Wondercraft narrates this Episode.
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Monday, June 9, 2028
The pre-dawn darkness clung to Beaufort like a shroud as Lillibeth McDonald's car crept through the empty streets. At 5:45 AM, she was one of the few souls stirring in the coastal town, the humid June air already promising another sweltering day. Her headlights caught the swirling tendrils of fog rolling in from Taylor's Creek, creating ghostly shapes that seemed to dance across the road.
Her fingers drummed against the steering wheel as she approached Beaufort Middle School, the rhythm matching her heightened pulse. Arriving two hours before the first bell had become her new normal, though her colleagues assumed it was just dedication to her special education students. Only she knew the real reason – the need to sweep her classroom for any signs of tampering, to check on her animal charges before anyone else arrived, and most importantly, to observe who else might be watching the school in these quiet morning hours.
The parking lot was empty save for the overnight security guard's aging Crown Victoria. Todd would be finishing his shift soon, shuffling out bleary-eyed with his thermos of cold coffee. He barely glanced at her car anymore, used to her early arrivals. But this morning, something was different. His vehicle was gone.
"Get it together, Lilli," she muttered to herself, adjusting her rearview mirror out of habit – a habit her father had drilled into her since she first learned to drive. Bryan's voice echoed in her head, clear as if he were sitting beside her: "Always check your surroundings. Routine is the enemy of security, but awareness is your best friend." At the time, she'd rolled her eyes at what seemed like excessive caution. Now, those words carried the weight of prophecy.
The school building loomed before her, its brick facade painted in shadows by the security lights. In the pre-dawn gloom, it looked less like a place of learning and more like a fortress – which, in many ways, it had become. Hurricane Helene's devastation had forced the district to retrofit the building as an emergency shelter, adding reinforced windows and backup generators. But it wasn't just natural disasters they were preparing for anymore.
Lillibeth pulled into her usual spot, positioned for a quick exit – another of her father's lessons. As she gathered her things, movement near the building's entrance caught her eye. A figure stood in the shadows, too tall to be Todd. Her heart rate spiked, and her hand instinctively moved toward her Go-Bag.
noted details automatically – male, probably six feet tall, wearing what appeared to be casual business attire rather than the typical maintenance worker's uniform. Not school staff, then. Her father's voice whispered in her mind: "If something feels wrong, it probably is."
She kept her engine running, another habit that had once seemed paranoid but now felt prescient. The morning fog provided some cover, but it also meant limited visibility – a double-edged sword in situations like this. Through her partially fogged windows, she could see the man hadn't moved, as if waiting for something. Or someone.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket – a text from Claire: "Running late, won't make our usual coffee meeting." Lillibeth frowned. Claire never texted this early, and they didn't have a regular coffee meeting. It was a warning, their pre-arranged signal that something was wrong.
The school's security cameras swept the parking lot in their usual pattern, red lights blinking in the darkness. But today, those electronic eyes felt less like protection and more like surveillance. Jacob's words from Friday echoed in her mind: "They're everywhere now, watching, listening, learning."
Making a decision, Lillibeth put the car in reverse. The figure by the door suddenly moved, starting toward her vehicle. In her rearview mirror, she caught movement at the parking lot entrance – a dark SUV pulling in, its headlights off.
"Not today," she muttered, shifting quickly into drive and accelerating toward the secondary exit. Her tires caught on the wet pavement, throwing up a spray as she maneuvered around the empty parking spaces. The SUV accelerated, trying to cut her off, but Lillibeth had practiced this escape route countless times. She knew exactly where the exit's chain-link gate had a gap wide enough for a car – another hurricane casualty that had never been properly repaired.
Her Wrangler squeezed through the gap, scraping paint but maintaining momentum. In her mirror, the SUV was too wide to follow. She allowed herself a small smile – her father's insistence on practicing escape routes in various vehicles suddenly made perfect sense.
But her relief was short-lived. As she turned onto Front Street, another vehicle pulled out behind her – a black sedan that hadn't been there moments before. The pre-dawn streets were still empty, making it impossible for the car to hide its pursuit.
Lillibeth's mind raced through her options. The police station was compromised – she'd suspected as much since the new Federal Police Agency liaison had arrived last month. Home was out of the question. She needed somewhere secure, somewhere she could think and make contact with her father.
The radio crackled to life without her touching it, making her jump. Through the static, she caught fragments of what sounded like an emergency broadcast test, but something about the timing felt deliberate. She switched it off, remembering Bryan's warnings about modern car entertainment systems being potential listening devices.
She reached back for her Go-Bag, keeping one eye on the road as her fingers found the familiar canvas. The bag contained everything she might need – her father had insisted on weekly checks and updates. The Byrna Pepper Launcher was secured in its quick-access pocket, along with her backup phone and other essential tools.
The black sedan maintained its distance but stayed with her through every turn. Professional surveillance, then. Not local cops or opportunistic criminals. Her pulse quickened as she realized the implications. If they were who she thought they were, this had something to do with her father's work on the Hermes project.
Front Street was already showing signs of life as the town began to wake. A few early-morning fishermen headed toward the docks, and the Tackle Box convenience store's lights were on, its owner setting up for the day. Normal people going about their normal routines, unaware of the drama unfolding in their midst.
Lillibeth made a series of practiced turns, implementing her father's counter-surveillance techniques. The sedan followed smoothly, neither gaining nor losing ground. These people were good – which meant they were dangerous.
She passed the old Russell Marine Supply building, its weathered facade a testament to Hurricane Helene's fury. The usual group of teenagers wasn't at their post yet – too early even for the troubled youth who'd made the abandoned building their territory. The morning fog made the graffiti-covered walls look even more ominous.
A plan began to form in her mind. St. Paul's Episcopal Church was only a few blocks away, and Father Michael would be preparing for early morning services. The church had been a safe haven during the Civil War, hiding escaped slaves in its network of tunnels. Now, generations later, it served a similar purpose for a different kind of refugee – people like her father who saw the digital surveillance state for what it was becoming.
But first, she needed to lose her tail. Lillibeth turned onto Ann Street, knowing the morning delivery trucks would be double-parked outside the cafes and restaurants, creating a natural obstacle course. Sure enough, a large box truck was backing into a loading zone, temporarily blocking the street.
She accelerated, squeezing past the truck just before it fully backed in, then made a sharp right into the narrow alley behind the historic district's row of shops. The sedan would have to find another route around, giving her precious seconds.
The alley opened onto Cedar Street, and St. Paul's rose before her, its stone walls glowing in the first light of dawn. Father Michael's figure was visible in the doorway of the parish office, already alert and watching her approach. Their eyes met, and she saw recognition followed by concern cross his face.
The church parking lot was empty except for Father Michael's ancient Volvo. Lillibeth pulled in close to the building, positioning her car for another quick exit if needed. She grabbed her Go-Bag and stepped out into the humid morning air, scanning for any sign of pursuit.
"Ms. McDonald," Father Michael called out, his voice carrying just far enough to reach her. "You're early for morning prayers." It was their coded exchange, establishing both identity and situation.
"The early bird catches the worm, Father," she replied with the appropriate response, her steps measured and deliberate as she approached the church. Behind her, she heard the distant sound of a car engine – the sedan had found its way around the delivery truck.
Inside the church, the cool air carried the familiar scent of beeswax candles and old wood. The first hints of dawn filtered through the stained glass windows, casting colored shadows across the empty pews. Father Michael led her through the sanctuary, his footsteps echoing in the silence.
"I didn't expect you so early," he whispered as they reached his office. "Your father's warning suggested it would be later in the day."
Lillibeth's head snapped up. "My father contacted you?"
"Late last night. Said you might need the old passage." He closed the heavy oak door behind them, engaging the antique lock. "He also left something for you."
The office looked different in the early morning light, the book-lined walls creating shadows that seemed to move in the dim light. Father Michael moved to his desk and opened a drawer, removing what looked like an ordinary Bible. But when he opened it, Lillibeth saw it had been hollowed out, containing a small satellite phone and a USB drive.
"Your father was very specific about the timing," Father Michael continued, his voice tight with concern. "Said if you came before noon, it meant things had accelerated beyond his predictions."
Before Lillibeth could respond, they heard the church's heavy front doors open, followed by footsteps in the sanctuary. Father Michael's eyes widened as he moved silently to the window. Two black SUVs had joined her car in the parking lot, and more were pulling in.
"Father Michael?" A voice called from the sanctuary. "This is Agent Wilson with the Federal Police Agency. We need to speak with you about one of your parishioners."
Lillibeth's pulse quickened. Her father's training kicked in automatically – assess the situation, identify exits, prepare for multiple scenarios. She pulled the Byrna launcher from her Go-Bag, its familiar weight providing some comfort.
Father Michael moved quickly to a large painting on the wall – a pastoral scene of the church from the 1860s. He swung it aside, revealing a small door that blended almost perfectly with the paneled wall.
"The tunnel system hasn't been used since the Civil War," he whispered, already working the hidden latch. "Your father and I tested it last month. Twenty-three steps forward, right at the cross beam, sixteen down, left at the fork. It'll take you out through the cemetery."
"My car..."
"Will have to wait. Go. I'll buy you time."
As she slipped into the passage, she heard Father Michael opening his office door, his voice carrying the perfect blend of confusion and welcome. "Agent Wilson? Is something wrong?"
The tunnel was narrow and dark, the air thick with centuries of dust. Lillibeth clicked on her phone's flashlight, keeping it pointed downward to minimize any light that might escape. The walls were rough-hewn stone, occasionally broken by brick archways that looked ready to crumble.
Twenty-three steps forward. Her father's voice guided her through the darkness. The floor sloped slightly downward, and she could hear water dripping somewhere ahead. Turn right at the cross beam. A massive wooden beam appeared, marking the turn. Sixteen steps down. The slope became steeper, the air cooler and damper. Left at the fork.
She emerged behind a large monument in the cemetery just as the sun broke over the horizon. The morning fog was starting to burn off, but enough remained to provide some cover. From her position, she could see her car in the church parking lot, now surrounded by FPA vehicles. Men in dark suits moved with practiced efficiency, their actions suggesting they'd done this many times before.
Crouching behind the monument, Lillibeth pulled out the satellite phone instead of the Garmin iReach Mini 2 that her father had given her and her sister for Christmas. She opted for the older technology for the moment. It was a pre-smart phone era technology that would be harder to track. She composed a quick message: "Castle compromised. Bishop to knight's gambit. Fox is in play."
The response came almost immediately: "Rabbit hole leads to wonderland. White rabbit will guide you."
And on queue, a dog barked nearby – three sharp barks, a pause, then two more. The pattern was deliberate, a signal Lillibeth had learned during countless drills at her father's property. Through the thinning fog, she caught movement among the tombstones – a familiar figure in a groundskeeper's uniform, walking a large German Shepherd.
Alex Morrison moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent decades in the shadows. His weathered face and calloused hands told the story of a man who'd chosen a life of purpose over comfort. To most of Beaufort, he was simply the church's groundskeeper, a quiet man who kept the historic cemetery immaculately maintained. Few knew he'd spent twenty years in Special Forces, or that he'd been Bryan McDonald's closest friend since their days training together at what used to called Fort Bragg.
The German Shepherd, Max, was more than just a companion. Alex had trained him personally, as he had dozens of other working dogs throughout his career. Max could switch from friendly service animal to tactical asset in an instant, his keen senses and rigorous training making him an invaluable partner in situations exactly like this.
Alex made a subtle hand gesture – two fingers tapped against his thigh. Stay put. Lillibeth watched as he continued his seemingly casual rounds, but she recognized his movement pattern. He was systematically checking for additional surveillance teams that might be hidden among the morning shadows.
Max suddenly stopped his casual sniffing and turned his head sharply toward the church's side gate. His ears pricked forward but he remained silent – a trained response indicating the presence of someone trying to move quietly. Alex immediately shifted his route, positioning himself to block any line of sight between that area and Lillibeth's position.
"Beautiful morning for a walk," Alex called out in his easy Carolina drawl, his voice carrying just enough to mask any sound Lillibeth might make as she changed position. "Though the humidity's murder on these old joints."
A voice responded from near the gate – someone trying too hard to sound casual. "Yes, lovely morning. How long have you worked here?"
"Oh, coming up on fifteen years now," Alex replied, launching into a detailed story about the cemetery's historic roses that Lillibeth knew was designed to buy her time. As he talked, his left hand made another signal behind his back: Three hostiles, move now.
Lillibeth began carefully making her way between the monuments, staying low and using the morning shadows for cover. Alex had positioned himself perfectly, keeping the attention of whoever was by the gate while Max subtly blocked any view of her movement.
"The thing about old cemeteries," Alex was saying, his voice projecting just enough to cover any sound she might make, "is that they're full of history. Take that section over there..." He gestured broadly in the opposite direction from where Lillibeth was moving, drawing all eyes away from her.
She reached the cemetery's back wall, where a section of ancient brick had been carefully maintained to look decrepit while actually concealing a modern gate. Alex had shown it to her months ago, insisting she memorize its location and operation. "Sometimes the old ways are the best ways," he'd said then, demonstrating how to work the hidden latch.
Max gave a single, sharp bark – the signal that someone was approaching from the church. Alex immediately launched into a coughing fit, the sound covering Lillibeth's movements as she worked the mechanism.
"Excuse me," a new voice called out – Agent Wilson. "We're conducting an official investigation. Have you seen anyone unusual in the cemetery this morning?"
"Just my usual rounds," Alex replied, his tone perfectly balanced between helpful and slightly confused. "Though I did see someone walking along the outside wall about twenty minutes ago, headed toward the marina. Youngish woman, if I recall correctly."
Lillibeth smiled despite the tension – Alex was laying a false trail while simultaneously telling her where to go next. The marina had been part of their backup plans, with a boat always ready under the guise of church maintenance equipment.
The gate clicked silently open, revealing a narrow passage between the cemetery wall and the adjacent property's fence. As she slipped through, she heard Alex beginning another long story about the cemetery's history, buying her precious time to make her escape.
Max's training would ensure he showed no reaction to her departure, and Alex would maintain his role as the helpful but slightly chatty groundskeeper until he was sure she was clear. Then he would make his own preparations – the FPA would eventually realize he was more than just a groundskeeper, but by then, both of them would be gone.
Moving quickly but quietly through the passage, Lillibeth felt a surge of gratitude for her father's foresight in building this network of trusted allies. Alex wasn't just Bryan's friend; he was a crucial part of their resistance against the growing surveillance state, his skills and experience providing a vital link between the old ways of tradecraft and the new digital battleground.
The passage led to a small boat dock hidden from the main marina by a stand of cypress trees. Just as planned, a weathered skiff was waiting, its peeling paint and rusty fittings concealing a well-maintained engine. Another piece of Alex's careful preparations.
The skiff's outboard motor was exactly where Alex had shown her – hidden under a pile of crusty crab pots that most people wouldn't want to touch. It was an older model Yamaha, deliberately chosen because it lacked the modern electronic systems that could be tracked or disabled remotely. Her father's voice echoed in her head: "Sometimes the best technology is no technology at all."
Lillibeth worked quickly, mounting the motor with practiced movements. Alex had insisted she learn this too, making her repeat the process until she could do it blindfolded. "In the water, speed is life," he'd said, "but only if you can get moving in the first place."
The morning fog still clung to the water, providing cover as she pushed off from the small dock. She kept the motor at its lowest setting, the quiet putt-putt barely audible above the natural sounds of the waterway. Through the mist, she could make out the shapes of larger boats at their moorings, their modern electronics dark and silent in the early morning hours.
A series of sharp barks carried across the water – Max's signal that the FPA agents were expanding their search perimeter. Lillibeth allowed herself a small smile as she remembered Alex's lessons about using nature to mask movement. The fog wasn't just cover; it was also carrying sound in ways that would make it difficult for pursuers to pinpoint her location.
She guided the skiff through the narrow channel between Taylor's Creek and Town Creek, staying close to the marshgrass where the water was darker and her wake would be less visible. Her father and Alex had mapped this route together, marking the shallow spots and hidden obstacles. Today, that knowledge was her lifeline.
The radio clipped to her Go-Bag crackled – an old VHF marine unit, its frequency set to the local fishermen's channel. Through the static, she heard Alex's voice, disguised as a routine early-morning fishing report: "Water's choppy past marker sixteen. Better running through the back channel today."
It was their pre-arranged code. The FPA had boats on the water, but the back channel through the marsh would be clear. Lillibeth adjusted her course, guiding the skiff into a narrow cut that most locals didn't even know existed. The tall grass closed in around her, creating a natural tunnel that would hide her from both aerial and water-based surveillance.
As she navigated the twisting channel, her satellite phone buzzed with another message from her father: "Bird's nest secure. Follow the tide out." The bird's nest was their code for her classroom animals – Bryan had someone taking care of them. One less thing to worry about.
The sun was higher now, burning off the last of the fog. Lillibeth could see the open water of Back Sound ahead, where the channel widened and joined the Intracoastal Waterway. Out there, modern technology ruled again – AIS tracking, radar, satellite surveillance. But she wouldn't be going that way.
Instead, she guided the skiff into an even narrower channel, one that led to what looked like a dead end in the marsh. Only it wasn't really a dead end. Alex had shown her how the local watermen had used these hidden passages since prohibition, creating a network of water trails that didn't appear on any modern GPS.
"Technology makes us lazy," Alex had told her during one of their practice runs. "People trust their screens more than their eyes, their apps more than their instincts. That's why the old ways still work – nobody expects them anymore."
The marsh grass parted to reveal a small dock, weather-beaten and seemingly abandoned. But Lillibeth knew better. This was one of her father's safe houses, designed to look like just another failed fishing camp while actually serving as a crucial link in their escape network.
As she secured the skiff, her mind returned to Jacob's warnings about technology and control. The morning's events had proven him right in ways she hadn't expected. The FPA had all the advantages of modern surveillance and technology, but they'd been outmaneuvered by an old man with a dog, a network of historic tunnels, and a beaten-up skiff.
The future wasn't just about who controlled the technology – it was about remembering that there were other ways to live, other paths to follow. Her father and Alex had understood this, had prepared for it while everyone else rushed to embrace every new digital advance.
Lillibeth pulled her Go-Bag from the skiff and headed toward the small cabin. Inside would be everything she needed to disappear for a while – clean clothes, fresh documents, and most importantly, a secure way to contact her father. They had work to do, secrets to uncover within the Hermes project.
But first, she allowed herself one look back across the water. Somewhere in Beaufort, Alex would be finishing his performance as the helpful groundskeeper. By the time the FPA realized the true extent of what had happened, he too would be gone, leaving them to wonder how they'd been outmaneuvered by such seemingly simple methods.
The answer, of course, was that nothing about this was simple. It had taken years of preparation, countless hours of practice, and a network of trusted allies who understood what was coming. Jacob had seen the future, but her father had been preparing for it all along.
Lillibeth turned away from the water and headed inside. The digital world could wait. Right now, she had analog work to do.
The future wasn't coming.
It was already here.
And its shape would be determined not by who had the most advanced technology, but by who remembered how to live without it.
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