The five men rode in relative silence. Naturally, Antoine Radson was the first to break it. "Where exactly are we going?" he asked as Smithers instructed Preston onto a wide highway heading west.
"Just a little place," Dimas replied, looking over at Burns.
"Oh yes," Burns replied calmly. "Just a place."
Smithers made a disapproving sound in his throat, but otherwise said nothing.
One of the things about Springfield, Antoine noticed, was how diverse the scenery was. When they'd landed , it had been mostly gentle hills and flat forests. Burns Manor was set on a gently sloping rise, the foothills of several mountains to the west. As they drove, they climbed up through the hills, and into the steep-walled passes between the snow-capped mountains.
Finally they passed through a tunnel in one of the mountains. ("The Carter-Nixon Tunnel," Burns explained.) They emerged after what seemed like forever, to find an entirely different landscape before them. The ground was rough and flat. Antoine noticed a sign by the side of the road: "Entering Badlands," the sign proclaimed. Beneath that the phrase "High-Speed Chases Use Diamond Lane," had been printed.
Antoine pivoted in his seat and watched the receding view of the mountains out the rear window. He wrinkled his face like a confused puppy, and tied his hair back.
This was not the first time he had been involved with something hush-hush for Thaddeus Dimas. The man wasn't exactly the same person he appeared to be in the public eye. Dimas was known to be just as ruthless as Burns; except with a wide smile.
Antoine repositioned himself and looked out the front window. There was also that matter of Dimas' little indiscretions when it came to his marriage. Antoine didn't approve in the least. It seemed like every city they flew to, Dimas always sound some pretty young thing to keep him company at night.
At first, Antoine had felt conflicted. He didn't want any part in Dimas' affairs.
Unfortunately, his involvement seemed inevitable. Dimas had no problems requisitioning the company helicopter for purported "business trips," all the while the sole purpose was some little triste on the side. Antoine had balked at the idea, but Dimas was paying him handsomely for Antoine's exclusive arrangement.
Antoine found as time went on, it became all the easier to turn a blind eye to Dimas' activities. The simple truth was working as an independent pilot wouldn't always pay the bills. He also didn't own his own helicopter. Purchase price aside, the sheer operating costs of a chopper were astronomical compared to other forms of aircraft. The cost of fueling his Little Diva, for example, cost into the thousands per refill. He couldn't afford his own chopper right now; or possibly ever.
Flying a chopper was all Antoine ever wanted to do, and he wouldn't trade it, but it wasn't an inexpensive career. He had to draw substantial income just to repay the cost of his training. Initially, he reasoned, he could become an instructor. Sure that meant even more schooling, more flight hours, more tests, but then he figured he could start pulling income teaching. It turned out breaking into the aeronautical world as an instructor was not as easy as he thought.
Then one day, he'd seen an advertisement looking for an exclusively contracted pilot. That job had been with Thaddeus Dimas. The pay was well-worth it. The only caveat he'd known about was that he'd be on-call at all times. Whenever Dimas wanted to hop to the next state over, Antoine had to be there to make it happen.
Antoine hadn't caught on to Dimas' side ventures right away. It took him a bit of time to realize his employer's business trips weren't purely business. He'd had a long internal debate with himself on that matter.
Eventually, Antoine decided what happened between Mister and Missus Dimas was not his business. Perhaps she knew about her husband's affairs, and was okay with it. For all he even knew, they might be swingers. Ultimately, he reasoned with himself, their marriage was their prerogative, not his.
Antoine sighed heavily and stared out the windshield. There was nothing but sun-scorched rock as far as he could see; tinged white at the edges from the salt of some long dead lake. The alkali flats. They were a forlorn and sour place.
He leaned an arm on the back of Smithers' seat and glanced at the dashboard.
"We're not going to run out of fuel, are we?"
Unexpectedly, Dimas chuckled from behind him. "Run out of fuel? Well that's an interesting play on words isn't it?" He sniggered, then fell silent.
"We've got plenty," Preston replied.
The black SUV continued to roll along under the unyielding sun, three tractor trailers following closely behind.
Charles Montgomery Burns did everything he could to appear relaxed, but his posture was ever vigilant. He was looking for the marker along the roadside that indicated the turn to AlkaliStark. He'd never had a road put it. That would only draw attention.
Ah, there, up ahead. By a lone mile-marker on the highway.
"Smithers," Burns interjected, into the hushed vehicle, "that's where we want to turn." He pointed with a slender finger. "There, where the guardrail ends. Have Preston turn left off the road."
Smithers leaned over. "Did you get that, Preston?"
The young man nodded. "I got that."
Preston slowed the SUV down, and put on his blinker.
"No blinker," Burns snapped. "Just slow down, then turn. My drivers know the route."
Preston squinted. He hadn't packed sunglasses on this trip. Staring that the bone white earth was starting to mess with his eyes. He could see where the guardrail ended. It seemed like nothing more than empty desert behind. He brought the SUV nearly to a stop, glanced both ways out of habit, then made a sharp turn left, across all the lanes, and into the badlands beyond.
The SUV rumbled and bounced, kicking up a plume of white dust behind it.
One by one, the three tractor trailers turned off the road and followed suit.
Burns pulled out a compass, and checked it. "Bear west-by-northwest," he instructed. "Keep on that angle for another five miles." He leaned over the center console. "Aim for that mesa, Preston." He clapped the young man on the shoulder. "As long as you keep your nose to the wind, and eyes on the road, you'll be fine."
There was no road that Preston could see.
It was all just rock, and hard-baked earth.
To Burns' keen eyes however, the faint depressions from decades of truck traffic was evident. He hunched between Preston and Smithers, hawk-like visage riveted on the scene ahead.
Burns always felt a change in his attitude as he approached AlkaliStark. He was sure no one but Smithers noticed. All his apprehension vanished, replaced by a keen anticipation. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it was real nonetheless.
After they'd gone five miles, Burns gave Preston new instructions, and a second bearing to follow. It took them over a dry lake bed, then dropped into an arroyo that couldn't be seen from the desert.
The ground sloped gently down in a wide track that allowed both Preston's SUV, and the tractor trailers to pass easily. Ten feet down, twenty, thirty… before long the sky was a narrow blue ribbon running above.
The arroyo widened, and now the clear evidence of blasting could be seen. The walls were steep, vertical, and cut at proper angles. Burns instructed Preston to bear left at a junction, and the younger man did.
The road levelled out, made a gentle curve around a sculpted corner, then dead-ended at a pair of heavy blast doors; steel and concrete reinforcing each other. The center-sealed doors stood easily twenty feet high, and thirty feet wide.
"Whoa…" gasped Antoine.
Preston and Smithers said nothing, but Smithers' grip on the dashboard tightened imperceptibly.
Burns reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote control that looked similar to the ones for the gates at the manor. He pushed a single button. The ground vibrated slightly as the massive doors swung outward. Smithers was struck by how thick they were. Easily four feet wide, with interlocking steel bars that slid between them when closed.
Burns gestured proudly. "Welcome, gentlemen, to AlkaliStark." He gave Preston's shoulder a squeeze. "Go on, my man. We have work to do."
Preston swallowed with an audible gulp, but inched the car forward.
Smithers glanced over at Burns' face. The old monarch of the atom had an uncommon gleam to his eyes. Whatever he says about wanting to protect me, Smithers thought, the idea of power is as intoxicating to him as ever.
Smithers craned his head and looked out through the sun roof as the SUV passed under the massive door frame, and into the huge hall beyond.
One by one, the tractor trailers followed, circling in a wide arc between the support pillars. They came to a stop, and killed their engines.
Smithers opened the door and stepped out. The air was dusty, and had a faint metallic quality to it. It almost reminded him of blood: the hints of salt and iron. It clearly took several moments for his eyes to adjust.
The room in which the trucks parked was huge, yet dimly lit. Several rows of halogen lights hung overhead, but most were dark. The roof itself was concrete and steel, supported by massive circular columns easily fifteen feet each in diameter. They stretched up, widening at the tops, supporting the flat roof with a design that reminded Smithers of a cathedral roof. Antoine quickly bounded out and stared, open mouthed.
"I call this the main gallery," Burns said, spreading his arms wide and spinning in a circle. "Built to withstand a nuclear blast; protect those within from any act of man or God." He grinned, his eyes flashing with an almost predatory sheen. "This is my private installation, AlkaliStark, from which I shall watch the end of the world, and emerge alive to claim my place as the ruler of New Earth." He raised his hands higher. "My name is C. Montgomery Burns! King of kings! Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Smithers put an arm around Burns' shoulder, bringing his beloved friend back to the present. "Yes, Monty," he placated. "You alone shall be left to rule the world."
Burns didn't shrug Smithers' arm away.
"Oh balls, Smithers. You'll be there too, you know. No one wants to rule alone for eternity."
Smithers smiled in spite of himself. "Ah, quite so."
Burns draped an arm around Smithers' waist and turned to face the gathered team. "Gentlemen, I'm sure you're wondering why I brought you here today." He gestured to the trucks. "Thaddeus and I have a most lucrative arrangement, and something that, by bearing witness to, you are now under an oath of secrecy." He paused, watching the reaction of the crowd. "If you are unwilling to keep this information unspoken till death, and beyond, there are the doors. You may freely leave now."
No one moved.
Burns smirked.
No one ever did take that offer.
After all, beyond those doors was thirty miles in any direction of nothing but salty desert. To back out now invited certain death. No, Burns thought, looking at the apprehensive face of Preston, Antoine's neutral gaze, and Dimas' barely concealed anticipation. They were wall committed, one way or another. He tightened his grasp on Smithers waist, suddenly aware that Smithers' arm was still draped over his shoulder. No matter. Perceptions weren't important right now. There was no place he'd rather have Smithers stand but beside him.
"What you see before you is my personal repository. The waste of a dozen nuclear reactors slumbers beneath our feet, and around us in the shadows." He gestured to the rear of the room. "Three levels, silo after dry-storage cask silo, carefully preserving all those forgotten fuel rods for the ages."
Burns raised an eyebrow.
"Does anyone have any questions about what we're here to do?"
No one did.
Burns smiled. "Good." He raised his chin, indicating the drivers by the trucks. "You'll take the lead in unloading the assemblies into dry storage. Thaddeus and I will oversee the process in due time. First though, I'd like to show you around the main gallery." He gestured to the room. "The second and third sublevels are much the same. Come with me." He turned in Smithers' arm, and held out an elbow. "Waylon, if you'd be so kind?"
Smithers interlocked his arm with Burns' looking slightly puzzled, but agreeable.
Thus together, Burns lead them off through the shadowy caverns of AlkaliStark.
Waylon Smithers felt as if he and Burns were alone in the complex. With Burns arm through his, he could practically forget they were playing host to Dimas and his small entourage. He resisted the urge to lean over, and kiss Burns on the cheek.
The older man was clearly in his element. Regardless of his personal feelings for what Burns was doing, Smithers couldn't help but find Burns' enthusiasm rather infectious. He let Burns direct him through corridors and central chambers of AlkaliStark.
At the end of one hall, they stopped. Burns hit a keypad on the side wall, and a section of steel opened, splitting horizontally. One panel slid up, one down; like a giant mouth opening without a sound. "This is one of the freight elevators to the silo level," Burns explained. "There's another off the main gallery. That's what the drivers will be using to bring the assemblies down here." He lead them in.
"There's power," Preston remarked in surprise as they descended.
"Well, naturally," Burns replied. "There are a few ways, though not conventional, to squeeze a bit more life out of these fuel rods." He patted a concrete silo affectionately. "Why, one could live a thousand years down here, if that's what it took."
Preston started to speak. "But people don't live-"
Smithers caught his eye and shook his head. Reminding Burns of his mortality was never a wise choice. Innocent or not, Smithers didn't want to see Monty Burns have one of his mood swings, and turn on Preston.
They walked back through the silo level towards the elevator near the tractor trailers parked on the level above. As they approached the elevator, it slid open. Two of the drivers came, propelling a transport box on industrial wheeled jacks.
Smithers glanced at their faces. The drivers for trucks one and two. They nodded to him, and Smithers waved them on.
The small crew slid into the elevator, and rode back to the main gallery.
Smithers forgot how bright daylight could be. Even though they were well under the roof, the open blast doors, and white rock beyond, threw an almost painful degree of light into the gallery. He shielded his eyes, and surveyed the scene. Something wasn't right. He couldn't quite figure out what at first, then it dawned on him.
One of the trucks rear gates was slightly ajar, swinging with the wind that came in through the blast doors. He knew the trucks were never supposed to be unsecure except during active unloading. Carefully Smithers detached himself from Burns, and approached the trailer. He flipped on his flashlight application, and held his phone aloft, illuminating the interior of the trailer.
The silver grey transport cask was still there, strapped to its pallet. Smithers started to shut the cargo doors when the tip of his shoe collided with something soft and yielding. His toe was resting against a pale human hand.
Repulsed, Smithers jerked his foot back and crouched lower, illuminating the space under the trailer with his phone. The driver lay there, pale but alive. There was a bloody gash along the side of his head, clotting slowly with a pool on the ground. The man's chest rose and fell steadily.
"Hey," Smithers yelled. "Everybody get over here!"
Dimas and Burns slid under the trailer. Burns felt for a pulse, unnecessarily, while Dimas checked the man's neck. "
"Do you think he fell," Smithers asked, sliding out.
Dimas shook his head. "Unlikely. There's be blood on the bumper if he had. It looks like he was struck with something, and dragged under here." Dimas was in the process of crawling out from the trailer when his eyes latched onto something. "Waylon," he give a tilt of his head, "shine your light over there for a moment."
Smithers did as Dimas requested. He moved the beam along the brake lines of the trailer. Something pink caught his eye. He crawled past Burns, and reached up. Nylon, cloth, something like that. He set his phone down and fidgeted blindly for a minute. Finally, his deft fingers found some sort of release clasp. He popped the clasp open, and rocked back on his haunches.
It looked like a dog collar: a pink nylan band with hearts, and a small box mounted to it.
Dimas' face grew pale. He reached out a hand.
"You recognize that?" Smithers asked as he passed it over.
Dimas nodded.
"Evita, my wife, she's got this little toy poodle. Cute thing, sweet dog. She kept getting out and getting lost. For Christmas, I bought my wife one of those GSP tracking collars. You know, so she could keep track of the dog. It came with a phone app you can download."
Burns narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure that's hers?"
Dimas pulled out his phone. He loaded the app, and did a search. The collar in his hand gave a cheerful beeping sound. Dimas dropped it, as if he'd been shocked. "Oh yes," he moaned softly, "that's hers alright."
The three men climbed out from under the truck, gently sliding the driver with them. Smithers looked up and did a quick head-count. One, two, three, four… "Where's Antoine?" he asked, suddenly alarmed.
"Maybe he's still downstairs. I'll go look for him." Preston leapt to his feet.
"Preston, no!"
It was too late. Preston Tucci disappeared into the darkness, calling Antoine's name. The vast cavern of the main gallery swallowed his words without so much as an echo. It was unsettling, down-right creepy even.
Dimas looked at Burns, and gave him a what-the-hell gesture.
"I had this place sound-proofed," Burns explained with a shrug. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
Smithers felt a slight vibration in the ground. The room began to suddenly grow darker. "The doors!" Burns yelled, leaping to his feet.
Dimas shoved Smithers out the way and started running. "Don't let them-"
Despite their bulk, the doors were faster than Dimas. He arrived at the center mere seconds after they'd sealed. "-Close," he finished his sentence futilely, and rested his head against the seam. He held that pose for a moment, then raised his head and screamed. Furious, he slammed his massive fists against the steel frame.
Burns shook his head. "Don't waste your time, Tad. Those doors weight fifty thousand pounds each. You won't be able to make so much as a dent. Smithers, where's the remote?"
"I believe it's back in the Escalade, sir. I'll go get it."
Smithers ran back to the SUV, and threw the door open. He could've sworn Burns left the remote on the dashboard. He checked there, the glove box, every console. Smithers searched between the seats, and under them. The Escalade, a high-class rental was spotlessly clean… and the remote was nowhere to be found.
Smithers felt a sense of dread begin to well up in his chest. He'd never told Burns how much he hated feeling trapped. He had recurring nightmares of being buried alive. It was the worst sensation he could ever imagine. The red tendrils of claustrophobia started to wrap their way around his mind. He shook his head, as if to clear it. He had to keep himself together. Now was no time to panic.
As he continued to search in vain, he heard a soft noise from the other side of the car.
Smithers leapt back, brandishing his cell-phone as if it were sword. "Get back," he threatened the darkness, "I'm warning you…"
The sound came again, a sort of plaintive mewling noise. And rather familiar. Smithers flipped his flashlight in that direction.
Antoine was standing there, eyes glazed over slightly, left hand soaked in blood.
His arm didn't appear injured, but as Smithers looked up, several more drops of blood fell to the ground. "Waylon?" Antoine whimpered.
Then Smithers saw it: the feathered shaft of a crossbow bolt lodged deep in Antoine's right shoulder.
Antoine was starting to go into shock. He reached up, and tugged at the feathered shaft weakly with his left hand. More blood spattered on the floor. "I think I have an arrow in me…?" Antoine remarked, dazed.
"Oh, no no no," Smithers reached out and half caught Antoine as the blue-haired man stumbled forward. Smithers could see the tip of the bolt protruding from Antoine's back. "Come here, sit down." He helped Antoine into a sitting position against the side of the SUV.
"Mister Burns, Dimas!" Smithers yelled. "I need help!"
Within seconds, Burns and Dimas skidded up to him.
Dimas looked pale, and slightly green. He was clearly feeling ill.
Burns assessed Antoine with a critical eye. "That'll need to come out," he observed, feeling the wound. "That projectile's missed anything vital. Just soft tissue under the arm." He gestured to the feathered shaft.
"Smithers, break that off for me. I'll hold the other end."
Dimas wrung his hands fretfully. "Monty, everything I've read always said you're never supposed to remove an arrow from the victim."
Burns didn't look up. He shrugged off his blazer and rolled up his sleeves. "Quiet, Dimas," Burns snapped. "I learned how to field dress wounds like this in the war."
Dimas wrinkled his brow. "Which one?"
"World War Two, World War One, Spanish-American War… Good lord, man. I am expected to remember everything? Now shut up and let me concentrate." He glanced at Smithers. "And you! Why the hell haven't you broken that shaft yet?"
"Sorry, sir," Smithers replied, grasping the narrow piece of wood in both hands and bending it sharply.
There was an audible snap. Antoine gave a yelping moan, and arched his back.
"Pull him forward," Burns instructed. "One of you at each arm."
Burns pulled out a small pen-knife and cut Antoine's shirt off.
Smithers and Dimas held Antoine forward gently, but firmly. Burns wrapped a bit of cloth around his hand for traction, and grasped the head of the crossbow bolt. "He may flinch a bit," Burns remarked. He had taken on a level of detachment. As if he were doing nothing more severe than opening the mail over breakfast.
Burns slid behind Antoine, and put his foot on the man's shoulder. "Always pull them out in the direction of travel, if you can," Burns grunted. Bracing between Antoine's back and the SUV, Burns grabbed the head of the bolt in his cloth-wrapped hand, and gave a sudden hard jerk.
The bolt wrenched free with a wet, sucking sound.
Antoine's eyes flew open, and he screamed once, piercing, before he passed out again.
Burns tossed Antoine's shirt to Smithers. "Rip this into shreds. We need it control the flow of his precious blood. Now that said bolt's out, it's no longer serving to plug his wounds. Here," Burns held out his hand. "Give me your coat. We need to keep him warm. This concrete will suck the heat right out of his body."
They were so focused on Antoine that no one noticed Preston had emerged from the shadows. No one noticed, that is, until Preston cried out and dropped down on his knees beside Antoine. "My god, no!" He threw himself towards Antoine's chest, but was roughly grabbed by the atom baron of Plateau City.
"Preston…" Dimas eyes held no warmth.
Preston struggled in Dimas' vice-like grip, trying to get closer. "What happened to him? Is he dead!? Please, no…" Preston flailed weakly.
"Yes," Smithers said, looking up levelly. "What did happen, Preston?"
Preston tried to pry Dimas' arms away. "I don't know. The time I saw him was before we found the driver. I didn't even notice he was gone. This is all my fault!"
Dimas' lips curled away from his teeth. "Is that an admission of guilt?"
"What? No! God no!" Preston was becoming hysterical. "How could you ever think that?"
Smithers' mouth was a thin line. "I don't know, Preston," he replied as he wrapped the jackets around Antoine. "But you have to admit this doesn't look good for you."
Preston arched his body, trying to throw Dimas off. It was a pointless effort. "I know how it looks, but that's not how it is!" he wailed.
He was in the middle of a protest when a silver projectile, about the size of a large wallet whipped through the air. It collided with Preston's head with an audible crack.
Preston yelped.
"See, that's not me! I'm right here! I'm innocent. Please, let me go."
Dimas' arms went limp. He was staring at the small, shattered object by their feet.
"What is that," Smithers asked, perplexed.
Dimas picked it up and turned it over. "My wife's MyPhone," he said slowly. "The one I had engraved with her name." He let the phone fall from his fingers, and dropped his head in his hands.
The words on the metal case stared back at him, accusingly. Evita Ariadne Dimas.