by Deven Kane
Don stood over the remains of the Tracker. He was a wild sight in the moonlight—bloodied and chest heaving from exertion. He twisted around, looking over his shoulder at Amos and Jane. And beyond, to the approaching Tracker.
“Split up, and get out of here,” Don barked, sounding every bit as commanding as Garr. “You know the routine.”
Another explosion sounded around the corner. Are they trying to bring down the building? Amos spun away from the approaching Tracker, running to what was left of the original door, looking in all directions for any trace of Garr and the other Runners.
The corner of the building had collapsed, burying what was left of the Trackers felled by Mateo. There was no sign of the Runners. Or the Hoarders, for that matter.
Amos pivoted in a quick circle, very aware more Trackers were closing in. They made it, he told himself, not daring to consider the alternative. They got away.
He glanced at the corner behind him. Neither Don nor Jane were in sight, and he knew they were making their own escape. They know the drill. They’ll be okay.
He ran, avoiding the streets in favor of the back alleys crisscrossing the area around the Mission. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve taken more care to camouflage his back-trail, but time dictated otherwise. He settled for putting as much distance between himself and the bombed-out shop as possible.
When he could run no further, Amos ducked behind a small, abandoned building. Head down, hands on his knees, he caught his breath as he took stock of the situation. Alone and unarmed. It’s too soon to return to the Mission, even if I muddle my trail. The Trackers are too close.
He straightened as his breathing returned to normal. An unwelcome suspicion surfaced, insisting that he pay attention. They knew where to find us. The Givers were tipped off.
He stood motionless for a long interval, hands on his hips, turning the question over in his mind. I’ve got to lay low for a day or two. I need time to think.
He leaned out of the alley, peering in all directions. He felt exposed under the full moon, but saw no signs of pursuit. His choice was made more by instinct than logic, but Amos wasted no time second-guessing himself.
Satisfied he hadn’t been followed, he began the long trek out of the Old City.
Nine
AMOS AWOKE WITH A START, every sense on instant, nail-biting alert. Outside the cave, the darkness was absolute, the profound silence eerie.
Something had interrupted his sleep. Something more disturbing than the chaotic memories of the Tracker ambush.
He stretched his arms and legs, feeling the protest in his aching limbs, eyes riveted on the forest outside. The stony surface and cold temperature were no help to his stiff body, but his mind was crystal clear.
He rose to his hands and knees and crept to the cave’s entrance, poking his head out to survey his surroundings.
The wind gusted for a moment, the tall pines creaking in response. Amos panned back and forth. Once, twice. He was on his third pass when he spotted the darker-than-dark silhouette advancing on his position.
The anonymous figure was taking its time, moving with great stealth. Amos squinted, wishing the moonlight would provide better illumination.
There was no warning. The terrifying circle of red light flared to blazing intensity. His pursuer recklessly abandoned any attempt at camouflage.
Amos’s heart skipped a beat, and then began to race in concert with the adrenaline in his veins. How did it find me? My Implant’s been gone for months.
A shadow passed between Amos and the moon’s surreal glow. Startled, he looked above the skulking Tracker, in time to see a dark shape dropping like a stone. There was no time to react.
The Tracker was flattered under the impact of the falling shadow. An arm was raised, clutching a round object, and then struck downward with vicious intent. Once. Twice. The Tracker lay where it had fallen, unmoving and lifeless.
The shadow rose to its feet, both hands held out, palm up. A round object fell from one of its hands, landing with a solid thud on the ground.
The shadowy figure crouched, holding its empty hands up and away from its body. A voice carried to him, hardly above a whisper.
“Good welcome, Amos. I trust you slept well?”
Amos crawled out of the cave, hampered by the stiffness in his cold limbs. Taking a cue from his unexpected visitor, he kept his voice down. “Mateo? I guess I should start with ‘thanks,’ but . . .”
He gestured at the Tracker at Mateo’s feet. “How’d you know where to find me?”
Mateo hastened to join him, signaling they should stay low. They crouched in front of the cave.
“I seem to have made a tactical error,” Mateo said, his voice a husky whisper. “I followed you after the attack. I failed on one account. The Givers are now aware of my continued existence, as a result of our unfortunate incident yesterday.”
“Unfortunate incident?” Amos repeated, eyebrows raised. “That’s what you call a surprise visit by a Tracker kill-squad?”
Mateo cocked his head to one side, his odd expression accented by the moonlight.
“This Tracker wasn’t pursuing you. And for that, I must apologize.” He gestured at the lifeless form a few meters away. “It was hunting me, and by trailing you, I’ve exposed you to the same threat.”
He straightened, the red light under his skin coming to life as he pivoted in a slow circle, surveying their surroundings with painstaking care. Once he completed his scan, he nodded as the red glow faded into obscurity.
“We’re alone for the moment.” Mateo’s voice held an unfamiliar note of anxiety. “But I’m afraid my error may have complicated matters. As I said, the Givers are now aware I continue to exist. They’ll seek to correct that.”
“If the Hoarders don’t get you first,” Amos replied. “I got the impression Darcy doesn’t like you very much.”
Mateo lifted his head a fraction, a puzzled frown crossing his face. “Only together can you hope to defeat the Givers. The alliance must survive.”
Amos shrugged, the tension between his shoulder-blades morphing into a headache. “So you keep telling us.”
He gestured at the dead Tracker. “Well, if they’re now hunting for both of us . . . Where to next?”
Mateo straightened to his full height. “The Enclave, of course.”
Amos shook his head, wincing at the sharp pain answering from his neck. “Somehow, I knew you were going to say that.”
Ten
“HERE, THIS SHOULD HELP warm you up.” Doc Simon distributed the steaming bowls of stew around the table. The mouth-watering aroma filled the room, twice as enticing after surviving on meager trail rations. Aubrey couldn’t remember when she’d felt so hollow inside.
And cold. She repressed another shiver. I can’t seem to get warm, no matter what.
Don eased himself into a chair, sitting opposite her at the scuffed table in their subterranean Hub’s mess hall. He looked exhausted—they all did. Everyone needed a good, hot meal and a decent night’s sleep.
Aubrey was relieved to see a fresh, clean bandage on Don’s wounded arm. The clean strips of cloth were a welcome contrast to the rust-colored rags he’d come in with.
Jane sat next to him, hands cupped around her bowl, savoring the warmth. She’d managed to find time to brush out her tangled locks, and with her hair gathered in a loose ponytail, she appeared more like her usual acidic self.
Megan seated herself next to Aubrey, but it felt different somehow. There was a solidarity between the others gathered around the table, an easy friendship and camaraderie. Despite the unusual events which brought them together, Aubrey felt at home, like she’d found a family of sorts.
Even Snake Lady—I mean, Jane—is part of the clan. A small smile flitted across Aubrey’s face at the idea. A cranky cousin or something.
Megan was different. She sat no farther from Aubrey than Jane was from Don, but it felt like there was an enormous gulf between them. Megan was something of a
blank canvas, semi-alien in an unnerving manner, even as she continued to recover more of her humanity.
Aubrey stole a glance in her direction. Megan chewed in a methodical way, and Aubrey couldn’t tell if she noticed or appreciated the taste of the warm stew.
“How’s the arm, Don?” Doc stood behind Aubrey, arms crossed and a concerned look on her face.
Don exhaled a slow breath without looking up.
“Much better, believe it or not, now that you’re done poking and prodding at it,” he said in his gruff but good-natured way. He met Doc’s gaze, giving her a teasing smile. “I know, I know—you just wanted to make sure the wound was clean. But . . .”
He shook his head for dramatic effect, and then winced. “Oh yeah, my head hurts, too. I guess that’s not surprising after sleeping on cold, hard concrete. I guess I didn’t notice the headache because of my arm.”
“Dehydration.” Doc pronounced the correction in her no-nonsense and professional tone. “You need to replenish your fluid levels. That goes for all of you, by the way. You’ve all been through a nasty couple of days. You need to rest, but you also need to rehydrate.”
She uncrossed her arms, tucking her hands into her pockets, a far-away look on her face.
Aubrey felt a sudden flash of empathy. We were on the run, but Doc was back here the whole time. Alone. With no way of knowing if we were dead or alive.
Jane finished her stew, lifting the bowl like a drinking glass and draining the last drops of broth. She leaned back in her chair as she set her bowl on the table, looking refreshed and energized.
“We need to look for the others.” She brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face. “It’s been two days since the attack. We can’t just sit around here, wasting time. I’m going to stock my rucksack, grab a quick nap, and be on my way. Don, are you with me, big guy?”
Don continued to spoon stew into his mouth, chewing with a thoughtful look on his face.
“Everyone took off in different directions.” He tapped the spoon lightly on the rim of his bowl. “I’m not trying to be difficult, Jane, but do you have any idea where to look? The last I saw of the Colonel, he was leading the Hoarders out of harm’s way. If I know Garr, he’ll make sure they’re safe and sound in Hoarderville. If he took them into the tunnels, we’d have already met them.”
“Depends which route they took.” Jane refused to back down. She exuded nervous energy. “There’s more than one entrance to the tunnels.”
“Am I invisible, or have you all gone deaf?” Doc leaned on the table with both hands, glaring back and forth between Don and Jane. “What part of ‘recover’ do you not understand? The human body can only take so much stress before it starts shutting down to protect itself.”
“Garr left with the Hoarders,” Jane repeated, undaunted by her outburst. “We haven’t seen or heard from him since. Doesn’t that worry you, Doc?”
“Sheila went with the Colonel,” Aubrey said, her confidence dwindling after Jane’s pronouncement. Garr and Sheila, traveling with the monster, Darcy, and the other Hoarders? “At least, she was following him out of the building, the last I saw.”
Jane laughed, a short bark without humor. “Sheila won’t let Garr out of her sight—not with those Hoarders.”
She gripped her empty bowl between taut fingers, her voice trailing off to a harsh whisper. “Darcy scares me more than the Trackers.”
Snake Lady’s got a point. Aubrey was more than a little surprised by Jane’s honest admission. Garr has his hands full. Sheila’s tough but it’s just two of them against the Hoarders. And if Don’s right about them heading for the Enclave . . .
Don pushed back from the table, his chair scraping on the floor as he got to his feet. “I have a good hunch where to find Amos. It’ll take us at least a day to get there, unless we can find ourselves another truck. I wonder if our mechanic friend has one he could spare . . .”
Doc Simon gathered their empty bowls, stacking them on the weathered countertop. “You’ll have several hours of hiking through the tunnels, even if you can arrange for a truck. Make sure you take plenty of water along—I’m not exaggerating the complications of dehydration and exhaustion. Headaches may be the least of your concerns.”
Aubrey felt her pulse quicken. We just got back, and now we’re turning around and heading back into the sewer again? I almost wish I hadn’t eaten.
She got to her feet, grateful to find her shivering had subsided. I won’t be the weak link on this team.
“Dehydration means poor reflexes and bad decision-making.” Don’s booming baritone filled the room. “I was listening, Doc. I’ll take responsibility for my team’s health.”
He rubbed his palms together, ready to be on the move. “Aubrey, you’ll stay here with Doctor Simon. No offense, Doc, you’re as tough as they come, but I’m not leaving you here by yourself. Besides, it’s time Megan learned how to function as part of the team.”
Aubrey watched Doc, unsure what to make of the sudden change of plans. She caught the look that passed between Don and Doctor Simon, as Doc nodded in response.
They’ve already discussed this. While she was stitching up Don’s arm, probably. I wonder what’s up?
She resented being left behind, but she couldn’t argue with Don’s logic. Just as she’d had to prove she was ready after her injuries healed, now it was Megan’s turn.
Megan hadn’t spoken since they entered the mess hall. Even now, as she levered herself out of her chair to stand beside Jane, she remained silent. It was impossible to guess how she felt about her new assignment. Her facial expression was impassive, her body language relaxed and noncommittal.
We’ve underestimated her before. Aubrey’s nagging doubts resurfaced. Her speech is awkward, but don’t be fooled by that. She’s more capable than we give her credit for.
“My go.” Megan spoke up, startling everyone. She nodded her head for emphasis, her remaining eye lighting up with anticipation. Her lips quivered and twitched as she spoke, each word painfully forced through uncooperative muscles. “We find Amos.”
Doc moved to the door, all business.
“I’ve got some dried cherries for you, Don,” she called over her shoulder as she left the mess hall. “Natural pain-killer. I’ll wrap some up for you to take along. I’d say ‘go easy on the arm,’ but I know who I’m talking to.”
Her voice faded as she hurried down the corridor to the infirmary.
Don shoved his chair into place, leaning on the back with his good arm. “Let’s pack up and be ready. Follow Doc’s orders, and try to get some sleep. We leave first thing in the morning.”
“Find Amos,” Megan said, nodding. For the first time, Aubrey thought she detected emotion in her voice. Excitement. Anticipation, perhaps. “My go.”
Eleven
AUBREY SAT WITH DOC in the infirmary. Don, Jane, and Megan had departed an hour earlier, hoping to find Enrico, Garr’s mechanic friend. And hoping even further he could provide them with transportation.
The Hub was far too quiet, too deserted, and Aubrey’s nerves refused to settle down.
She winced as Doc massaged the scar tissue on her arm, hand and fingers. The daily routine was a hold-over from her convalescence. She’d almost electrocuted herself as a result of her crazed attempt—under her Implant’s sinister influence—to kill Jane with one of the combat knives they all carried.
In a way, I should thank Snake Lady. Aubrey grimaced as Doc found another tender spot in her forearm. If she hadn’t threatened to shoot me, I would’ve never attacked her, and the electricity wouldn’t have shorted out my Implant.
She gritted her teeth as Doc began another round of pressure at her elbow. She’d recovered much of her former strength and dexterity, but Doc possessed an uncanny gift for finding the tender spots.
“I couldn’t believe the Hoarders’ arrogance.” Aubrey’s voice sounded strained in her ears, and she wasn’t sure if it was a result of her memories or the pain from Doc’s thorough tech
nique.
“Their leader—Darcy—wouldn’t even look at us, except maybe Garr. He spoke to Mateo as if we weren’t even there. Or maybe like he thought we were too stupid to understand. And Mateo says we need an alliance with them?”
Darcy. She couldn’t control the revulsion in her voice when she spoke his name. He was a monster. He put Implants into innocent, unsuspecting people, turning them into mindless killers. He’d stooped so low as to Implant a young boy.
Aubrey hadn’t realized she was capable of such stark loathing. Until Darcy.
Doc said nothing, concentrating on her arm, but Aubrey thought she detected a darker frown on her face.
“Darcy’s the one who created the Implants in the first place,” Aubrey said, emphasizing her point. “He didn’t even try to hide it. I think he’s actually proud of it. And once you’ve been Implanted, he assigns you a number, like you aren’t even human anymore.”
She knew she was talking too fast, but she couldn’t stem the flood of words. “All I could think about were names. Thomas, Sarah, and Stephen. And the others, whose names we don’t know—all dead because Trackers were after our Implants. Because Darcy . . .”
Her lips twisted as she snarled the name, unable to go on. She drew a ragged breath, wondering why her eyes remained dry when every fiber of her body wanted to scream.
Doc held her hand, but the massage had stopped. She leaned forward, studying Aubrey with a strange expression. Aubrey paused, unable to put a name to the look on Doc’s face. In that moment, anxiety began to gnaw at her.
Doc straightened with a sigh. Her grip on Aubrey’s hand relaxed, and she slipped off her stool.
“Walk with me, Aubrey.” Doc exited the infirmary without a backward glance.
Curious, Aubrey rose from her chair and followed. She assumed Doc’s goal was the mess hall, but Doc surprised her, turning in the opposite direction, past the sleeping quarters to a nondescript room at the far end of the Hub.
