Map of Sanguine Springs

  Sanguine Springs

  The explosion hit like a freight train.

  Allison stumbled, caught herself against the wall. Metal studs rattled. A flat LED panel shook loose from the ceiling, dangling like the sword of Damocles by one metal-clad wire. The lights flickered, sending Brad's basement into a paroxysm of strobes, underlit by a steady crimson ember—the light on Allison's prosthesis.

  "What now, a bazooka?" Allison's ears rang. "If the house collapses, it will bury us." She was talking to Tony, who was trying his damnedest to get the gun vault back open.

  "Nah, not an RPG." The older man shook his head, ear still close to the round dial as he spun it back and forth. "Those sound more like a roar, then a crash. This was more of a bam, then a fwooomp. Fuel-based fire. Close. Maybe next door."

  "You know an awful lot about explosions."

  "Nah. Not explosions. Fires. I worked in protection a ways back. Mostly peaceful. But sometimes, we had to let a building burn down." He stuck the tip of his tongue out the corner of his mouth, concentrating. Finally, he frowned, letting go of the dial. "No good. Too much background rumble. Did you have to slam this thing? It's sealed tighter than a drum."

  "I'm sorry I locked the hitmen out of the basement, Tony." Allison shot back, sarcastically. At least her uncle's neighbor didn't think she was part of the hit squad any longer. She'd proven that much.

  Well, her hand had, anyway.

  They'd come down here searching for ammunition after the shooting upstairs. Two shots left in Allison's revolver. Tony's Thompson had been jammed until five minutes ago.

  The concrete floor vibrated, like an out-of-balance washer. More sheetrock dust rained down from the ceiling, cascading like snow flurries in the basement lights.

  "Yeah, but you locked them in there with the ammo." Tony stood, knuckling his back. He frowned at the revolver handle sticking cartoonishly out of Allison's belt. "I've got half a stick magazine left. What about you, three shots?"

  "Two, I think." She replied simply. Inside, there was no doubt. Two. Her first three rounds had gone into the first soldier, and the fourth probably winged the second man. She felt nauseous. She'd killed a man, without thinking.

  And he would have killed her, if she hadn't.

  A low rumble rolled through the floor.

  Different from the explosion. Deeper.

  "You hear that?" Allison whispered.

  Tony nodded. The rumble came again. Longer this time. The gun vault rattled, steel droning like a gong, almost masking a new sound. A faucet? A shower? A tub?

  Water, running faster every second.

  "That ain't next door. That's coming from underground," Tony said. He stared at Allison, face blank and moonlike with stupefaction.

  The floor lurched. Not violent, but enough. The rumbling grew, louder than the water—a deep grinding Allison felt in her bones more than heard.

  "Earthquake?"

  "You kidding me? New York don't have—"

  CRACK.

  Behind them, the concrete wall cracked with a sound like a gunshot. Not wide—just a hairline fracture. It spread downwards, tracing hoarfrost patterns along the brushed concrete. As they watched, the cracks multiplied, each spiderweb widening as it spread. Through each came a thin spray of water, pressurized and cold.

  Tony's eyes went wide. "What the—" He stood, eyes goggling, mouth gaping open like a fish.

  "C'mon." Allison grabbed his arm and tugged Tony towards the stairs.

  "But the gunmen—" he protested. She wrapped her left hand into his robe and tugged again.

  "At least we know how to handle them." Allison drew the revolver from her pants with her prosthetic. "I just learned I can kill people. I know I can't kill a river." Her arm glowed like the last rays of the setting sun.

  Upstairs, the front door slammed open. A man's voice yelled.

  Behind them, the floor shook, water flooding upwards as the crack in the concrete grew wider.

  Tony snapped to, raising his rifle as Allison dragged him up the stairs.

  On every step, their feet felt the house shaking. And the shaking only got worse.

  Sanguine Pond, New York.

  Ten Years Earlier

  The white Ford tooled up the one-lane road, tires casting gravel as it ascended a small rise. Sunlight glinted off the windshield, forcing the driver to lean forward and squint. He frowned. After a quick glance at the unfolded paper map in his passenger seat, he gave the engine more gas and rolled downhill, leaving the brief clearing behind and entering a thick copse of trees.

  Through the late summer sun, he caught flashes of blue between the trunks—poplar, oak, pine, birch. A pond where the road died. He stopped the truck.

  Two-story frame rising ahead, half-roofed. This was the place.

  The truck door slammed.

  He frowned. The noise should've scattered every animal for a quarter mile. Instead, gunshots. Three in quick succession. He flinched before his brain caught up—nail gun, not bullets.

  "Hey, Jake, is that you?"

  He looked up. Sun-tanned face, smiling. His brother stood on the roof, nail gun in hand, pneumatic tube snaking behind him like an umbilical.

  Beat of silence.

  "Brad, did I come at a bad time?"

  "No, I've been waiting." Brad set the nailer down. "Give me a minute."

  Jake circled the construction. Lumber piles. Coiled nails. Generator chugging. Boot heels rang against aluminum as his brother descended.

  Brad hit the ground in faded jeans and a red checkered shirt, sleeves torn off. Whiteface Mountain cap. Scuffed leather workboots clomped across sawdust-covered dirt, toolpouch riding his hip gunfighter-style, hammer and screwgun swinging with each step.

  The brothers stood two paces apart. Brad swept the cap from his head, taking the opportunity to wipe sweat from his bare forehead. His other hand rested palm down on the butt of his screwgun. Jake's arms hung slack, his neck drifting around like a loose ball joint as he took in the trees. "You weren't kidding when you said this place was rustic. Who's the nearest neighbor, the Blair Witch?"

  "Ouch, Jake, see another movie sometime this decade," Brad said, affixing the cap to his head. "But no. She moved off to Hollywood. Now it's just me, Sasquatch, and the cows you passed on the way in."

  Brad knelt at a red and white Igloo cooler. He lifted the lid and fished out two silver cans. He passed one to his brother, then opened the other. "Come on, let me show you the property. You've got to see what I have in mind."

  They walked past stacks of two-by-fours and around the skeletal frame of the house, their boots crunching on wood chips and gravel. The air smelled of fresh-cut lumber and pine sap. Jake took a swig, staring at the naked roofline of his brother's house.

  "Big place, Brad. How much of this is yours?"

  "A bit over forty acres."

  Jake lowered his can, eyes widening. "Forty acres? How much did that set you back?" He eyed the expanse of woods that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction.

  "That's the thing," Brad said, a grin spreading across his face. "Forty-three acres for less than what most people pay for a quarter-acre lot in the suburbs. Got it at a government auction." He walked around the building, gesturing for Jake to follow, heading toward the pond.

  "Government auction?" Jake's eyebrows rose. "What, did someone default on their taxes?"

  "Nothing like that." Brad stopped at the edge of the trees, water lapping near his feet. "This used to be a missile site. Cold War era. One of those Atlas missile installations they scattered all over the northeast back in the fifties and sixties, when we were in our pissing contest with the Ruskies."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Jake looked around with fresh eyes, as if expecting to see concrete bunkers emerging from between the trees. "You're kidding."

  "Dead serious. The whole complex, right here. Guard sheds, razor wire, big-ass concrete vault and big-ass steel blast doors."

  Jake frowned, looking over his shoulder at the tree-filled acreage. "Where'd it all go?"

  "This is the Adirondacks. Leave no trace still counts, even for Uncle Sam. Place got decommissioned back in the eighties. They yanked the fences, bulldozed the shacks, welded the silo doors shut." Brad started walking again, leading Jake toward the pond. "Government's been sitting on these properties for decades. Most people don't want them. Too remote, too much history, and the liability concerns scare folks off."

  "Liability concerns," Jake repeated slowly. "What kind of liability concerns?"

  "Oh, you know—unexploded ordnance, structural integrity of the underground facilities, environmental contamination." Brad waved his hand dismissively. "They did a full environmental survey before the auction. Place is clean. You'd find more asbestos and radiation in your average church office building than here."

  "What about the actual launch tube?" Jake asked. "Those things are ten stories deep."

  "Twelve stories, actually. But you'd need scuba training to get in now," Brad said, nodding toward the water. "This wasn't here originally. Back in the nineties, after they sealed everything up, they had a problem with water table drainage. The sealed launch tube for the main missile—it's right underneath where we're standing—started creating a depression. So the Army Corps of Engineers came in. Basically turned it into a retention pond. Reroute a stream, introduce some beavers, plant vegetation around the edges, and voila—environmental remediation."

  Jake stared at the placid surface. "So there's a missile silo directly under this pond?"

  "Yep. Seventy feet down, give or take. Sealed with concrete plugs thicker than your truck is long." Brad picked up a flat stone and skipped it across the water. Three hops before it sank. "It's actually pretty stable. Been like this for almost twenty years now. The pond's fed by Sanguine Spring, so it maintains its level year-round."

  "And you're sure it's safe to build here?"

  "Had a structural engineer out here before I bid on the property. He said the underground structures are actually reinforced better than most modern construction. Those Cold War engineers didn't mess around—they built everything to withstand a near-miss from a nuclear weapon." Brad turned back toward the construction site. "The only caveat is avoiding certain load-bearing areas where the tunnel ceilings are closest to the surface. I figure it'd take explosives to crack one of those."

  Jake shook his head slowly, processing it all. "Only you would buy a decommissioned missile site and think it's a good spot for a vacation home."

  "Not a vacation home," Brad corrected. "A sanctuary. Think about it—solid ground, natural water source, complete privacy, and about the most secure foundation you could ask for. Plus, there's something poetic about turning a place designed for destruction into a place for living."

  They stood together at the water's edge, watching the sunlight dance across the ripples. Somewhere in the trees, a woodpecker hammered out its staccato rhythm.

  "Sounds nice," Jake sighed. "Kind of wish I could join you."

  "I was hoping you'd say that." Brad smiled. "Lakefront, or meadow view?"

  "Excuse me?" Jake's brow wrinkled.

  "Your house. You want it on the water like mine, or closer to the meadow? Easy access to the hill for stargazing."

  "Brad, what are you talking about?"

  "Your house, dumbass."

  "My house?" Jake's expression shifted, somewhere between bewildered and defensive. "Brad, I can't just—"

  "Why not?" Brad cut him off. "What's keeping you in Albany? The apartment? Your job at the hardware store? Come on, man, you're a woodworker. I know you can make more than that just selling cutting boards to tourists."

  "It's not that simple."

  "Isn't it?" Brad's voice gentled. "Jake, you've been treading water for a year. Ever since—" He caught himself, shifted his approach. "Look, I spent a decade fighting two wars—one against militant Islam, the other for the souls of my soldiers. I know when men are circling the drain. Let me help you find the shore. You've earned the right to start over somewhere that doesn't remind you of everything that went wrong."

  "Earned the right?" Jake's jaw tightened. "How? By losing my wife? My kids? By letting my daughter blow her arm off? I can't take that back, Brad."

  "No, you can't." Brad turned to face his brother fully. "It's tearing you apart, I know. But I'm not talking about taking back mistakes. I'm talking about building something new. You think I came up here to hide? This place—" he gestured at the construction around them, "—this is about creating something that matters. A place where people can breathe."

  "People." Jake shook his head. "I'm not good with people anymore, Brad."

  "You're good with me."

  "You're my brother. That's different."

  "Then start there." Brad's voice carried a weight of conviction. "Start with me. Start with forty acres and nobody asking questions. Start with mornings where you don't wake up thinking about fireworks and emergency rooms, and all of your alimony going to pay for prosthetics."

  Jake flinched.

  "I'm sorry, but somebody needs to say it." Brad's hand found his brother's shoulder. "You can't keep punishing yourself. What happened to Allison—that was an accident. A stupid, terrible accident, but you standing still in that apartment isn't going to give her back her hand."

  "I know that." Jake's voice came out rough.

  "Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you've been doing penance for twelve months. You've barely seen your kids. Sarah's got full custody and you didn't even fight it."

  "I didn't deserve to fight it."

  "That's bullshit and you know it." Brad squeezed his brother's shoulder hard enough to make him look up. "You were a good father. You are a good father. One mistake doesn't erase that."

  "I am not. I bought the damned fireworks in Pennsylvania, at some derelict shop outside of Scranton. I handed them to a fifteen-year-old girl and told her to have fun." Jake's voice cracked. "What kind of father does that?"

  "The kind who wanted his daughter to have a good Fourth of July. The kind who forgot that even smart kids make mistakes." Brad released his shoulder, picked up another stone, turned it over in his hand. "I've never had kids. Never been a father. But I've led men—lost men for stupid reasons. It sucked, but I didn't shut down. Not with work left. And I think you've got plenty of fight left in you."

  They stood in silence. A fish jumped in the pond, rings spreading across the surface.

  "You really think this is a good idea?" Jake asked quietly.

  "Come on," Brad said. "That's what brothers should do. Our own place in the woods. Maybe you can have Chris and Allison come up and visit sometime."

  A look of pain crossed Jake's face. Brad held up his hand.

  "Not yet, but give it time. They're good kids, Jake. They'll want to see their dad again before long."

  "I'd like that. To see her again. See them all. Even Sarah. It's just been a rough year."

  "I understand." Brad rested a hand on his brother's shoulder. "How is Allie adjusting to, uh—"

  "I've only seen her twice," Jake said, finishing his brother's thought. "But she seems to be doing well with the prosthetic. It's so clunky, though. Not like her old hand." He looked down at the ground. "It's my own damn fault."

  "First, shut up. We've been through that." Brad paused. "But hold up. I was talking with a buddy online the other day.One of his customers is branching into prosthetics."

  "Okay?" Jake raised an eyebrow.

  You know Tetherly? The social media company? They’re making augmented wearable devices now. looking for volunteers to try out them out."

  "In English, Brad."

  "Some tech company wants people like Allison to try out their gear. No charge, and I guess it could lead to an internship, too."

  "I'm not a big tech guy, but that sounds like it's in her wheelhouse."

  "I thought so too. Why don't you send Sarah the link?"

  Pain clouded Jake's face. "That'd be the end of the idea. How about you send it to Allison yourself? Uncles can get in where fathers fear to tread."

  "Fair enough." Brad nodded. He looked from the lakeshore up to the mountain peaks, then back to his brother. "So where should I lay a foundation for your house?"

  "Nowhere," Jake said.

  "No? Come on, I want you to live here."

  "Not on a foundation." Jake looked up. "I want a basement."

  "Damn it, you know how much it costs to rent a backhoe out here?"

  "Don't worry, I'll pay for it."

  "I'll put it on your tab," Brad said with a shrug. "Even without sweat equity, it's bound to cost less than your studio at the Bachelor Arms."

  "Bradford Arms."

  "Yeah, whatever." Brad grinned. "Guess we'll be neighbors for a while."

  "Just you and me at the end of a dirt road?"

  "Well, I am hoping to sell off a few of the other parcels," Brad said.

  "I'm not looking for neighbors," Jake said. He glanced at the mountains. "I got enough of them in Albany."

  "Nothing crazy, just a couple houses for some retirees. It'll be passive income. I'll vet them before they come in."

  "Vet them how?"

  "Basic criminal background checks, make sure they're not party people or someone looking to use it as a sublet rental. Believe me, this is gonna be a quiet refuge. A place to go to forget your troubles. A quiet haven, somewhere to rebuild, or retire."

  "Well, that sounds like a place people are gonna go to die," Jake said.

  "Dying and living seem like the same thing sometimes," Brad said with a shrug. "It depends on your end goal and whether you're pointed toward it when that time comes."

  Silence settled between them. Jake kicked at a stone near the water's edge, watching it tumble and splash.

  "So what about you?" Jake finally asked. "What are you planning on doing now that you're out of the service? Besides playing landlord to a bunch of retirees in the woods."

  "I don't know," Brad said. "The work I did will provide a bit of a stipend, so I have some leeway. I was thinking I might get into brewing, once the homes are up and running."

  "What, like beer?"

  "Something a little stronger," Brad said with a slight grin.

  Jake shook his head, almost smiling despite himself. "A moonshine still. Of course."

  "Hey, you can't raise a boy on George Jones and the Dukes of Hazzard and not expect it to rub off." Brad looked back toward the construction site, then to the clearing beyond. "Spent enough time listening to 'the man.' Figure I'm due for a little red-blooded rebellion."

  "Well, at least you'll have your own property to blow up if something goes wrong."

  "That's the spirit." Brad clapped his brother on the shoulder. "So, back to the important question. Where do you want your house? Lakefront like mine, or the meadow?"

  Jake turned, following his brother's gesture toward the open field that stretched east from the pond. The late afternoon sun painted the tall grass gold, and beyond it, the mountains rose against a deepening blue sky.

  "Meadow," Jake said quietly. "Meadow view."

  "Yeah?" Brad raised an eyebrow. "That's a good spot. Gets the sunrise, and the hill behind it is perfect for stargazing."

  "That's what I was thinking." Jake's voice softened. "Maybe someday I can bring Allison up here. Show her the stars without all the light pollution. No streetlamps, no neighbors with their porch lights on. Just... quiet and dark and clear."

  Brad nodded, understanding settling between them like the evening air. "She'd like that."

  "Yeah," Jake said. "I think she would."

  They left the shore and moved inland, toward lumber and possibilities. The mountains ringed them completely—no way in or out except the one dirt road. "Secluded," Brad said with satisfaction. "Safe." Jake nodded, already imagining mornings here, quiet mornings, away from everything that reminded him of failure. Sanguine Pond at his back. A place to rest at last.