The Pursuit of Truth

by Aaron Hodges

  The massacre at the university had at least taught Liz one lesson—the President, the Director, the government, they would stop at nothing to win this war. No deed was too low for them, no act too foul. If the resistance wanted victory, they needed to be just as ruthless.

  Watching the alleyway, Liz bent her head, listening to the telltale crunch of gravel beneath boots. The soldiers were growing closer, just a few minutes away now. Liz quickly tucked her curly black hair behind her ears, readying herself. From the noise they were making, she guessed there were no more than six.

  She smiled. They didn’t stand a chance.

  Spreading her wings, Liz watched as the patrol turned the corner below and started down her alleyway. The wind caught in her feathers, trying to pull her from the roof, but she crouched slightly, resisting its call. Her heart pounded in her ears as the soldiers drew closer. Dressed all in black, her wings the color of night, she was all but invisible to those below.

  Without a sound, Liz stepped out into open space. Air whistled in her ears as she fell. She only had eyes for the soldiers below. She could see them clearly now. Their youthful faces scanned the shadows, their eyes nervous, movements jumpy. It was obvious most were fresh recruits. Their sun-kissed skin proved the rumors were true—that her rural countrymen were being plucked from their beds to fight the government’s war.

  The two marching at the back were different though. They moved with confidence, their backs straight and eyes hawkish. Their rifles were held with the casual indifference of professionals, and their pale skin betrayed their urban upbringing.

  These were the men she wanted to speak with.

  By now Liz was almost on them. Ten feet above the ground, her wings snapped open. They gave a sharp crack, slowing her descent abruptly, giving her time to adjust course. The men below looked up at the sound, alerted to her presence, but it was far too late.

  As her boots struck the asphalt, Liz spun, her wings lashing out to catch the two leading recruits in the head. They dropped without a sound as those behind them screamed and lifted their rifles, but Liz was already moving. She leapt through the air and landed on the back of her next victim. Her weight drove him to his knees, and a single blow sent him face-first into the ground.

  Standing, she searched for the fourth recruit, and found her further down the alley. She couldn’t have been older than Liz’s own seventeen years. Snarling, Liz stepped towards her, and the girl dropped her gun and fled.

  Ignoring her, Liz leapt skyward as the rattle of gunfire came from behind. Bullets flashed past, tearing chips from the stone walls. Tumbling head over heels, she watched as the two soldiers tried to track her flight, but they were far too slow to catch her. Grinning, she landed between them. Her hands flashed out, catching both by their collars. She lifted them as though they weighed no more than pillows, and tossed them backwards into either wall of the alley.

  One collapsed to the ground, unconscious, but the other staggered to his feet and tried to flee. Liz was on him in an instant. Catching him again, she drove him back into the wall. Teeth bared, she pressed her face close to his.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she growled. “I thought you were looking for me?”

  The man continued to struggle, trying to break free, until she lifted him up and slammed him into the wall again. Air hissed between his teeth as his lungs emptied, and he gasped like a fish out of water. When he finally caught his breath, he slumped in her grasp, apparently accepting his fate.

  “Where’s the Director?” Liz leaned forward, whispering the question in his ear.

  When she pulled back, the man cleared his throat, then spat in her face.

  Liz’s brow hardened, and without thinking she tossed him across the alley. He flew several feet before slamming down into a pile of garbage. A can rattled along the concrete as Liz strode after him, struggling to lock her rage back in its cage. Silently, she wiped the spit from her face, then watched in amusement as the soldier tried to pull himself clear of the trash.

  When he finally staggered out, she leapt forward and grabbed him by the throat. Forcing him to his knees, she towered over him.

  “They didn’t tell you much about me, did they?” she hissed. “Now, where is she?”

  Since the massacre, neither the Director nor the President had been seen in public. Instead, they hid within the television, broadcasting their propaganda to the nation from behind locked doors. No one knew where they were hiding, only that they were well-protected. Liz didn’t care. She had only one desire now, one objective.

  To kill the woman who had taken Chris from her.

  The soldier’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Rolling her eyes, Liz loosened her grip around his throat, and waited for him to speak. He gave a muted choking sound and started to cough.

  “Go…to hell—”

  Whatever else he might have said was cut off as Liz slammed her boot into his unprotected crotch. He crumpled without a sound, his sudden convulsion tearing his throat from her grasp. Not that it mattered—he wasn’t going anywhere now. Lying on the ground, the man gave a low, almost inhuman moan as he clutched his groin.

  Liz knelt beside him. Her anger was raging again, begging to be released, and she felt a desperate need to indulge it. How satisfying would it be, to watch this man die, to feel his life slowly drain away, smothered by her touch?

  Her glove was off before she realized what she was doing. Only as she reached for his unprotected throat did she stop herself.

  “Tell me where she is,” Liz said, her voice husky, “or die in agony.”

  On his back, the man stilled. His eyes flickered up at her, then down to her naked hand. He swallowed, visibly afraid. Apparently word had spread about the awful pain and death her touch brought.

  “I don’t…” He shook his head, his voice little more than a squeak. “I don’t know.”

  Liz sighed. “That’s too bad.” She reached for his throat.

  The man flinched, raising his hands to fend her off. “Please! I’m telling the truth,” he stammered.

  Smiling, Liz nodded. “I know.”

  Before he could respond, she caught him by the throat again. His eyes bulged and he managed a strangled cry that faded to a squeak. He batted weakly at her arms, struggling to break her iron hold, but it was already too late.

  Liz watched dispassionately as purple lines spread up the man’s neck. He gaped at her as a low gurgling started in his chest. His feet beat helplessly at the concrete and his hands gripped her wrist, as though even now he might break her death grip. A wild ecstasy swept through her as she watched him, as she felt his life slowly drain away. She could almost taste his fear, his panic, as death took him.

  When he finally stilled, Liz released him and stood. There was still one soldier left to interrogate, but as she turned towards him, she heard the click of steel on concrete. She froze, catching sight of the rifle in the man’s hands, pointed straight at her chest. For a second, time seemed to stand still. She was too far away to reach him. In the narrow alleyway, he couldn’t miss.

  The soldier grinned as he pressed a finger to the trigger.

  Before he could fire, a whisper of feathers came from overhead—then an emerald-winged banshee dropped from the sky and landed on the man’s neck.

  The audible crack of the soldier’s spine breaking was still echoing through the alleyway as Jasmine settled down beside her victim. Her wings thumped one last time, scattering garbage across the alleyway, before she tucked them neatly behind her back. Folding her arms, she raised an eyebrow.

  “You missed one,” Jasmine commented.

  Liz eyed the other girl. At five-foot-five, Jasmine was taller and more muscular than her, despite Liz being one year older. Jasmine was wearing her black hair in a ponytail, giving her a more youthful, innocent look. Of course, these days none of them were anything close to innocent.

  “I was getting to him,” Liz said, a little too sharply.

  “Looks
like he almost got you,” Jasmine replied with a smirk.

  Liz let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “How long were you watching?”

  “Long enough.”

  Liz glanced around at the five soldiers scattered amidst the garbage. There was no sign of the one who’d fled. The three recruits she’d dropped still seemed to be breathing. Finally, she looked back at Jasmine. “You could have given me a hand.”

  “And deny you the chance to let off some steam?” Jasmine laughed. “I don’t think so. We don’t need that kind of anger bottled up in our little prison.”

  Liz scowled. “You weren’t so different…not long ago.”

  Jasmine stilled. “Yes…” She glanced away, the mocking smile slipping from her lips. “And look where that got us.”

  A strained silence hung over the alleyway, until Liz kicked a can, sending it rattling across the concrete. With a sigh, she let the subject drop. “Well, what do you want?”

  The only time Liz saw Jasmine or the others on her nightly forays was when they needed something. Unfortunately, their heightened sense of smell meant these days tracking each other down was becoming easier and easier.

  “What? Can’t a girl enjoy an early flight to stretch her wings?”

  Now it was Liz’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “What is it, Jasmine?” she pressed. “What’s happened?”

  Jasmine shrugged and spread her wings. They filled the alley, her emerald feathers catching in the first rays of daylight. “I’ll explain on the way.” She grinned. “You’re not going to like it.”

  She lifted off before anything more could be said, the downward beat of her wings sending garbage swirling around the alleyway, and all Liz could do was follow.

  Chapter 1

  Sam’s wings creaked as he settled on the smooth granite surface. The stone was slick beneath his feet, still wet from the night’s dew, and he took a moment to balance himself. The top of the obelisk on which he stood formed a half pyramid, with the tip sliced flat rather than the usual point. He supposed someone had suggested the change to differentiate Independence Monument from the Washington Monument—although by then that old relic would have been long gone, burned away by the nuclear blast that had engulfed the American capital two decades ago.

  Skyscrapers towered around the obelisk, their silent glass walls staring down at Sam’s solitary perch. Absently, he wondered if today would be the day someone finally noticed him, but he doubted it. He had been coming here for weeks now, winging his way through the skies before the dawn’s light broke over the city. It was a good place to think, to watch and listen to the activity taking place below. With his enhanced senses, he had little trouble viewing the crowd, while it would be all but impossible for his audience to spot him perched seven hundred feet above them.

  Now he scanned the crowds, wondering how the world had spiraled so far out of control. Thousands of refugees packed the square, camping out on the cold tiles, beneath the trees surrounding the obelisk, on the sidewalks and benches—wherever they could find even a hint of shelter. They had come from all across California, from small rural towns and villages, fleeing the scourge of the Chead. Rumors abounded of great packs of the creatures roaming the countryside, driving people from their homes, slaughtering them with wanton abandon. Desperate and afraid, those who survived had abandoned their homes and fled to the one place they believed safe.

  San Francisco.

  But their plight had made them easy targets for the government’s draft. Thousands of their youth had already been conscripted into the army. Many even went willingly, believing the official line that Texas was behind the spread of the Chead virus.

  Those below were the ones who had escaped selection—people too old or young to be of use. Yet after their long journey in search of shelter, they now found themselves shunned by a city and a people unmoved by their plight. Ruled by fear, the urbanites had slammed their doors in the faces of their fellow citizens. No one dared risk inviting a soon-to-be Chead into their home.

  So, homeless and alone, the refugees gathered in the streets and parks, making homes for themselves wherever they could.

  Watching the first of them stir, Sam couldn’t help but think they might be the lucky ones. It was the fate of their children that worried him, that kept him up at night, haunting his dreams.

  Because he knew all too well what the government was capable of, what they would do with all those young bodies. Halt might be dead, but his project lived on. Sam had seen to that. Somewhere out there, in the mountains, beneath the earth, somewhere, the experiments continued.

  How many of the conscripted youth would find themselves in cages instead of battlefields?

  He closed his eyes, shivering as Ashley’s words echoed in his mind.

  Halt used me, Sam. He used me to get to you. If any other kids die in their vile experiments, it will be my fault as much as yours. We have to stop them, before they hurt anyone else.

  Gritting his teeth, Sam carefully lowered himself down onto the cold granite and dangled his legs out over the side. He tried and failed to ignore the awful pain of Ashley’s loss. How long had it been now, since that fateful day? Three weeks? Four?

  He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, trying to keep the tears from his eyes. Hard as it was, he had to move on, had to focus on living. It was the only way he would find the strength he needed to fulfill Ashley’s final wish—to put an end to the government’s vile experiments. Spreading the truth about what the others had discovered at the university had been his soul purpose since recovering from his bullet wound.

  For decades, the people of the Western Allied States had suffered the scourge of the Chead. For decades they had suffered, battling an enemy they could not see. Texas had been blamed, but the Lone Star State had never had any hand in the virus.

  It had been their own government all along. The leaders of the WAS had needed a distraction from their own malicious deeds, and a patsy on which to blame all the ills that befell their young nation. Texas and the Chead had served their purpose well, giving the President and his Director the pretext to increase their powers time and again.

  Broadcasting that truth to the nation had become an obsession for Sam, but it mattered little. Apart from the Madwomen and their limited allies, he was pretty sure everyone else in the world thought he was insane.

  I miss you, Ash.

  He cast the thought out into the void, wondering if somewhere, she was thinking the same thing—though he knew it was impossible. He had held out hope for days after the university massacre. After everything they had been through—the trials and the torture, the bullet wounds and imprisonment, how could she possibly be alive?

  Days had turned to weeks, and the only story to emerge was that two fugitives had been involved in the attack on the university and had been killed by government operatives. They’d plastered Ashley and Chris’s faces all over the television, as the Director crowed of their demise.

  Beside her always was the translator Jonathan, with his trustworthy face and easy smile. He would nod along to everything the woman said, before stepping up to play his role in their little act. With teary eyes he would explain how hard the government was working to bring his family’s murderers to justice, how much it meant for him to see their deaths avenged.

  It made Sam sick to his stomach that he’d ever trusted the man.

  In the end, he’d been forced to admit the truth. If Ashley or Chris had been captured, the Director would have happily staged an execution for the whole world to see.

  No, Ashley was gone, her life snuffed out, as if it had never been.

  If only I had been there…

  He forced the thought back down. Wallowing in regret would not help him now. With the bullet wound in his leg, he had been in no state to go with the others to the university. He would have only been a liability. If he’d joined them, no one would have gotten out alive.

  Sam sat up as the tone of the whisper
s below changed. Leaning out over the ledge, he watched a group of old women make their way through the crowd. His heart lifted as the Madwomen returned to their station around the base of the obelisk. In silence, they began their solemn march, eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring the soldiers stirring around the square. The green-uniformed men readjusted their rifles, but they made no move to intercept the protestors.

  Since the official story about the attack on the monument had painted the Madwomen as innocent victims, the group had returned to their march in force. With hundreds of refugees now packing the park as witnesses, there was little the government could do to stop them. Only the women still on the wanted list stayed away—such as Chris’s grandmother, Maria.

  Their courage gave Sam hope that things might still change, but their defiance hadn’t come without cost. With the prospect of open war on the horizon, few citizens were willing to stand with them. Even the refugees below, persecuted as they were, directed their hatred at the Texans, for the plague the Lone Star State had supposedly unleashed on their lives. It was a narrative the President and his people had used successfully in the past, and without a way to prove their involvement with the Chead, there was little way to counter it.

  Still, Sam wasn’t about to give up without a fight. Swinging his backpack from his shoulders, he unpacked the shortwave radio and placed it on the granite surface. He quickly looked over the steel box, ensuring everything was still in one piece, then picked up the transmitter. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Each morning he had been broadcasting to anyone who would listen, although he had no way of knowing how many that might be. He might be talking to ghosts for all he knew.

  Clearing his throat, Sam lifted the transmitter and spoke: “Good morning, America! Testing, testing, one…two…three. Is anybody out there? Hey, isn’t that from some song about a war? Someone with the internet look that up for me would ya…” He paused and then laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, phone lines are dead. Guess you’re all in bed still or something. Come on, it’s only…oh my god it’s 6am, maybe I should go back to bed myself.”