by Noah Fregger
The sun sent its coarseness through the air as Mohammad slid his tongue over dry lips. He didn’t like the way that man placed his boot atop the hybrid’s grave, then called no attention to it. He obviously knew her body was in there–followed her blood right to it–and then did nothing but pretend to overlook it. A younger man, maybe early twenties, would rush occasionally to his side, informing him of various things.
The two of them were definitely related–same cleft chin, same complexion, same stature–most probably father and son.
7
Loose Cannon
The new hybrid didn’t seem to be taking too kindly to the Fijian. Similar to Radia, she shared her reddish skin and raven-black hair; but the differences could be found in the sculpting of their features. She was taller than Radia, her face longer, more slender. Mohammad would not be having an issue telling the two apart.
To him it was night and day.
And Radia pressed him to give this new one a name, to which he obliged.
Lumin, he’d called her.
Based on Radia’s recent impact on the surrounding community, Mohammad insisted upon retrieving breakfast the next few mornings. He wanted her safe inside, should they come back to investigate–which they surely would. But several days passed without anyone so much as stepping foot on his property. Odd, considering the deaths that occurred, and the fashion in which they were dealt.
But the calm hung ominously over him, his nerves resisting the temptation to relax. He would not be caught off guard. No amount of time would justify becoming comfortable with two hybrids under his roof. He must remain sharp, vigilant.
He cooked the pigeons beneath the usual circle of skylight and handed Radia her share.
She accepted it. “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.”
She put her hand on his forearm, giving it a squeeze, and looked thoughtfully at him. “Thank you.”
She wasn’t just thanking him for the birds, he realized, but for everything else, as well.
He placed his hand on hers. “It is my absolute pleasure, Radia.” He then handed her Lumin’s share, to which she shook her head.
“Your turn.”
Mohammad squinted. “My turn?”
Radia nodded.
He never delivered Lumin’s breakfast. He’d hardly seen her since she arrived a few days before.
“It will be good,” Radia offered.
Mohammad felt his guts beginning to twist. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Radia smiled. “We will see.”
He began his journey to where he knew the hybrid to reside. The remnants of steam left its scent throughout various pipes and regulators, its musk well-detected by Mohammad as he made his way toward the boiler room. Lumin had taken an instant liking to the overhead steam and feed water piping–her presence there best identified by the shiny pigeon bones peppering the ground beneath her.
“Lumin?” he called in. “I have breakfast for you.”
He surveyed the maze of overhead piping, looking for a glimpse of her reddish skin above him. But that wasn’t what caught his eye. Within a pocket of shadow he’d found her glaring down at him, her irises aglow.
Mohammad suddenly felt a bit like an animal care-taker, coming to leave food for a wild jaguar. He looked up at her, offering a kind smile, to which she retreated farther into shadow.
“Very well.” Mohammad shrugged. “I’ll leave it here for you then.” He placed her food atop a feed water pump, where she could see it. “It’s here when you want it, okay?”
She leaned forward, baring her teeth, and sent a hiss in his direction. As she moved, an object dislodged beside her and came crashing down. It sounded of metal–unmistakably familiar.
It was one of Mohammad’s rifles, the scope badly damaged from the fall.
Bitch! “You took my rifle?!”
She hissed again.
“That’s what keeps us safe! That’s what saved your life!”
Mohammad stormed from the boiler room, and ascended to his nest, discovering multiple weapons missing.
“Radia!”
She came in a hurry, her lips still moist from breakfast. “What?”
“Lumin took some rifles into the boiler room. I need them back.”
Radia’s eyes widened. “I will get them.” She disappeared down the pillars of paper, returning with the weapons the following minute.
“That can’t happen again, Radia,” Mohammad huffed, snatching them from her.
“It won’t.”
“If it does, she’s gone.”
Radia’s emerald eyes narrowed, but she nodded in under-standing.
Mohammad flung a rifle over his shoulder and placed a boot on the first rung. “I’ll be back in a minute.” The act of thrusting open the nest hatch seemed to help alleviate some of his anger, letting the outside air cool him off.
Lumin. More like Loose Cannon.
She was obviously suffering from an extreme case of post traumatic stress. And who could blame her? All she ever knew was terror at the hands of men. But they couldn’t continue to aid hybrids if Lumin almost killed him the second she arrived–simple as that. And now she was stealing his weapons? This was his home. He’d opened it to Radia–only Radia. The rest, sadly enough, were on their own.
He checked first the roofs of the few buildings surrounding the factory, none of which quite as tall. All of them seemed clear of any activity. It was not uncommon to hear voices off in the distance. It wasn’t until he could distinguish actual words that Mohammad became wary.
Still, the place was deathly quiet. Something was very wrong.
He could feel it in his bones, the way his skin tightened along the back of his skull. He would have been less anxious staring down at an angry, torch-wielding mob. The silence was far more unsettling–simply torture in such a catastrophic world.
Mohammad peered down into the shipping area, greeted again by those familiar blotches of darkening crimson and the pile of burnt pallets, the skeletal remains of three atop it.
“Come on, you bastards,” he whispered. “I’m waiting for you.”
8
Trojan Horse
As the night filled itself with the crinkling of bags being torn open, no one seemed to care that some of the potato chips were slightly expired. The hunter watched with marked amusement as his men, along with what remained of their families and friends, came to enjoy the festivities for which he’d called them all together.
Many were gathered around the metallic trash can, its center ablaze with a healthy flame, as the scent of goldening marshmallows lingered just above it. The hunter had delivered to them a snack food feast that would surely come to rival their fondest holiday memories. For this was a celebration, and one worthy of a speech on his behalf.
He climbed atop the wooden table, looking upon his congregation. There the hunter found the faces of men, women and youth alike. Smiles and laughter adorned his audience, precious commodities in times like these. With lips wrapped around glistening s’mores, beer bottles, and candied treasures, a hush of silence soon fell upon the crowd–and all eyes upon him.
The hunter cleared his throat and nodded in appreciation. “I thank you all for coming tonight.” He lifted his bottle in the air. “This is a party, so don’t be shy. There’s plenty to go around.”
He allowed a break for a momentary cheer on their part. “You might be wondering why I’ve called you all here tonight. Well, I’m going to answer that for you.”
He took a swig of ale and wiped his mouth with a weathered hand. “We’ve all witnessed horrors of one kind or another … we’ve all lost loved ones. And I’m … ”
Distracted, he met the eyes of a young girl as she was hoisted atop her father’s shoulders, bettering her curious view. The hunter smiled thoughtfully at her and she smiled back. No older than five, her blonde hair was in a frenzy, a place where no comb had dared to venture in quite some time. Hazel was her name.
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�And I’m afraid we’re all that’s left of humanity,” he continued. “But let that be our fate. Whether we thrive or die, begin or end, let it be ours.” He thrust his index finger toward the night sky. “We did not ask for their assistance. We did not ask for their pity. We did not ask for those things!”
He earned himself a lengthy applause. “Which brings me to why we are here tonight … It’s been a week to the day since those men lost their lives outside that box plant.”
He scanned their illuminated faces, many of them hardening at his mention of the incident. “And I’ve asked you to stay away from that place, to hunt elsewhere, and you’ve respected my wishes.”
There were many nods–grumbles of understanding.
“You know, someone once asked me, ‘Do you really think hybrids deserve to die?’ Well, the answer is no. They don’t deserve to die … because they never deserved to live. Death is a privilege for which even they are unworthy.”
He knelt, inching closer to his audience. “But no one’s come to me for a five-finger discount in more than forty eight hours, people,” he whispered, silence hanging in the wake of his remark. “Which means, together, we’ve sent the demons back to hell!” And along with cries of stuffed-mouth satisfaction, there came an instant eruption of thunderous applause. “So enjoy this night!” he bellowed. “And know that it is ours!”
He left them to cheer as he stepped down from the table, earning himself a few heavy pats on the back and shoulders. The speech seemed sincere enough. The bulk of it was true, only he believed there to be perhaps just a few more hybrids left for the killing.
But this party was more of a Trojan horse than an actual act of hospitality.
He turned and entered their establishment through the glass door, his son beside him. Jackson and Rick were waiting there, weapons in hand.
“Nice speech, Boss.” Jackson’s teeth glimmered in the outside firelight.
“Yeah,” Rick agreed. “Moved me like Ex-lax.”
They both chuckled.
The hunter squinted at them. “You boys find anything?”
“Same as before.” Jackson shook his head. “Place is im-penetrable.”
“Nothing is impenetrable.”
“Damn-near, then.”
“Good,” the hunter said. “I can work with damn-near. The place will be fortified. You can bet on that.”
“All doors are locked, probably barricaded.” Rick crossed his arms. “There is a silo at the front of the building; but it stands about fifteen feet from the wall, if you’re thinking about getting on the roof.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
“Gotta be thirty feet tall,” Jackson stated.
“Whoever’s there is using a rope. The roof is the only way in or out of that place.”
“Gotta do it the old fashioned way, then,” Rick said.
“Fine. So who’s comin’?”
“You know I’m in, Boss.” Jackson grinned.
“Fuck yeah.”
“Place is big.” The hunter ran a hand along his chin. “I’ll need seven more. Go get me the best markers we got.”
Raydea enjoyed the night air as she walked the structure’s top, looking out onto the darkened horizon. The air, with the moonlight dancing across each serpentine cylinder, just seemed to taste better than the staleness waiting within the building.
It was freedom.
Mohamyd had given it to her. If only Lumyn could discover it for herself. They were safe there, together. It was the feeling of not having to move, the feeling of being exactly where she needed to be.
There was no place safer.
They hadn’t heard a weapon discharge in days. Perhaps it was finally over; perhaps the pale-ones were no longer looking for them. Raydea felt a flutter of hope well in her chest. Dare she allow it? Could she actually live out the rest of her days with Mohamyd and Lumyn, safe from those who wished nothing more than to watch her die? Was it possible?
She rejoiced in the thought, curious over her lack of sorrow on the matter of her dead brethren; but there was relief in the freedom that death had brought them. No more suffering–only peace. She would feel it for them.
Raydea pressed her face toward the orange moon as it crept atop the hills to which she once aspired–no longer feeling the need to reach them. They were as distant to her as the night sky. And there, riding on the back of the dark hour’s breeze, a noise reached her. It was subtle at first, as if emitted from the depths of her subconscious, but quickly became chilling in its lucid attachment to reality.
Many pale-ones, possibly hundreds, were unified in great lengths of vocality.
They were celebrating.
And there was only one reason for which she’d known pale-ones to celebrate.
If she were waiting for a sign that it was over, this was it. Another sound then rose in the darkness, startling her completely, one she’d never heard before.
It was the sound of her own laughter.
“You gotta be shittin’ me!” Kyle exclaimed, rubbing his hands together.
“No … I’m not shitting you.”
“How many you think are in there?”
“At least one. Whatever the number, it’s the last of ‘em.”
“Must be my fuckin’ birthday.”
“So who wants in?”
Every hand raised, every soul in the room.
“There are only seven spots remaining. I’ll need the rest to stay here–guard the place.” There was an audible sigh as the hunter looked over his volunteers, weighing their strengths and weaknesses. “Kyle … Kevin … Warlock … Jasper … Beetlejuice … Lincoln … and Rain man, you’re all in.”
“Woah!” someone objected. “I got more kills than anyone!”
The hunter found John, Hazel’s father, approaching him.
Many men had earned themselves monikers over the past few weeks–Warlock, Rain man, and Beetlejuice, to name a few. But this one insisted on an old military alias he claimed to acquire while still in the service, that of Saint John. It had yet to stick; but the hunter knew Hell would have to freeze over before he’d agree to something so self-righteous.
“I’m well aware of your kills, John.” That much was true. The markers kept a running tally etched into the back of the building, and John had quite the significant lead over the others.
“I used to head missions just like this in Iraq!”
And therein lies the problem, Asshole, your eagerness to be in charge.
“Let’s let the boys put another couple notches on that wall. You’ve got plenty.”
“This is bullshit!”
Jackson cleared his throat, pulling back the slide assembly on his weapon. John watched as he did so; and the two of them continued to stare at each other for a generous length of time.
“Shame to make your daughter an orphan so young there, Big boy,” Jackson threatened, prompting a tightened fist at John’s side.
“Stand down, Fellas.”
John spat an expletive through clenched teeth before making a furious departure, smashing his fist into the wall on the way out. He was a brute of a man. Lucky for Hazel it was only his crystal-blue eyes she’d inherited, not his mug and hopefully not his temper.
“Fuckin’ Jackass,” Rick huffed.
“Which is exactly why we don’t need him. Alright, go enjoy what’s left of the party, then get some rest. We’ll meet back here in six hours.” They all turned to leave. “And Fellas … be discreet about this. No one else needs to know.”
“I’m going, right?” Coda asked, stepping in front of his father.
The hunter shook his head. “I need you here, Codes. Someone’s gotta stay to look after this place.”
Coda was visibly disappointed in his decision, but the hunter taught him better than to argue. Coda simply clenched his jaw and looked away. At times, when conversing with Coda, the hunter would feel like he was talking to a younger version of himself. It was possible he was harder on Coda for that rea
son. He expected a lot from the boy, about as much as he expected from himself, in fact.
But Coda was not just an extension of the hunter; he was also an extension of his mother.
Andrea.
Too soon did God come to collect her.
After years of fighting, while the hunter could hardly prepare himself for a world without her, she’d somehow made peace with death. And it was on a stormy Saturday evening, surrounded by the warmth and comforts of home, that the hunter held her from this life to the next.
He’d still find her in Coda at times–the only part of his son different from him that he didn’t feel like driving out. For it was the parts of him like Andrea that made Coda a better man than he could ever hope to be.
The hunter put a hand on Coda’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Whatever reassurance the gesture gave his son would have to suffice for now.
9
Breakfast
Radia seemed adamant that the hunt was over, claiming to hear the hunters rejoicing at some point in the night.
Mohammad wanted nothing more than to believe her, and although he did enjoy seeing Radia’s smiling face, the Fijian was not yet convinced by her experience. His gut was still in a stubborn state of unease, not yet swayed by her tales of a distant celebration.
“I’m still getting breakfast,” he informed her.
The last time Radia saw the sun was a week before, when she’d killed three men to rescue Lumin. Mohammad had been keeping her on a kind of house arrest ever since, only allowing her access to the roof at nightfall. He wasn’t willing to take any chances on her being seen during the day, especially after their site had been deemed suspicious by the locals.
Mohammad’s former survival strategy was to remain a ghost in the apocalypse. He only hoped that strategy could still be salvaged after all this.
“And what of your freedom, Radia?” Mohammad asked her. “If you’re right, and the hunting is over, what will you do with your freedom?”
She thought about the question for a long time, so long in fact that Mohammad feared she hadn’t understood him.
