by Deven Kane
Doc lit a lantern as she entered, and the wan light danced on the walls. The empty, featureless room was long and narrow, just as Aubrey remembered it.
Doc set the lantern on the floor, gesturing to the wall at the far end of the narrow space. Aubrey saw a multitude of dark smudges pockmarking the unpainted wall.
“You spent weeks in this room.” Doc Simon gestured to the smudges, her eyes fixed on Aubrey’s. “Over and over, no matter how much it hurt, throwing your little rubber ball against the wall and catching it. Hours per day, every day, for weeks on end. You were determined. You even taught yourself to be ambidextrous.”
“I wanted to contribute,” Aubrey replied, confused by the change of topic. “I’d seen what the Trackers were capable of—how many people they’d slaughtered. And after I almost died when my Implant was activated, I knew I had to be a part of this Hub. A functional part, not just a rescued Runner.”
Doc turned to face her, dropping her arm to her side. Her eyes bored holes into Aubrey. “I remember. You called them the Soul-less, the mindless killing machines who butchered your friends—and ours—in order to ‘harvest’ their Implants.”
Doc’s voice was low and strident, a challenge implied in her words and body language. “You couldn’t wait to join the others in the field, no matter how risky it was. You trained long and hard to toughen up and be part of the team.”
“It paid off in the long run,” Aubrey said, defiance flaring as she confronted her mentor. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I saved that little boy’s life. Megan was going to kill him, even though his Implant had been deactivated. I had to get tough. Tougher than Snake Lady, even. I refuse to be the weak link.”
Doc stepped even closer, nose-to-nose, her voice brittle. “And when you stole Jane’s gun to kill a Hoarder—against Garr’s explicit instructions—were you the weak link?”
Aubrey could only stare, feeling the blood drain from her face. Her fists clenched, fingernails digging into her palms.
She felt helpless as Doc’s words sank in, hammering against her rationale—her justification—for stealing the gun. And her single-minded obsession with killing the monster named Darcy.
“He put Implants into children.” Tears welled up in her eyes. The sudden lump in her throat made it hard to speak. “He said he was probably the one who Implanted me . . .”
Aubrey took an involuntary step back, brought up short by the wall behind her, and slid down to the floor. She buried her face in her hands and bawled.
It no longer mattered what Doc might think. Aubrey didn’t care if Snake Lady were to walk in and deliver one of her mocking comments. The emotion of the moment drowned all else out.
Thomas, Sarah, Stephen, the boy, her own horror when she first learned what the Hoarders had done to her, the terror of fleeing the Trackers—the faces and events raced past her mind’s eye without pause or mercy.
The meeting with the Hoarders, Darcy’s scornful taunts, even the unexpected raid by the Trackers. Each memory paraded through her mind, and Aubrey was powerless to control her tears.
It felt like a long time before she looked up, wiping her eyes. She realized Doctor Simon was sitting next to her, also leaning against the wall. As patient as always, Doc waited for Aubrey to pull herself together before speaking.
“I’m not going to apologize for my harshness just now.” Doc’s voice was firm but less confrontational. She shook her head, grimacing. “You came close to crippling an alliance that Garr believes is critical to ridding ourselves of the Givers, the Implants, and the Trackers.”
She sighed, sounding exasperated. “Amos had to learn the same lesson, and there were more than a few times when I thought he’d never be able to. This cannot be about revenge.”
Aubrey heard the words, understood them, but she rebelled. Darcy has to pay for what he’s done. How many Runners are dead—slaughtered—because of him?
Doc waited, watching her with a discerning eye. As Aubrey regained her composure, Doc spoke again, her voice empathetic—more like her usual demeanor. “The Colonel’s decision pushed all of you to the edge. I was aware of that even before I heard what happened at your meeting with the Hoarders.”
She averted her gaze, the wan light from the lantern flickering on her face. “But I support the Colonel and his leadership of this Hub. If there were any other option, he would’ve chosen it. Garr took a huge risk trusting Mateo, and an even larger one by agreeing to an alliance with Hoarders. Everyone on the team was stretched to the breaking point.”
Aubrey listened, numb.
“You were inches away from making a critical mistake.” Doc took a deep breath, her eyes softening. “But there’s more to you than that. You’ve shown strength and resolve, and you overcame some daunting obstacles. In my mind, that makes you one of the bravest people I know.”
Aubrey managed a watery smile. “I don’t feel very brave just now, Doc. And I’m sorry . . .”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away. “I shouldn’t have taken Jane’s gun. I wasn’t thinking, I was just reacting. I thought I was getting tougher, but I guess I lost it when Garr said we were going to partner with Hoarders.”
Doc nodded, looking suddenly tired. “Like I said, Garr’s decision—even though I believe he’s probably right—pushed the whole team to a risky edge. You deserve more credit than you’re giving yourself, Aubrey. You’re much tougher than you realize.”
Doc looked directly at her, emphasizing her next words. “But one thing you’re not—is a murderer. You should thank your lucky stars Megan got there before you crossed a line you can’t un-cross.”
Doc paused, giving her words time to sink in. “The Givers take innocent people and turn them into Trackers, and Darcy creates assassins with his Implants. Don’t let this change who you are, Aubrey. Don’t let vengeance turn you into another cold-blooded killer.”
Aubrey nodded, drawing a deep, shaky breath and exhaling. “I know you’re right, Doc, but that doesn’t make it any easier. If you could’ve seen the look in Darcy’s eyes . . .”
She ran a hand through her hair. “It feels like we’ve made a deal with the devil.”
“Call him whatever you like,” Doc replied, watching her with shrewd eyes. “But Darcy, and the other Hoarders, are the key to getting inside the Enclave. We can’t reach the Givers without their help, as distasteful as that is.”
Aubrey straightened her shoulders against the rough concrete wall, lifting her head higher. “I won’t make the same mistake twice, Doc. I won’t be the weak link.”
“That’s all I needed to hear.” Doc climbed to her feet, arching her back as she stretched.
“I’m getting too old to live in a sub-basement next to the sewer,” she said with a wry smile. “But right now, we’ve got bigger issues to worry about.”
Aubrey sat forward, alarmed by the change in Doc’s voice. “Bigger than what? What could be worse?”
Doc offered a hand to help Aubrey to her feet. She waited until Aubrey finished brushing the dust off her pants before replying. “Those Trackers knew exactly where to find you. There’s more going on than we realized. There’s a third party involved, and they want all of us wiped out.”
Aubrey felt her heart skip a beat. “The Givers? I guess that makes sense, but how could they know where to find us?”
Doc stooped to retrieve the lantern, and the shadows on the wall gyrated in response.
“Somebody told them.” Her blunt verdict fell into a sudden silence in the empty room.
Twelve
“PLEASE TELL ME YOU’VE not that naive.”
Enrico’s expression spoke louder than his words. To call his reaction skeptical would be an understatement. Disbelief would be more accurate.
Megan eyed him with suspicion. She considered Mateo a friend, an ally.
“You weren’t there.” Jane didn’t seem intimidated by his pessimistic challenge. “Why not give Mateo the benefit of the doubt? Garr seems to trust him.”
<
br /> The mechanic threw his hands up in frustration. “Then Garr’s lost his mind. I warned him the last time I saw him. The real Mateo is dead. Killed two years ago by a Tracker. Maybe even the same one you met. I can’t believe Garr would be so gullible . . .”
“Mateo claims he’s the real deal,” Don interrupted, his calm voice a counterpoint to the mechanic’s agitation. “And it’s no secret the Givers use people from outside the Enclave as raw material for creating Trackers. They’d never dream of using one of the high-and-mighty Citizens of Hoarderville.”
Enrico remained unconvinced. “Let’s take this conversation inside. This is a small town where everybody knows everybody. I can’t be seen arguing with strangers in front of my shop for too long before somebody notices. Then the tongues start to wag.”
He led the way into his small garage, attached to the simple house where he lived alone. The late-afternoon sun streamed through a single window, illuminating the interior of his shop. Don’s eyes lit up at the sight of the unassuming vehicle stored inside.
Enrico leaned against the truck, arms folded across his chest. He was older than Garr, his hair grayer, but no less in command of his tiny domain. “So, we’re expected to take Mateo’s word for it? That he’s the same person, but in Tracker form? Sounds a little too convenient.”
Don tore his gaze from the truck to its owner. “You knew Mateo, when he was a shopkeeper outside Hoarderville.”
The mechanic nodded, his expression softening. “Mateo was the most fearless part of the Hub network I’d ever met. No disrespect to the Colonel or any of you—Garr’s told me some of what you’ve been through—but Mateo dared to set up his Hub under the Hoarders’ noses. Hidden in plain sight? He operated in the shadow of the Enclave for a long time. Until one day . . .”
He clapped his hands together, the percussive sound sharp in the tiny shop. “Tracker. End of story.”
“Wait a minute.” Jane stepped in front of Don. “That can’t be right. Garr sent us to Mateo’s Hub to gauge the Enclave’s defenses, look for any way to get inside. If Mateo’s been dead for two years, the other Hubs would’ve heard something. How could his Hub keep functioning—unless Mateo is who he says he is?”
The mechanic snorted in exasperation. “I wouldn’t know—I’m not part of your network. Garr and I served together years ago, and sometimes I do favors for him. But that’s all.”
He scowled, shaking his head. “Why your Hub network would keep using Mateo—or whoever he is—as a conduit for intel is beyond me. Unless everyone just assumed all was well because he was alive and running his shop.”
“Maybe.” Don shrugged. “It’s possible we were the first to figure out what Mateo really is. But let’s be clear: it was Mateo’s decision to reveal his Tracker-ness. Why he did it is anybody’s guess.”
Megan caught the glance Don shot her way before he changed tactics with the skeptical mechanic. “Tell you what—if you knew the original Mateo, describe him.”
Enrico paused, his combative position unchanged. He leaned further back, arching his spine over the hood of the truck, eyes fixed on the rafters.
“It’s been at least four years since I last saw him.” The mechanic studied the ceiling as if it bore an imprint of Mateo’s features. “He’s tall—not quite as tall as you, Don—with salt-and-pepper hair, but not as salty as mine. Average build. Dark eyes, laughs a lot. Intelligent and well-spoken. He took to his role like a fish takes to water. He was a natural.”
Don and Jane exchanged glances.
“You’ve just described the Mateo we met,” Don said. “On his ‘guided tour,’ he sounds more like scholar giving a lecture than a shopkeeper, but the locals seem to have accepted him. I think we’re talking about the same person.”
“Except for the laughter.” Jane’s foot tapped a nervous rhythm on the wooden floorboards. “When I think of Mateo, a sense of humor isn’t the first thing that comes to mind. He’s pretty serious, which I guess makes sense, considering what’s at stake.”
“Or because the Givers changed him into a Tracker.” Don laughed out loud, amused by his own words. “I can’t believe what I’m saying. Am I actually defending Mateo?”
Enrico stared back and forth between them, incredulity etched on his face. “So, you’ve convinced yourselves Mateo wasn’t killed by a Tracker—he is the Tracker, and we heard the wrong rumor? Okay, let’s go with that, just for the sake of argument.”
He leaned forward, arms still crossed, his defiance clear. “Think of the advantage it would give the Hoarders to have a Tracker inside your network. He lives next to the Enclave, where they can keep an eye on him. He gathers intel from unsuspecting Runners and passes it to the Hoarders. Not to mention the Givers.”
Megan felt a burning sensation she identified as anger. Her hands clenched into fists, unseen behind Don’s bulk.
Enrico shook his head, frustrated he wasn’t getting through. “Plus, none of us knows what happens when a human is re-created as a Tracker. If they interrogated him, Mateo may have already compromised your entire Hub network. Have you ever considered that?”
“No questions,” Megan interrupted. She poked her head around Don’s massive frame, looking up at the mechanic.
“The Givers. No questions. Only . . .” Her lips twisted, and she cursed her inability to complete her thought.
Enrico stared at her as if he hadn’t seen her before. “You’re saying the Hoarders don’t interrogate their prisoners before making Trackers out of them?”
Megan frowned, concentrating, her halting words escaping bit by awkward bit. “No. No questions. No . . . interest. We—our thoughts—don’t matter. Only to obey.”
She clutched at her throat, as if she could tear the words out. Her next sentence exploded in a frustrated rush. “Givers. They only take.”
“Megan’s also a Tracker.” Don watched for the mechanic’s reaction. “Or at least, she used to be.”
Enrico stepped away from his truck, inspecting Megan with obvious curiosity.
“Used to be? I’ll bet there’s quite a story behind that.” He examined her eyepatch and surrounding scar tissue, speaking as though Megan wasn’t present. “But I doubt we have time. Are you sure she’s not taking orders from the Givers?”
Megan stood tall, her confidence returning. She reached up to tap the side of her head.
“No more voices. No more Givers,” she said, her words clear and unhurried. “My name is Megan.”
She stepped forward, gazing up at the mechanic with her one good eye. “Your truck. Please.”
Enrico raised his eyebrows at her request. He turned to Jane and Don. “Direct, isn’t she?”
Don glanced at Megan. “She’s full of surprises, no doubt about that. But you’d already guessed why we’re here. We need to borrow your truck.”
“Please,” Megan said a second time.
Enrico grimaced, shaking his head as he dug the keys out of his pocket and handed them to Don. “This is my favorite truck. My only truck. Please bring it back in one piece, if it’s not too much to ask.”
“Why? What have you heard about Don’s driving?” Jane dead-panned as she led the way to the vehicle. It was smaller than the ones they’d stolen from the Hoarders on previous missions, but there was enough room for the three of them.
And space for Amos, if all went well. Jane climbed into the passenger side, while Megan scrambled into the rear seat.
Don started the engine, rolling his window down to speak with the mechanic. “We really appreciate this. It’ll save us a lot of time. We should be back in a few hours, assuming there are no Tracker-shaped surprises.”
“Then I hope you have the dullest trip of your lives,” Enrico replied, resting one arm on the door. With a furtive glance at Megan, seated in the back seat, he leaned close and lowered his voice. “Listen, you’re dealing with two Trackers now. The damage this one’s sustained tells me that’s probably how she broke free of the Givers. Nothing you’ve told me about Mateo sugge
sts he gained his freedom the same way.”
He paused, choosing his words with care. “Trackers don’t think like us, Don. Or value what we consider important. They may have been human once, but not anymore.”
He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to Megan and back. “Whatever these aliens are—these so-called Givers—they’ve programmed Trackers to think like they do. An alien way of thinking. You can’t assume anything, Don. And you can’t reason with them.”
He stepped away from the truck and opened the garage door, beckoning them through. Don shifted gears, creeping past the mechanic with exaggerated care.
“Thanks.” Don leaned out the window. “We’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
“Take it easy,” Enrico replied, feigning a cheerful wave for the benefit of anyone watching. “I want my truck back.”
Thirteen
DON COAXED THE TRUCK up the steep hillside, tires spinning now and then on the loose gravel. The engine groaned in protest. Jane and Megan held on for dear life as the vehicle rattled and bounced over the uneven surface.
“Not as much torque as a Hoarder truck,” Don muttered under his breath, frowning at the speedometer.
“No kidding,” Jane replied, as another pothole sent a shudder through the chassis and into the seats. “I can’t say much for the shock absorbers, either.”
Megan braced herself against the back of Jane’s seat with her foot. She was fascinated by the terrain around them. The overgrown road wove its way up the hillside, the narrow lane lined with thick evergreens and undergrowth.
Why does this feel so familiar? Where in my past does the wilderness fit in? Not for the first time, she was frustrated by her inability to communicate with clarity.
There were so many questions she wanted to ask. But the effort was exhausting and, more often than not, the results were unsatisfying. Is one of these villages my hometown?
