by Noah Fregger
He looked up at her, his eyes a defiant blue amongst the bruises that had cooled his face to a sickly jade.
“It’s your choice, but we’re leaving out the back door.”
The clatter of men then entered the store as Victoria grabbed Hazel and sprinted down the aisles. Coda, apparently accessing the stability of the lock, had unbarricaded the back door weeks prior and failed to barricade it again after.
His lapse would be their freedom.
“Here, hold this.” She handed Hazel the flashlight, placed the gun on the floor, and fumbled for the keys. They came out in a glob of metal–more than she could possibly need. Victoria inserted each one between shaking fingers, panic rising with every failed attempt. “Shit!” Do any of these fucking keys work?! She finally felt the latch as it slid aside and she shoved the door open. Trading the keys for the gun, they rushed outside, only to be seized there by three men.
“Whoa. Whoa.” One of them wrenched the .45 from her fingers. “Where do you think you’re going?” They ripped Hazel away, the girl shrieking in protest.
“Let her go, you fucks!”
“Some words comin’ outa that pretty little moutha yours.” The one behind her wrapped an arm across her chest, pulling her close.
“Dibbs,” said another.
Hazel stopped her struggling, silence falling over her; and with strands of hair matted to her forehead, she fixed Victoria in an empty, vacant stare.
“Fine,” Victoria agreed. “You can have me, but just … let her go.”
The group giggled slightly, five of them in all, the one constricting her chest shoving his face into her neck.
“Geez!” The tall one’s face scrunched, the tip of his nose turning pink, before he covered it beneath a spindly hand. “Something smells like sh …” The back of his head burst open as something blunt and glistening came to smash against it. The others screamed, lifting their weapons, as John leapt out to connect with another, the man’s teeth ejecting by means of the metal slugger.
Triggers were clicking empty all around as John remained free to bludgeon another two into heaps of shattered faces, not a single bullet escaping a barrel to stop him. Releasing Victoria, the last man fled to the opposite end of the building, shouting for help as John lifted his daughter and started across the street.
Victoria followed behind … but there was so far to go, bullets already beginning to fly in their direction. No cover. Entirely exposed. She looked back for a moment. Several men had come to the man’s aid, their weapons echoing off the surrounding structure. Victoria fell, shielding her face as they began gouging small chunks of asphalt beside her. Kicking her feet, she propelled herself backward as something glimmered for a moment between her and the Jackals.
Victoria froze, staring at it, when it lit up again.
It was … some kind of energy … rippling in waves of purple when hit by a bullet. And something … something at its center … outlined with each impact.
“Victoria!” John shouted for her. But she continued to stare at the empty space, straight back at the men firing at them. Another strike and the thing rippled again, illuminating the figure of a man standing within it.
It spoke then, impossibly, a voice that solidified her terror.
“Go!” it told her.
And she obeyed, spinning, her body trying to move faster than her feet would allow. Hazel and John disappeared beyond the alley as bullets scorched the walls before her, marking each collision with a brush of burnt auburn. Even then she witnessed a portion of wall that remained untouched. Something was protecting her. Something came to aid them in their escape.
And she felt like she could put a name to that silhouette, felt like she’d seen the print of its right hand far too many times already.
Like a photograph plastered to the inside of his eyelids, Coda couldn't seem to shake the vision of Dad, swollen and pasty, dangling there against the concrete wall of the factory–the way he'd looked upon his son with those dead, lifeless eyes. And on his chest, the sign of his killer ... the mark of the illusive bogeyman.
They stacked pallets until they were able to cut him down; but the gruesome ordeal took far too long. He, Jackson, and the twins had been missing for nearly forty eight hours before they found him, then the other three on the roof–their right hands cleanly severed, the boogeyman's print upon their chests, as well.
Anger came quick to boil his young blood, but fear also soon spilled in. What on Earth could have done this? These were some of the strongest men he'd ever known; but still something lured them all the way out there ... for the slaughter. The lack of sense made everything too surreal, all just a bad dream beneath the spinning of his head.
It was just him now. No more direction. His was the only gut left to follow, couldn't rely on Dad's knack for slipping out of sticky situations, the way he could pull answers right out of thin air. Coda couldn't bear to see him that way–defeated and demoralized, a broken message to the world.
They burned the other three on the roof. For Dad, they placed him on pallets as Coda doused him in fluid; and after the flick of a match and a few kind words, his body was engulfed in a flurry of flames. Coda stood there for a moment, watching the blisters beginning to bubble across Dad's skin, before he finally turned away.
Not to be confused with chivalry, Coda would have traded him places in death. For what was the reason for living, anyway? Why prolong misery? Why not end it all right then? Bite the bullet straight from his own .45. No more suffering. Everything just ... over.
He tossed the thought around in his mind, the coolness of it like water upon parched lips. And as he'd looked back one last time, the wooden alter weaving its blanket of gray into the clear, blue sky, never had the notion of suicide been so inviting.
And even now, three weeks later, with his back pressed against the wall of Dad's former quarters, bullets splintering the doorframe beside him, Coda found the option of opting out hadn't gone very far.
Safe at the bottleneck, Coda had a small arsenal there at the peak of the stairs. His first shot had already claimed the life of a man halfway up the flight. He toppled backward, the smash of his flesh upon the floor, followed by this exchange of tedious gunfire. Coda would be dying in that room. It was inevitable–his job now to take as many with him as possible. That’s what Dad would have done … what Dad would have wanted him to do.
At least three bodies now adorned the bottom of the staircase. And this wasn’t even close to being over. A bullet whizzed past him, joining the others puncturing the ceiling toward the far wall. They were sloppy shots.
“Wait!” a voice shouted. “Hold your fire!” Whoever it was wasn’t speaking to Coda, rather those downstairs. “Who do we have up there?” The Jackal asked for his name.
Coda let it go unanswered.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll start. My name is Caleb. I used to hunt demons for you guys. I’m a friend of Jackson.”
Caleb. The name rang a bell…he was only slightly older than Coda. The two of them got along during those times.
“Jackson and I would meet every week. But then he stopped showing up; and Jackson told me, if three weeks ever passed with no word from him, well…to send in the boys.” A few Jackals hooted around him.
So, what? This is some kind of…insurance?
“So what happened to Jackson? Can you tell me?”
“He’s dead!” Coda barked.
“And who killed him?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “We found them on the roof of that corrugate factory.”
“Who’s them?”
“Jackson…Kevin…Kyle…and James Maddox.”
Chapter Two:
Garuda
That was far closer than he would have liked, actually had to use the shield to keep the blonde alive. But she saw him–knew he was there, his mission a failure as far as stealth was concerned.
Victoria ... Victoria was her name.
Mohammad wasn't exactly sure how safe she was with the one
whom once referred to himself as Saint John. And right now the three were armed with only the bluntness of a baseball bat.
He watched them in the emerald city, shifting the hologram horizontal to better his view, and zoomed in. Mohammad's revenge had cost many their lives–a cause and effect he’d been too blind to anticipate while planning it.
The hunter's presence served a purpose; and without him his encampment collapsed like the removal of a vital Jenga block, falling quickly to the outsiders.
But new life was still growing, which was why he’d had yet to hear Gabriel’s voice inside his head–a most unnerving experience indeed.
Upon Mohammad's creation, Gabriel inserted an implant into his brain that would receive the Traveler's words like a remote eardrum. That way Gabriel could speak to him, unbeknownst to others, while Mohammad was anywhere in the city. The same was true of the hologram he was currently observing, data transmitted to an optical implant that only he and Gabriel were able to detect.
He didn't miss the factory, never found himself longing to wander its dusty aisles, nor wishing to return to that row of pigeons; and upon leaving it, there was no lingering sensation that he’d be forgetting something–as indifferent to the industrial setting as it was to him.
He'd been given a new home now; and despite the fact it was entirely alien, it seemed to suit him better than the factory ever did.
"Like me, it, too, has had many names," Gabriel told him as he first stepped aboard. "Still, my favorite has always been Garuda." He’d found Gabriel like a statue before him, standing at the center of an impossible room. “I have disposed of the hunter’s remains,” he announced, the blanket previously covering the body draped over the Traveler’s large forearm. ”Would be odd for them to find him in two places, I would imagine.”
But Mohammad was only half listening, his eyes surveying the details of his surroundings. Gabriel took a moment to inspect the area as well, possibly trying to witness it from a fresh perspective.
“This will be your home now, Mohammad … until I have to leave.”
The black walls of the room curved together like a dome, passages beyond leading elsewhere. Illuminated switches and buttons adorned the enclosure at several locations, glistening in emeralds off Gabriel’s ivory flesh, while the room itself seemed to hum with life.
“It’s a ship,” Mohammad announced. “It’s your ship.”
Gabriel nodded. “It is the heart of our mission, the place where both you and Alice were created.”
Questions upon questions began to flood his mind, but he’d kept each at bay. There would be more than enough time for him to gather each answer. Years he would have to pick at the Traveler’s brain … and he wouldn’t even need a scalpel.
Speaking of which, what really happened at Roswell? Never did buy that weather balloon business.
All in good time.
“It was essential that all those who saw your face before your death no longer remained living. And that even surpassed your need for vengeance.”
“What do you mean?”
“I need you to become a member of that society again, to find a place in it, to build favorable relationships with people–most importantly the man you saw in the image.”
“The one with Alice?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Alice is not aware of our existence, you see. And it is imperative that we remain hidden. The man protecting her is Miles, and his life is just as important as hers. You will protect Alice by protecting him.”
“He looks like a guy perfectly capable of protecting himself,” Mohammad interjected.
“A fine specimen,” Gabriel agreed. “Only he’s undergone a trauma that manifests itself time and again in … a variety of questionable decisions. Now that you’re no longer detained by the hunter, your new job is to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.”
So with his objectives clear, Mohammad continued to walk the darkened passages of Garuda, free to roam the ship to the extent of the Western corridor. There the freedom of his travel ended, a portion of the Garuda he was firmly instructed not to cross. But the thing was an intertwining labyrinth; and he'd already gotten turned around numerous times–enough so that he needed to call upon the schematics, his display of holographic bread crumbs. So, for fear of being lost forever, Mohammad would never leave his quarters without the wrist device.
From the main deck to his quarters was where Mohammad could most often be found. Seeming retro-fitted to suit his needs, it was obvious the room was designed with Earth in mind. The shower was one he could use with ease, the mattress something similar to memory foam, its softness like heaven beneath the weight of his body.
And as the most exotic of fruits would come to fill a metal bowl on his table, the Garuda was capable of creating synthetic forms of the most delectable meats.
Bootcamp was over. He'd graduated. And these, quite literally, were the fruits of his labor.
Learning soon that nothing spoke trust more than a man willing to share his meal, he reached into the bowl and plucked a juicy, red item from it; then, pocketing the fruit, Mohammad headed for the main deck.
His boots upon the floor sent a hollowness through the air at times, like someone rapping a knuckle on a steel beam. But the ship was soft in places as well, its texture changing to almost an organic between platforms. Like walking the black intestines of a massive creature, its walls encompassed him with a peculiar sheen, reminding him of the gloss upon Gabriel’s eyes.
Gabriel.
Although the Traveler did venture into his head every now and again, Mohammad hadn't seen Gabriel in the flesh for over a week–surely another indication that his training was over.
He stepped out onto the main deck as the walls gave way to form the huge room. This was the only place one could come and go from the ship. On no wall within the Garuda could a hyper-wall be written, only through this main portal could he reach his destination. It rippled like liquid metal as he triggered the console to its right, the emerald city jumping into focus.
Mohammad shifted the hologram, sweeping along the streets of the outskirts until he came upon the junkyard. Two violet bodies were alive within it–the last hybrid and her healthy, human male. And just beyond them, Mohammad found the hills to which Radia once aspired. She would have crossed by the junkyard on her way to them. Maybe ... maybe she would have found her true safety there. Maybe, somehow, Alice had drawn her in that direction.
Mohammad would be visiting those two shortly. But first ... first there was something he wanted to check. He slid the hologram back to the inner-city, selected his new destination, and stepped out before the hyper-wall. Like the livened waters of a noon lake, soft waves began to traverse its surface. It was ready. And with his body, he pierced it, the liquid metal allowing him through, the warmth of it across his skin.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
John had run up to the roof, searching for pools of gutter water to give himself a rinse, after Victoria scavenged through the apartment in search of new clothes for him. She'd found enough that he'd be able to discard most of his eye-watering attire. The very thought of it made her gag.
Victoria waited with Hazel in the building, keeping the child calm.
"You should have a rest, Hazel," she tried to persuade. "Take a little nap."
But the girl disagreed, shaking her head. "Gray Bunny isn't safe," Hazel murmured. "She's still with the bad men."
"Well, Gray Bunny is very brave; and she would want you to be brave, too." Victoria lowered Hazel onto her lap, running her fingers through the girl's hair. "I'll be right here." However heavy, it took several minutes before Hazel's eyes finally shut, and her body seemed to sink deeper into the cushions of the couch. "Good girl," Victoria whispered, leaving a comforting hand on her shoulder.
The complex seemed deserted, but Victoria wasn't certain if any Jackals were coming to try and sniff them out.
Everyone was dead ... even Coda, who'd practically sacrificed himself so that they might
escape. No way did he make it out alive; and his gesture weighed heavily on her, the thought if his young, angular face in the darkness ... just like his father. She needed to survive this. To die now would be an insult to the gift he'd given them.
John then slipped in through the front door, new clothes upon his broad-shouldered frame. Victoria pressed a finger to her lips, motioning toward Hazel; and he nodded. She pulled the girl to her chest and carried her off to the bedroom, laying her onto a bed, surrounded in a nest of pillows. Victoria pulled the covers over her, then left the door slightly ajar. She returned to the living room, free to discuss their sudden and violent change in circumstances.
"I tried to get him to free you, John," she said. "But after finding James hanging ... the kid just went off the deep end for awhile."
"The deep end?" John straightened. "Is that what you call it?"
"Now, I remember you doing worse things to men in that room, John, far worse than neglect."
"You sayin' I deserved it, a couple months to rot inside a cell?!"
She shushed him, jerking her head toward the bedroom. "No, you didn't deserve it," she whispered, "but at least you're still alive, and your daughter."
He shook his head. "Out of respect for the warm and fuzzies you had for Maddox, I'm gonna pretend I wasn't fucking elated to hear someone hung him off a roof."
His response enraged her; and it was all she could do to keep from leaping to scratch out his eyes. But he only seemed to draw more power from the emotion present on her face, grinning without remorse of his tongue.
"His son is the reason why you're still alive, Asshole."
"Then he died a better man than his father." A viper of words, he spoke venom with glee, massaging his wrists where the cuffs turned the skin milky. He'd swiped the keys she'd dropped for the gun–on them was attached the tiny, silver spire to release them.
"I'm sure even James would agree with you on that," she retorted. "Look, if the two of us are going to work together, let's make an agreement that we won't mention him anymore, deal?"
