Read Online Adrift 3: Rising (Adrift Series) by K.R. Griffiths - Free Book Online
Authors: K.R. Griffiths
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truth—was reserved only for those in the inner circle, who lived in or around the old ranch house, at the heart of the settlement.
Dan saw none of it, of course. The hood was still firmly on his head when Mancini hollered at somebody to open the gate, and the trucks rumbled inside. He listened intently, and heard the distant chorus of many voices, the background chatter of scattered crowds of people. It sounded like there were a lot of them, and overwhelmingly, the voices that he heard sounded young. Children; not nearly the hardened army of fanatics he had anticipated.
Anxiety shivered in his gut as he considered for the first time that, maybe, the newfound confidence and assurance he had discovered might have led him in the wrong direction.
The trucks continued on.
Transporting Dan and the others toward the middle of the great circle drawn in the Colorado wilderness.
Toward the centre of the bullseye.
*
Dan blinked as the hood was whipped from his head and harsh sunlight hit his eyes for the first time in an hour.
He was sitting at a huge table in what looked bizarrely like a corporate boardroom, lit by a single window at the far side of the room. Through it, he got his first glimpse of the ranch, and felt a rush of surprise.
Ranch in Colorado had conjured images in his mind straight out of old cowboy movies: he had half-expected to see rickety wooden buildings and horses, leather chaps and six-shooters, maybe even saloon-style doors. Instead, the low buildings he saw beyond the window were functional brick constructions, apparently erected with no consideration for aesthetics. Most were a single storey in height; none boasted anything in the way of decoration.
He was instantly reminded of the Rennick compound back in south eastern England. There, the main house—a huge gothic mansion—had also been orbited by similar, newer structures, presumably built to accommodate the slowly growing population.
Here, though, the effect was magnified: the rapid expansion of the place that Mancini had described had prompted Craven to create something like a fast-growing shanty town. The overall effect—completed by the series of high walls he could see in the distance, dividing the place into distinct, secure segments—gave the place the feel of a military base, or one of those giant American superprisons. The only thing missing was watchtowers.
Which would , he thought, probably come in handy right about now .
He lifted his gaze to the sky above the buildings. The sun was high now, and strong. He guessed it was already around midday. Time was slipping away, darkness approaching unnoticed.
He turned his attention to the room itself. The walls were made of old, dark panelled wood; bare aside from three large LCD televisions which sat at head-height, their screens dark. Other than the dormant TVs and the huge table, Dan saw only one other feature in the room: a single side-table with a few decanters of liquor and some upturned glasses sitting atop it.
The main table had seating for twelve, but for the moment, only four of the chairs had been taken. The British prisoners were still alone with Mancini.
The American pulled a knife from his belt and slashed away the plastic cuffs that had bound Dan’s hands together since they had landed.
Dan winced, rubbing at the sore flesh on his wrists, watching as Mancini freed the others in turn and removed their hoods. When it was done, only Remy remained shackled—leashed to one of the huge table’s sturdy legs by a length of rope. The dog looked distinctly unhappy about that , and peered up at Conny, as if silently asking for her permission to begin chewing through it.
Conny scratched Remy’s ears, and he dropped his nose, chagrined.
Mancini tossed the hoods into the centre of the table.
“Nice place, Mancini. Decor needs a little work. Splash of colour would really make the place pop, you know? Hey, is that whiskey I see?”
Mancini sighed heavily, and Dan
Dan saw none of it, of course. The hood was still firmly on his head when Mancini hollered at somebody to open the gate, and the trucks rumbled inside. He listened intently, and heard the distant chorus of many voices, the background chatter of scattered crowds of people. It sounded like there were a lot of them, and overwhelmingly, the voices that he heard sounded young. Children; not nearly the hardened army of fanatics he had anticipated.
Anxiety shivered in his gut as he considered for the first time that, maybe, the newfound confidence and assurance he had discovered might have led him in the wrong direction.
The trucks continued on.
Transporting Dan and the others toward the middle of the great circle drawn in the Colorado wilderness.
Toward the centre of the bullseye.
*
Dan blinked as the hood was whipped from his head and harsh sunlight hit his eyes for the first time in an hour.
He was sitting at a huge table in what looked bizarrely like a corporate boardroom, lit by a single window at the far side of the room. Through it, he got his first glimpse of the ranch, and felt a rush of surprise.
Ranch in Colorado had conjured images in his mind straight out of old cowboy movies: he had half-expected to see rickety wooden buildings and horses, leather chaps and six-shooters, maybe even saloon-style doors. Instead, the low buildings he saw beyond the window were functional brick constructions, apparently erected with no consideration for aesthetics. Most were a single storey in height; none boasted anything in the way of decoration.
He was instantly reminded of the Rennick compound back in south eastern England. There, the main house—a huge gothic mansion—had also been orbited by similar, newer structures, presumably built to accommodate the slowly growing population.
Here, though, the effect was magnified: the rapid expansion of the place that Mancini had described had prompted Craven to create something like a fast-growing shanty town. The overall effect—completed by the series of high walls he could see in the distance, dividing the place into distinct, secure segments—gave the place the feel of a military base, or one of those giant American superprisons. The only thing missing was watchtowers.
Which would , he thought, probably come in handy right about now .
He lifted his gaze to the sky above the buildings. The sun was high now, and strong. He guessed it was already around midday. Time was slipping away, darkness approaching unnoticed.
He turned his attention to the room itself. The walls were made of old, dark panelled wood; bare aside from three large LCD televisions which sat at head-height, their screens dark. Other than the dormant TVs and the huge table, Dan saw only one other feature in the room: a single side-table with a few decanters of liquor and some upturned glasses sitting atop it.
The main table had seating for twelve, but for the moment, only four of the chairs had been taken. The British prisoners were still alone with Mancini.
The American pulled a knife from his belt and slashed away the plastic cuffs that had bound Dan’s hands together since they had landed.
Dan winced, rubbing at the sore flesh on his wrists, watching as Mancini freed the others in turn and removed their hoods. When it was done, only Remy remained shackled—leashed to one of the huge table’s sturdy legs by a length of rope. The dog looked distinctly unhappy about that , and peered up at Conny, as if silently asking for her permission to begin chewing through it.
Conny scratched Remy’s ears, and he dropped his nose, chagrined.
Mancini tossed the hoods into the centre of the table.
“Nice place, Mancini. Decor needs a little work. Splash of colour would really make the place pop, you know? Hey, is that whiskey I see?”
Mancini sighed heavily, and Dan
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