by James Hunt
“Seat belt is on,” Bryce said.
“Can we stop for Chinese?” Sarah asked. “I’m starving.”
And as they drove off, Mack still couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.
Prologue – 2 Years Later
Red light bathed the room as photographs hung from thin pieces of cord that stretched from one end of the room to the other. The pictures were still developing, most of them fresh out of the solution for exposure. In a digital world, Branston found the ritual and techniques of old-school photography fascinating and a temporary challenge to help fill the void left behind.
He dunked another blank sheet of paper into the solution, gently patting it until it was completely covered. The sleeves of his button-up shirt were rolled to the elbow, and his hair was slicked back, still the jet-black color that he dyed it every month.
After soaking the paper, he hung it up to dry with the rest, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. His eyes glowed an unearthly black in the red lighting, and when he smiled, there was nothing but a black hole, his yellowed teeth darkened by the shading of the light.
Branston stepped behind the black cloth and then transitioned to the door to go out. The photographs needed time to develop.
The inside of his apartment was neatly organized, with minimal furniture. The living room consisted only of a chair with a side table and a four-chair kitchen table, but the walls were lined with books. Like the rest of the room, it was simply designed. Only shelves lined the walls, none of them encased in actual bookcases. Branston liked to think it allowed the ideas to flow across the room and into his mind. It was a constant feed of information and inspiration.
He grabbed the latest book from the table next to his chair, in which he always read, where he reclined and flipped through the pages quickly. He had always been a fast reader, and he had a memory like no one else he’d met before or would likely meet in the future. He was a creature who understood his abilities far too well. And that was what had landed him in the position he found himself now.
It had been four years since his little plan had gone to shit. Though, to be fair, it was simply a test. Then, two years after the failed experiment, he tried again, pulling the strings from his apartment and leaving whispers in the ears of those he still had connections with.
The older he became, the more he realized how easy it was to manipulate people. Most saw what they wanted to see or heard what they wanted to hear. All he had to do was stoke a fire that was already burning and then watch the flames consume them.
It was perhaps the greatest paradox of human existence. We had all of the ability to save ourselves, but we had a deep-seated root to kill each other. But it was what we picked and chose to kill each other about that separated most people. For Branston, it was the thrill of a challenge. And, almost ten years ago to the day, he watched the greatest challenge of his life walk right past him on his way into retirement.
Just before his final days as a field agent, Branston had heard the whispers coming from a few of the recruiting agents. They’d said they’d found a young woman, unlike anything any of them had seen before. He would have taken it as nothing more than talk, but he knew the recruiters intimately, and they had been in the business nearly as long as he had been alive at the time. So when they spoke, he listened.
The girl in question was currently at the training facility in the Midwest. And seeing as how he had been grounded from missions during his last three weeks with the agency, he had decided to go out and take a look for himself. And it was a moment that changed his life.
At first glance, the girl looked scrawny, much smaller than he had pictured. She’d had his back to him when he approached the observation glass, readying herself for the simulation. It was what the techs called a “hot run,” meaning that it was done with live ammunition on both sides of the aisle. It was the first of a series of tests to finalize an agent’s preparedness for the field.
He examined the way she chose the weapons for the run and was impressed that she went the minimalist route, a pair of .45-caliber Colt 1911s, spare magazines, explosives, and Kevlar pants, boots, and jacket. He remembered thinking that she was cocky, and he also remembered how much he liked it.
When the girl turned, he got a good look at her face. She was young, the fresh dew of spring still sprinkled on her face. But he’d be damned if she didn’t look like a woman who would slit your throat without remorse. There was anger there, deep and eternal. Her green eyes were focused, and when she moved, there wasn’t a motion that wasn’t purposeful. She was efficient.
The timer started, and he watched her go through the motions. She was fast, she was stronger than she looked, and she never missed a single shot. When it was all said and done, she’d broken every record. All of which were owned by him.
But that wasn’t what had drawn him to her. Branston knew it was only a matter of time before someone broke those records—in fact, he had been looking forward to the day. No, what had connected him to her was the smile on her face not when she was done, but during the fight. It was rare to find an individual that had equal pillars of skill and pleasure. She loved it. She bathed herself in it. And she couldn’t get enough.
And so Branston had kept tabs on her during her career. Meddling in her affairs when he could but for the most part keeping his distance. But the longer he stayed in retirement, the more he realized he didn’t want to quit the job he loved so much. He could still perform. He was still useful. The idea of nursing homes and golfing made him sick to his stomach. But causing a little mayhem? He enjoyed that idea immensely.
It had started small. Giving local law enforcement a challenge by knocking off a bank, vandalizing some type of public utility. Each time he didn’t get caught the next crime was a little bigger, and after a while he discovered what he had been missing all of his life. Control.
Most people didn’t enjoy control, and the ones that did, most weren’t good at it. But he enjoyed it, and he was very good at it. It made sense, though—he was the only field agent in the history of the GSF to hold both records in support and field agents at the same time. Which he also learned had been broken by Sarah’s former partner.
The more he watched her, the more he realized what an opportunity like the two of them being alive at the same time represented. Titans on earth, born from the earth and meant to rule it. And so Branston had engaged Sarah twice. The first was Global Power. The second was Black Box. Both of which she’d conquered, but both of which had weakened her. She no longer had the GSF. She no longer had the support of a family. All that was left was her. And that was exactly what Branston wanted.
Exiled: The Beginning
Chapter 1
Brooke watched the ceiling fan blades circle above her. Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead. A small drop hung from her eyelash. She squinted, the salty sweat stinging her eyes. When she peeled herself off the sheets, a damp imprint formed an outline of her body.
Her feet rubbed against the hot wooden floorboards covered in a thin, grainy layer of sand. Footprints from the night before were still etched in the granules. Waging war against the invading dirt was a losing battle, one that she had stopped fighting so rigorously as of late.
Brooke tugged at her shirt in attempt to separate the cotton fabric from her skin. The slowly circling fan in her room did little more than push the already hot air around. She made her way to the bathroom, fanning herself along the way and trying to loosen the strands of hair glued to her forehead.
The digital display of the water gauge, which broke down the level of water usage by day along with their total weekly allowance, beeped on the bathroom wall next to the mirror. It was a constant reminder of their dry world. Brooke tapped the screen, shaking her head.
“That can’t be right,” she said.
Rations for her family of three gave them usage of five hundred gallons of water per week. According to the gauge, more than a quarter of that was gone. And it was only Monday. Brooke checked t
he usage log. The time limit had been overridden three times.
“Jonathan!”
Brooke almost broke her son's door in half with the force of her entrance. The reflection of the mirror John was using captured the scowl on his mother's face. He was shirtless, a towel draped around his waist, fresh from his morning shower.
“Mom, I’m changing!”
“Do you know how much water you used this morning?”
Water dripped from his elbows and rolled down his legs. The droplets splashed onto the floor. The mixture of sand and moisture formed bits of mud around John's feet.
“You used over one hundred gallons of water. One hundred, John.”
John turned to check his reflection in the mirror. He carefully ran the comb through his blond curls, slicking his hair back.
“It’s my first day of high school, Mom. I can’t show up dirty.”
“And how do you expect us to make it through the rest of the week?”
“I’ll make it up over the next few days.”
“By not eating or drinking?”
“Mom, you’re being dramatic.”
Brooke snatched the comb out of her son’s hand.
“Hey!” John said.
“You’re on filter duty this morning,” Brooke said.
“Mom, I’m already clean! That’s not fair!”
“Maybe you’ll think of that next time you need to wash your hair.”
John stomped after Brooke as she exited his room. John's slamming of the door behind her rattled the entire house and blew a rush of sand against her calves.
The living room shared the same fine layer of sand that plagued the rest of the house. The only item that Brooke refused to allow any particle of dirt or dust to touch was a triangular case enclosing an American flag.
It rested atop a cherry-finished oak table, the sturdiest surface in the entire house. A picture of Brooke's late husband Jason rested alongside the flag.
Brooke used the bottom of her shirt to clear the table, case, and picture frame of any particles. She kissed the fingertips of her left hand then placed them on her husband's face, revealing the wedding ring she still wore.
Emily was still sleeping when Brooke opened her daughter's door. The sheets were stripped from the bed, and Emily rolled around, sensing her mother's presence.
“Time to get up, Em,” Brooke said.
Brooke patted Emily's stomach as her daughter stretched, wiggling her fingers and toes, yawning.
“Do I have to go to school today?” Emily asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Yes.”
“But I don’t want to go.”
“What are you talking about? You’re going to have a blast! You’ll get to see all your friends, learn cool stuff, and you know they always turn the sprinklers on at the end of the first day for all the students to play in.”
“Yeah, but everyone is going to make fun of my tooth.”
“No, they won’t. And besides, it’s not that bad. Let me see.”
Emily smiled, flicking her tongue through the open space where her left front tooth was supposed to be.
“Seeeeeeeeee?” Emily asked.
“Oh, man. You could fit a train through that thing,” Brooke said, putting her pinky in the gap. “You know what you could do is shoot water out of it like a fountain.”
“Cool!”
“And guess what?”
“What?”
“You don’t have to take a shower this morning!”
“Really?” Emily asked, smiling from ear to ear.
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks, Mom!”
Emily bounced off the bed. Her tiny feet thumped across the floor as she ran to the kitchen. Brooke wasn't sure how much longer her daughter's disdain of showers would last, but she was going to milk it for as long as possible.
The refrigerator hummed loudly. A cool blast of air greeted Brooke's face as she mulled over the breakfast options. She grabbed the jug of milk and set it on the counter.
Brooke walked over to the thermostat. She wiped the layer of dust from the screen with her thumb. It was only seven o'clock, and it was already one hundred and four degrees outside.
“I wonder what the high will be?” she asked herself.
Emily swung her feet back and forth as she sat on the stool. She tilted her head side to side and drummed her hands on the countertop. Brooke poured the cereal and milk into her daughter's bowl.
“Thanks, Mom,” Emily said.
John walked into the kitchen and grabbed his own bowl out of the cabinet. He didn't acknowledge anyone's presence. He poured himself some cereal and sat at the table by himself instead of at the counter with his sister and mother.
Brooke looked him over. Despite how mad she was with him, she had to admit he did look very handsome. He had been lucky enough to receive his father’s genes.
“Did you clean out the filters yet?” Brooke asked.
John dropped the spoon, and it clanged against the edge of the bowl. His mouth was full of cereal when he spoke.
“Mom, you’re serious? I already got dressed,” John said.
“Then you better put on the jumpsuit. Out you go,” Brooke answered.
John slammed his hands against the table. He pushed his chair back, and the legs squeaked across the kitchen tile. He mumbled under his breath on his way outside.
“What was that, young man?” Brooke asked.
Her answer was the slam of the back door.
“Teenagers,” Emily said.
***
After breakfast, Brooke hurried Emily to her room to get dressed then walked out back to gather her gear for work. She passed John on her way to the shed.
The jumpsuit covered every inch of his body. John scraped the circular sweeper against the vents on the side of the house. They needed to be cleaned daily to prevent the air in their home from becoming completely unbreathable. It was the most hated job in the house. Brooke usually did it herself but was never afraid to use it for punishment.
Brooke couldn't see John's face when he looked at her because of the mask, but she imagined there was some irritated gaze staring back at her.
The work shed was on its last legs. The roof sagged, and Brooke swore the whole structure tilted farther to the left every day. But there wasn't any room in the budget for a new storage facility, so she made do with what she had. And besides, it wasn't the outside that mattered. It was the inside, which the shed didn't lack in at all.
Brooke opened the lock on the shed's door and pulled the door open. It was small, only around fifty square feet, but it was the perfect size to store her equipment. She checked her phone for the job orders that had come in for today.
There were two solar panel repairs in downtown San Diego, four repair orders just north of the city, and six at La Jolla, which ran right along the cliffs at the beach.
Repairs were the only thing Brooke seemed to do these days. It had been a year since she'd done a new installation. The economy was almost as dry as the desert they lived in.
Before she lugged her repair kit out to the cruiser, Brooke pulled one of the tables from the back wall. Hidden underneath was a small hatch.
Brooke pulled the door open and descended the staircase into the basement. There was a flashlight on a tiny shelf at the bottom, which she used to scan the contents around her.
The basement was even smaller than the shed above it, and Brooke had to keep her body hunched over to avoid knocking her head against the ceiling. Her late husband, Jason, had kept emergency supplies down here in case something ever happened.
The flashlight shone on twenty one-gallon jugs of water, a first aid kit, a case of MREs, and four backpacks stocked with flashlights, batteries, sleeping bags, emergency blankets, fire starters, iodine tablets, sunscreen, lip balm, and aloe.
When Jason had been home, he would come down here every Monday morning and check the inventory. It was a tradition Brooke had continued after he was gone.
&
nbsp; After inventory was complete, Brooke relocked the shed. John peeled off the cleaning suit as Brooke passed him on her way to drop her tools off in the cruiser.
“C'mon, we don't want to be late,” Brooke said.
Sitting in Brooke's front yard was her Toyota Cruiser 70 series. Most of the paint had worn off, and it had more dents than a kicked soup can, but what it lacked in curb appeal it made up for with performance.
The cruiser's 5.7-liter V8 engine put out 381 horsepower and 401 pound feet of torque. Its belly was lined with reinforced skid plates, and the combination of 4WD with the front and rear live axle allowed her to handle any desert terrain with ease.
Whenever she had to visit any of the solar fields out in the desert, she would always get stuck using one of the company trucks, so she invested in her own. She never regretted it.
***
