Page 20 of Trapped

Of course, he didn’t answer.

She strained her ears and heard him make a small sound of pain, probably when he put weight on the injured leg. She’d used the injury as an excuse for not taking him out of the bunker right away. But now she was wondering how much of a problem it would be.

Footsteps crossed the room, then another door shut, and she thought he must be in the bathroom.

So now what?

Either he’d taken the pill, or he’d convinced the guard that he’d taken it. Then he’d be going out into the general population of the bunker, and she was sure that meant everything she’d worked to make him believe would come into question.

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Cash walked to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. After using the toilet, he peered at his face in the mirror and rubbed his fingers over the stubble on his face. He looked like he hadn’t gotten much sleep. But that might be his normal state, if nightmares kept waking him up, anytime he drifted off.

As he showered, he thought about the night before. Had Sophia really been there?

Or had he summoned her from his imagination? Because he needed something positive in his life. Something that didn’t involve this bunker.

Turning off the water, he reached for a towel, thinking that if he was desperate to wrap himself in fantasies of Sophia Rhodes, maybe he was cracking up.

Back in the bedroom, he pulled on a tee shirt and briefs and did a few stretching exercises, noting how his wounded arm and leg reacted. They were stiff, but better than the night before, he thought.

Was he getting physical therapy in this place?

He took down a uniform shirt and found that it did indeed have a name tag. Major Baker.

Not the usual kind of military insignia. But this wasn’t the usual kind of military facility, either.

He noted that he didn’t have a cap. Maybe only the enlisted men wore them.

After dressing, he inspected himself in the bathroom mirror. Then he crossed the room to the bed, intending to make it. Instead, he picked up the edge of the sheet and brought it to his nose.

He thought he detected the faint scent of Sophia’s skin. And his body reacted instantly.

He made a strangled sound. All he had to do was think he smelled her to get hard.

Did the scent mean she’d really been here? Or was he just kidding himself? Inventing the sensory input along with the encounter.

He went back to the task he’d intended, making the bed, trying to wipe away the evidence of his tossing and turning the night before—or of anything else that had taken place in the bed.

After exiting the room, he stood for a moment looking up and down the corridor. Did he know where to find the mess hall? If he’d been here for three weeks, he must have been there a lot of times. So, he turned right and let his feet carry him along, striving not to limp.

When he reached a cross corridor, he turned right. Then left down another hallway.

The sound of forks clacking against china and men talking drifted toward him. Apparently, he was walking in the right direction.

He found a large room, where ten uniformed men were sitting at tables eating breakfast. Some wore caps. Others didn’t, confirming his theory about the dress code. They all looked tough and capable. More than tough. Many had the hard edge of guys destined to get kicked out of the service.

Some glanced at him. Others kept their eyes trained on their plates. What did that mean, exactly? He felt like the center of attention. But maybe that was paranoia again.

A stainless-steel counter was fixed to one wall of the room. On it were several large, rectangular stainless serving dishes. Crossing to them, he found scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, butter, jam, and oatmeal. A large urn held coffee.

As he served himself, a question popped into his mind. Turning, he addressed the man closest to him, his face a study in guilelessness.

“How do they get eggs when they’ve got a bird flu epidemic?”

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