for Conin to squirm in his seat.
Atlas blinks, then grins. His stubble is prominent in this lighting.
“Knowing ma, she’s probably whipped something up for you two, so I hope you’re hungry.”
It’s eleven at night, but I don’t point that out. Conin’s stomach grumbles. I stifle a laugh because the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Atlas, however, lets out a cordial chuckle.
“I’ll take that as a confirmation. The fridge and cupboards are stocked, but ma tends to cook whenever we have visitors. It’s just how she is,” he says, catching my eye one last time before disappearing through the secured door.
My gaze lingers long after he’s left, and a sigh presses out my lips.
I hadn’t noticed it was queued for Atlas’s departure, but now that he’s gone, I regain the ability to breathe.
Conin’s intense glare sears my peripheries.
When it’s clear I’ve spotted him, his focus darts intently to the abstract piece of art hung on the wall. We stay like this for a long time.