by Aaron Hodges
For a second, everything was quiet. Below, the brown fields stretched out from the mountain, the tiny specks of cows and sheep moving slowly over the flat surface. The grey lines of empty rivers wound their way across the plains. Amidst the trees below, she glimpsed the dull gleam of a metal roof, but otherwise the ranch was hidden from view.
Then movement on the horizon drew her gaze. An ugly dot marred the endless blue sky, still a long way off, but as she watched, it grew. Soon, a low rumbling reached them on the mountain. Within a minute, the speck had doubled, then tripled in size. A dark, menacing presence, it raced towards their little mountain sanctuary.
Sunlight glinted off metal as the jetfighter banked, its speed slowing as two dark shapes disconnected from its underbelly. The missiles shot across the sky, leaving long white streaks of cloud behind them. The shriek of the engine rose to a roar, its angry voice echoing from the slopes, deafening.
Liz rose quickly to her feet, but there was no time to run, to take flight. Only to stare as death raced towards them. Beside her, Jasmine screamed and tripped on the loose gravel. Richard caught her before she fell, and she clung to him, their eyes fixed on the approaching missiles, their animosity momentarily forgotten.
The ground shook as the missiles struck, slamming into the slope far beneath them. A scream built in Liz’s throat as she watched the fiery blossom rise from the mountainside. She glimpsed an iron roof lift into the air, and wooden boards disintegrating, then Chris was there. He pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms, drawing her away from the sight. But even turned away, she could still see the image in her mind, of the flames consuming everything she’d ever known. She could feel the heat on her back, even from where they stood high above, and hear the wild howls of the flames.
Sobbing, she buried her head in Chris’s shoulder. For a long while, they stood together like that, unable to move. Eventually she heard the others stirring, and felt Chris preparing to release her. She hugged him harder for a second, and then released him. Turning to stare down the slope, she watched the flames licking the hillside, spreading through the forest, consuming all they touched.
Silently, she turned away.
Part 2
Renegades
7
Chris sighed as he lowered himself into the plastic chair. His legs ached from the long march around the mountain, and his arms and face throbbed where sunburn had started to set in. His pale skin had darkened over the days since their escape, but it was still no match for the scorching rays of the midday sun.
Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the cold brick wall behind him. Not for the first time in the last few hours, he sent up silent thanks for Liz. If not for her quick thinking, they would have been caught in the inferno that had swallowed the ranch. Whether the missiles had been meant for the Chead or themselves, they would probably never know.
Afterwards, Liz had led them around the mountain in silence. Her movements had been stiff, almost robotic, and his attempts to reach her had fallen on deaf ears. Admittedly, Chris and the others had been little better. Chris was still struggling to comprehend the display of power they had witnessed, how close to death they had come. So they followed Liz across the mountain slopes without complaint.
An hour later, Liz had finally started down the side of the mountain. Chris and the others breathed sighs of relief as they re-entered the trees. As the wiry branches closed over them, Chris caught a brief glance of the plains below. The brown fields still stretched out in all directions, but here the thin line of a road cut away from the mountain. It led west, where a cluster of buildings hovered beneath a shimmering haze.
They descended rapidly through the trees, chasing after Liz. She leapt between patches of bare earth, landing on roots and grabbing branches, barely pausing to recover her balance. Chris and the others followed as best they could, even their newfound agility struggling to keep pace with the silent girl.
When they reached the bottom, Liz glanced briefly at the sky, and then stepped into the open. She moved without hesitation, striding determinedly out into the long brown grass. As she walked, she pulled on the jacket she had taken from the house, hiding her wings beneath the denim fabric. Folded tightly against her back, they still left a bulge beneath the jacket, but Chris hoped the casual observer would be fooled. He and the others quickly followed suit.
They’d already weighed the risks of flight and dismissed the idea. It would be suicide during daylight. A bunch of flying teenagers would not go unnoticed, even in the sparsely populated countryside. At least on the ground they might pass as ordinary people. And while the long grass offered little cover, it was better than nothing.
They walked for an hour through the open paddocks, keeping parallel to the road, before Liz suddenly looked back. She squinted, her eyes traveling past Chris, down the road to where it twisted around the mountain. Chris followed her gaze and saw a cloud of dust approaching. The clatter of iron hooves and the hard thuds of wheels reached them a second later.
He shared a glance with the others, and then ducked down into the long grass. Waiting in the meagre cover, Chris watched the dust cloud approach. It quickly grew larger, though he knew from the sound it was not a car. A few minutes later, horses took shape amidst the dust, followed by a cart on steel-rimmed wheels. A man sat on the bench up front, reins held in one hand as he urged the horses onwards.
Chris let out a sigh and settled down in the grass to watch the wagon pass, but as it neared, Liz lifted herself up and started towards the road. He swore as she walked out onto the dirt track and waved at the man with the reins.
A shout came from the road and the clatter of hooves slowed. Chris glanced around for the others, but the long grass hid them from view. He swore again, then pulled himself up and started after Liz.
“Woah!” The driver’s voice carried across the field as the wagon drew to a stop.
Liz was already moving towards the wagon, a grin on her face. Chris stumbled after her, Jasmine, Richard and Mira emerging from the grass around him.
“Hey there, little missy.” Chris noted a southern twang to the man’s accent. “Whatcha doing all the way out here?”
“We’ve come down from the Huerta property,” Liz replied easily. “The landowner’s kids are visiting. My sister and I wanted to show them the town while they’re here.”
The wagon driver looked up and noticed the rest of them for the first time. His eyes slid over Jasmine without concern, but his brow hardened as his gaze settled on Chris, Richard and Mira, taking in their pale skin and cropped hair. Chris stared back, surprised at the sudden hostility in the man’s eyes.
“The Huerta’s a long way off,” he said, his tone gruff. “Don’t see ya folks around here a lot. Ya walk the whole way?”
Liz nodded, displaying her best smile. “Camped under the stars last night. Shoulda seen the city slicker’s eyes when they saw them.”
The man laughed at that, and after another moment’s hesitation, he nodded. “Righto. Let it not be said old Ronaldo forgot his manners. Jump in the back, folks. You can ride up here with me, missy.”
Liz joined him with a laugh, while the others climbed warily into the hay stacked high in the back of the wagon.
A few hours later, after a bumpy ride that left Chris’s backside aching, the wagon finally rumbled into town. The driver pulled over in the main street to let them out and wave goodbye. He was heading to a property further along the highway, but he gave them directions to the only motel in town.
After he’d driven off, Liz promptly ignored his instructions and led them down a side street. As they wound their way through the town, Chris could not help but stare at the world in which he now found himself. It was as though they had stepped backwards in time. There was the occasional old car or truck parked in the streets, rust-speckled and broken, but it seemed most made do with wagons and horses. They lined the streets, waiting outside the old buildings as their owners came and went.
Chris half-ex
pected men in cowboy hats to stumble from the local pub and start a gunfight. But with the sun creeping towards the distant horizon, the roads were quiet, and most people avoided the strangers passing through their midst.
Only when Liz drew up outside the bus station did Chris finally guess her intentions. Before he had a chance to stop her, she walked up to the lady standing behind the only ticket booth. Pulling a thin black wallet from her pocket, she handed over a wad of bills. She returned soon after, clutching a bundle of tickets.
“Where did you get that?” Richard asked, nodding at the wallet.
She shrugged in response, her eyes expressionless. “We needed it more than him.”
Chris swallowed. Ignoring the others, he stepped in close to her. She flinched, but he grabbed her before she could move, and wrapped her in a hug. She resisted for just a second, stiffening and trying to pull away, but he refused to release her, and she crumpled in his arms.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. He drew her quietly past the ticket booth, where the woman still stood watching them.
Liz was shaking in his arms. Hot tears soaked into his shoulder as harsh sobs tore from her throat. Unable to find the words to comfort her, to make everything okay, Chris did the only thing he could. He held her in silence and waited for her grief to pass.
Slowly the tears faded and her shaking subsided. When she finally pulled away, her eyes were wet, but with a gentle smile she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Chris smiled. “For what?”
She only shook her head. Taking a breath, she looked at the others, who still waited nearby. Richard and Jasmine stood apart from one another, the wounds not quite healed between them. Mira wandered off amongst the rows of plastic chairs, her hands in her pockets as she eyed the tiny food stand opposite the ticket booth.
Looking back at Liz, Chris reached up and wiped the remaining tears from her cheek. “So, where are we going, Liz?”
Liz’s lips tightened. “San Francisco.” She cast a defiant look around, as though daring them to object. “I’m tired of running, of hiding. Sooner or later, they’re going to kill us. Or worse, catch us and take us back. We have to find a way to fight back, to put an end to this once and for all.”
“And going to the capital is how we do that?” Richard scowled. “That sounds like suicide to me. You can count me out.”
Chris’s stomach twisted. “Are you sure about this, Liz?”
Pursing her lips, she nodded. Her eyes locked with Richard’s. “You were right, that night in the mountains, Richard. Living on the run, never knowing when the hunters will finally catch up, it’s not a life at all. Trust me, I’ve lived it. We have to find a better way.”
Jasmine had been unusually silent, but she stepped forward then. “There’s hundreds of street cameras, police, informants. How do we avoid them?”
Liz shrugged. “We keep our heads down, stick to the crowds. San Francisco is a city of millions. However hard they try, they can’t keep them all in line.” She paused, her eyes sweeping over them. “Besides, they’ve got your families. If they’re still alive, we can’t turn our backs on them.”
That last point had marked the end of any further argument. The discussion carried on for a few more minutes, but the thought of finding their parents, of possibly rescuing them, had taken the fight from Richard and Jasmine.
Now, as Chris settled back in the bus station chair, he smiled at the thought of the five of them taking the bus. It was genius of Liz, really. With the wide-open plains, they could not fly during the day, and at night they would have no way of telling which direction they were heading in. The bus would have no such problems. And better yet—it was the last thing Halt and his hunters would expect. After all, who would take the bus, when they could fly?
The only problem was the wait. For the last two hours, the five of them had tried lying in various positions on the plastic seats, struggling to get comfortable steal a bit of rest. The bus was already an hour late, and there was still no sign of its arrival.
He hoped it would be in better condition than the other vehicles they’d seen in town, but from the state of the bus station, that was a faint hope. A corrugated iron roof stretched overhead, still radiating the heat of the day, but there were no walls to keep out the wind. The ticket booth was even smaller than their prison cells in the facility. The lady behind the glass had her feet up on the bench, and was reading from a book entitled Wild.
Opposite the booth stood the food cart. From the pictures on its side, Chris could see that it offered an array of burgers and hotdogs. None looked particularly appetizing, but the faint scent of food still made Chris’s stomach rumble. Unfortunately, there was not enough cash left in the stolen wallet for food, and they were forced to make do with the fruit in their sack.
A television flickered on the wall of the ticket booth, facing the row of seats in which they sat. Glancing at the screen, Chris frowned as the image went black, before a new image appeared on the screen. A man stood on a steel podium, facing a crowd of journalists. He wore a dark red tie and his short grey hair was slicked flat against his skull. Holding his shoulders straight, he looked out over the crowd. Prominent cheekbones gave his face a harsh look in the glow of the overhead lights. His hazel eyes fixed on the camera as he waited for the reporters to settle.
Chris stared at the screen, his heart pounding. A sense of premonition tingled in the back of his mind. Swallowing, he looked at the others. The man’s face was one they all knew. In fact, it was impossible to forget.
The man standing on the podium was the President of the Western Allied States.
8
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the President began, his voice smooth, tone somber. “I am here today with news on our recent troubles.”
As he spoke, the President stared straight into the camera, his eyes seeming to reach through the television. Chris shivered, glancing around to see if the others were watching. The volume was low, but he had no trouble picking out the words.
“As you are aware, we have recently stepped up our domestic counter insurgency efforts. Acting on intelligence provided by the Director of Domestic Affairs, numerous rebel groups and their foreign benefactors have been apprehended in recent months.”
“Mr. President!” A woman’s voice carried through the speakers as a reporter stepped forward. Two men in suits moved to intercept her, but the President waved them down and nodded for the woman to continue. “Could you give some indication of how these groups were identified?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified,” the President said, staring down his nose at the woman, “but I assure you, both myself and your Electors have scrutinized the source and can testify to its legitimacy. There can be no doubt, these are dangerous persons—both to our individual security, and the safety of our nation.”
The President paused then, waiting to see whether the woman would interrupt again, before continuing: “Let me assure you, the full force of the law has been brought down on these individuals. Enhanced interrogation methods have allowed us to identify ringleaders and collapse networks of foreign spies who have been working to undermine our sovereignty. Those found guilty of treason have been executed, while their families and close associates have been detained and sentenced to follow in their steps.”
The others were all staring at the television by now. This was the first news they’d heard about their abductions, about how their disappearances had been presented to the public. It seemed Doctor Halt had been telling the truth when he’d said their families had been accused of treason.
Chris’s stomach twisted at the mention of execution. He felt a hand on his arm and glanced up to see Liz watching him. He attempted a smile, but the effort was a miserable failure. Silently, he turned back to the television.
On the screen, the President was still speaking. “While we are confident our actions have discouraged further resistance by these groups, there has been
an unfortunate setback.” He paused, and Chris’s heart lurched as he realized what was coming. “Several associates of these traitors recently escaped from a secure facility in the Californian mountains. While we had hoped to quickly reacquire these individuals, to date they have evaded our best efforts to bring them to justice. Our soldiers have suffered several casualties due to their actions. Unfortunately, we believe they may have now reached civilian populations.”
The President broke off as the mob of reporters started to shout questions. Across the bottom of the screen, four faces flashed into view. Chris swallowed as he saw his own face staring back at him, alongside mugshots of Liz, Richard and Jasmine. Strangely, Mira’s face was missing, and again he wondered about the girl’s strange past.
He glanced at the woman in the ticket booth, and the man working the food stand, but neither were paying any attention to the broadcast.
The reporters had quieted now, allowing the President to continue: “As I said, these four individuals are considered armed and highly dangerous. They should not be approached under any circumstances. The parents of each were apprehended for their involvement with rebel activities, and were sentenced to death for high crimes against the state. Their sentences were scheduled for the December executions, and were carried out as part of the New Year’s Eve celebrations. Unfortunately, this only makes these individuals more dangerous—they have nothing left to lose…”
The President’s mouth continued to move, but Chris no longer heard the words. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out all other sound. An awful pain lanced through his chest, as though someone had just driven a knife into his heart. He gasped, struggling suddenly for breath, as the pain swept out to consume him. Inside, he could feel something breaking, something shattering into a thousand pieces. A low moan built in his throat, as from some great distance he heard Liz’s voice, calling his name.
