Deliver Us: Ouroboros Archives Book One Read online

  DELIVER US

  Ouroboros Archives Book One

  L. K. Churchill

  Copyright © 2020 L.K. Churchill

  All rights reserved.

  The characters, places and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: ebooklaunch.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  A Message From L.K. Churchill

  Acknowledgments

  For Armando, my rock.

  And for AJ, my sidekick.

  Prologue

  SHE DIDN’T REMEMBER anything about her life before the age of five, perhaps that’s normal. Yet, she vividly recalled most of her life from a specific moment in time. It was as if that was the day she was born.

  Standing on the beach in awe, she watched the waves crash in a perfectly timed fashion. She had never seen the ocean before or didn’t remember ever seeing it. She laughed and ran from the water. Climbing up the cliffs, she stopped and watched from above.

  Then a woman was standing next to her, looking down at her, and saying something. She didn’t recognize the woman, but she recalled the memory so clearly that it must have been her mother.

  She was asking, “What’s your name?”

  “Lourdes.”

  The woman smiled and nodded as if she had answered correctly. Her eyes were a beautiful gray that sparkled, and she hardly had any hair on her head. Seeing that made Lourdes touch her own head. She was startled to find that her hair was thick and long, not at all like the woman’s.

  “Lourdes,” the woman said and took her hand.

  Lourdes felt like she was flying. Trees and birds swirled past, and the clouds spun into a rainbow of color. And then they were back on the cliff, near the quiet beach that Lourdes lived on for many years to come.

  Chapter 1

  ONE HUNDRED NINETY-seven days. Four thousand seven hundred twenty-eight hours. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen the moon. I press my face against the metal grate and stare at it. Lying low and illuminating the sky, it’s brighter than I ever remember. The contrast of the dark landscape below catches my eye. A portrait of nothingness lies ahead, no artificial light, only a black abyss.

  My head is spinning, and my breathing is heavy. Liv, pull yourself together, there’s no time to waste. Reaching into my pack, I pull out the vial of acid. This small bottle is a miracle in my hand and the key to my escape. This isn’t going to be easy, cramped in a three-by-three-foot crawl space with no visibility. But I steady the vial on the flat metal surface in front of me and gently pull the dropper out. Four bolts hold the vent cover in place. Starting with the ones on the bottom, I drip several drops of acid on each. The pungent odor hits my nose and tingles my brain as the metal sizzles and disintegrates. I slide back and cover my face. I hope I don’t faint.

  It was by accident that I learned the strength of this substance and that it could melt through the metal of the building. It started as a regular day, fifty teenagers lined up in a science lab assembling small microchips. The lab next door, separated by a glass wall, was similar in size and had the same long black tables, but the kids wore protective gear. I couldn’t tell what they were working on, but by the looks of their outfits it was clearly something dangerous.

  Not even an hour into our shift, the kids in that lab started running and screaming. Guards rushed in and began ushering everyone out. I was close enough to see that someone had spilled a bulky container of liquid that melted through the metal floor and the bottom part of one wall. A large hole, about four feet in diameter, formed. As I looked more closely, the glass turned dark and a guard loomed over me, yelling for me to get back to work.

  That night I couldn’t sleep. The thought of that powerful liquid consumed me, I had to get my hands on it. Somehow I had to get assigned to the project in lab 7. I devised a plan, but didn’t know if it would work—no one calls their own shots in the Underworld.

  Underworld. That’s what we prisoners call this place. It’s never been referred to as anything at all, so someone came up with that name.

  Three weeks passed and I received orders to report to lab 7. Jobs were assigned to each prisoner, but we never knew what we were really working on. The projects were divided into several different parts and no one worked on more than one part. On my first day, I was handed a rubber suit, gloves, and a face mask before I was led into the large lab. Five rows of tall metal tables lined the long room and each had what looked like a chemistry set sitting on top. People filed in and took their places at stations around the room. A man in a white lab coat gave me instructions and disappeared before I could ask any questions. Like robots we worked without speaking, without even looking up.

  My job was simple: measure and pour. There were six different liquids and the instructions on measurements, mixtures, and where to place each in various glass or plastic containers were specific. Surely this was for a drug or chemical weapon. As I scanned the room, I was positive I found where the large hole had burned through the floor and wall, but it must have been patched, there was no trace of it ever existing.

  Now my problem was to figure out which substance could melt the metal of the building. It was possible that all the liquids were strong enough, but I couldn’t steal a sample of each—I wasn’t even sure I could get away with taking one sample. People working in this lab had to be careful and meticulous, spilling or splashing would be grounds for removal, or worse.

  As luck would have it, one week later my neighbor spilled a small portion of one of the liquids. It was the same one; I knew it because it immediately burned five millimeter-sized holes in the metal floor. There was no doubt about which liquid he spilled, the blue container of perfectly clear acid.

  Once the substance had been identified, I had to figure out how to get some out of the lab. I already had a container. A couple of months back, one of the children in our block had an ear infection, so after giving her ear drops to cure it, I kept the small vial. At the time, I didn’t know what purpose it would serve, but I figured it would come in handy at some point. I stayed up late for several nights devising my plan to steal the
acid. During my shifts, I watched the guards as they made their rounds watching over the workers.

  The time had come. Even if I wasn’t ready, I was at the point that I either had to follow through or give up. The day I took it, I went right to work measuring and pouring; I wasn’t going to wait until the end of my long shift and risk being tired and clumsy. Letting the small glass bottle slide from the hiding place in my sleeve, I maneuvered it next to one of the large glass containers. It sat there blending in with the others surrounding it, hidden from view from everyone but me. The acid splashed into the large glass vessel as I poured and slowly lifted the gallon-sized container as if calculating the measurement. I bent down, pretending to take a closer look at my pour, then tipped the blue plastic container to add just a tad more. Instead, I carefully added the additional acid into the small vial. My hands should have been shaking, but I’d practiced it so many times in my head that they were steady. Losing my only chance was not an option.

  I continued with my work, leaving the bottle there for the entire fourteen-hour shift. Although they passed by me several times that day, the guards never noticed it. They couldn’t see what they weren’t looking for.

  At the end of my shift when I started the cleanup process, I took the cap out of my sleeve, screwed it onto the bottle, drying the exterior to ensure the substance wouldn’t touch my skin, and tucked it back into my sleeve. My heart pounded in my ears and a sick feeling crept upward as I headed into the changing area and all the way to my quarters. I placed the small glass container with the tiny acid sample in a hole behind the cabinet in my room. The same place I hid all my exodus equipment.

  Here I am four weeks later, putting the liquid to use. When the sizzling stops, I uncover my eyes, the bolts and the metal surrounding them have been completely eaten away. The vent cover will likely come right off, but I hesitate. Adrenaline courses through my veins—I have no idea what’s on the other side.

  My hands are shaking. What if sirens and lights go off when I remove this grill? Is it worth the risk? I can turn around, go back to my bed, and no one will ever know I tried to escape. I close my eyes and think of my grandmother and my brother, Jonah. As I picture their faces, my heart calms, my breathing shallows. I have no choice but to escape this hell. Guards might be waiting for me outside, but I have to take a chance and deal with the consequences. I gently pull back the grate and the sound of the scratching metal echoes in the darkness. The grate comes free and fresh air blows in against my cheeks. No sirens, no lights, no guards.

  I slide my upper body through the breach in the wall. The sand is soft and cool. I look around outside, to the right and then to the left. Pulling the rest of my body out, I crouch as close to the building as possible. Nothing is familiar. The magnitude of my situation hits me. For the first time in months, I’m alone and scared.

  Chapter 2

  I SIT STARING AT THE moon, back pressed hard against the side of the building. The stillness and quiet are haunting; the lack of noise amplifies my breathing. My eyes drift from the moon to the dark night, fighting to adjust. I squeeze them shut, and as they reopen, an expanse of sand dunes seem to rise out of the nothingness before me.

  Except for the prison building, there are no other structures in sight. The soft beige of the building blends in with the sand. It’s not as tall as I would have imagined, meaning most of it is underground. From either direction the dunes appear to span for miles. I’ve traveled much of the inhabited earth, and there aren’t many areas with dunes like these—I pray that I’m close to home. I grasp a handful of sand, gently roll it between my fingers, and open my hand letting the wind carry it off. I’m almost sure this is the sand of home.

  I wish I could remember being brought to this place, but I was knocked out and awoke in the Underworld.

  The dry desert air reminds me of a warm summer night. Sweat beads form on my forehead. The drops sit there and don’t dare to roll down my face. Lights had been out for several hours when I left my room, so I’m guessing that it’s two or three in the morning. If I wait here until dawn, I’ll see the sun rise and can head west, but I risk being caught in the daylight and the temperature soaring. Waiting is not an option.

  My grandmother would be able to identify our exact position, as well as the time of night. There would be no hesitation, and I can hear her telling me that I’m wasting precious time sitting here next to a prison wall. I’m a sitting duck so close to the enemy. Why would I risk everything I’ve worked for these last few months by waiting here? I shake my head. Why didn’t I pay better attention to her lessons? I can see her looking at me; her cold, serious, gray eyes burning into mine. “This is serious stuff, Liv. I know you can do it.” Her tone firm but loving. Her confidence in me is what stuck—it’s what gave me the courage to break out of this place.

  My hand finds my stitched pack, and I feel around for a small bundle of cloth. The dark fabric is neatly folded and tied with string. I place it on the ground in front of me and shield it between the building and my body, careful not to let any pieces fall out or blow away once it’s unwrapped. The light from the moon is hardly enough to see, but if I don’t do this here precious time will be wasted heading in the wrong direction, and time is something I can’t afford to lose. So much time has already been lost in the Underworld.

  The last fold of cloth is removed, revealing a shallow glass dish with items placed inside for safe keeping: a magnet, a sewing needle, and a small piece of lettuce from last night’s dinner. I pick up the green leaf, and a smile creeps across my face. Such a simple food source that had little significance in my life six months ago. A vegetable that tastes so bland it must be smothered with dressing to be edible. Now this jagged, two-inch piece of lettuce means more than even a farmer could ever imagine. It took eleven days for it to arrive. It was the last item I needed before I could make my break.

  Our meals, although regular and on schedule, rarely come with vegetables, and fruit is even more uncommon. A strange cornmeal or mush is typical, and dry bread or crackers can be counted on every few days. Meat is a luxury served only twice during the months I’ve been here, and lettuce appears every few weeks so I knew it would come, I just had to be patient.

  I obtained the magnet eleven days ago and four days before that lettuce had been served. I kept a small piece, but it wilted by the time I got the magnet. My only choice was to wait until a leafy fruit or vegetable was served again. It could be a month or more and every night my heart sank when dinner was delivered without a leaf. The days dragged on and ran together as I grew anxious about ever making it out of here alive.

  I hardly slept—even less than usual—as my mind raced thinking about the journey ahead and my mission to find my family. My parents were likely dead. I hated thinking that way, but rumors around the Underworld became truths as stories of villages being destroyed and adults being executed were told by the children in the prison. I held out hope though. I didn’t witness my family’s demise and when I was taken, I thought it was only me.

  This evening I dragged myself back to my room, exhausted and without an appetite. I wasn’t even thinking about dinner, the only thing on my mind was sleep. Thirty minutes after my body hit the bed, the dinner carts rolled in and the children started talking excitedly. I sat up and peered out into the common room where over twenty children gathered around to grab their plates. There is little to get excited about in the Underworld so the smallest change will get the kids laughing and cheering.

  Slowly I got up off my hard metal bed and walked toward the dinner cart as if in a trance. A girl shouted, “It’s lettuce, meat, and bread!” A rush of adrenaline shot through me and my feet moved faster. Lifting the cover off the tray revealed a small bowl of greens, a piece of dried meat, and bread. Three delicacies in one night. Dread and confusion consumed me at the possible reasons this meal was served. But I had other things to think about now. Tonight was the night. Tonight, I would be leaving this place for good.

  Laughter filled th
e room. The children’s faces, no longer sad and sunken, now sparkled and shined. Had they become so accustomed to this hell that they could find peace in living here?

  They would miss me and would feel abandoned for sure. Sarah flashed me a smile. She would have to take care of them all on her own now. I hoped she’d forgive me for leaving. I hoped she’d know that I did it to find a way to save them. And that I couldn’t tell her because I wanted to protect her.

  Despite my lack of appetite, I set the tray on my bed and ate everything on my plate to ensure I had enough energy to sustain the journey ahead. Everything, except a strip of meat and a two-inch piece of lettuce.

  That piece of lettuce now lays on the cloth in front of me as I begin rubbing the sharp point of the sewing needle forward on the magnet. Over and over I drag it across the magnet in an outward motion. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this—my grandmother taught me survival tricks but I always thought they were just for fun. Thirty times, forty times. I lose count and I’m not sure what the magic number should be anyway. I won’t even know if it works until it’s too late and my homemade compass sends me in the wrong direction.

  I stick the needle into the lettuce so it lays flat and set it on the other side of the cloth, away from the magnet. My meager water supply is precious, but I sacrifice a small amount and pour it into the glass dish about midway up to the rim. I gently place the leaf on top of the water and it floats. My steady hands extend the dish toward the dunes. The leaf and needle slowly turn and rest with the magnetized part of the needle pointing in one direction.

  When it doesn’t move for many seconds, I test the compass to see if the needle will move back to the same position if I turn the dish around. Standing up carefully so the contents don’t spill, I turn around a few times while spinning the dish in my hand. The leaf and needle continue to spin and then come to rest with the needle pointing in the same direction it did the first time. North.