by Deven Kane
Is that thunder? Aubrey slowed to listen, her nerves frayed. No, the rumbling noise wasn’t natural. It was mechanical—the roar of a heavy engine. And it was drawing closer. Hoarders.
Aubrey broke into a run, splashing through the puddles.
The sound of the vehicle reverberated off the dilapidated buildings. Aubrey—all her survival instincts in play—dodged into another alley, flattening herself against the rough brick wall. She cringed, wondering if she was the Hoarders’ target.
The bulky vehicle, its windows black and opaque, roared past her, its over-sized tires splashing gouts of water over the sidewalk. The water splattered not far from her feet.
Aubrey counted three—no, four—Hoarder vehicles in an ominous convoy, each vehicle identical to the one preceding it. Their occupants remained anonymous, hidden behind the black-tinted windows.
The Hoarders careened around a corner some six blocks away, accelerating toward their unknown destination. Aubrey listened with bated breath, frozen in place, until the guttural engine noise faded.
A cold rivulet of water roused her, snaking down her spine as her jacket succumbed to the rain. She stepped timidly out of the alley, still unsure if she was the object of pursuit.
Only the steady drone of rain greeted her. She was alone.
She tightened her grip on the produce bag, relieved she hadn’t dropped it in her hasty retreat. After one last stealthy look, she slipped out of the alley, intent on the hidden access for their Hub.
She took her time, mindful to watch her back trail.
Twenty-Four
AUBREY RUSHED INTO the infirmary. She expected to find Doc Simon puttering at her workbench, but the room was empty. She jogged down the short hallway, her waterlogged shoes squeaking in sodden protest.
She heard voices ahead, and her spirits lifted. Don, Snake Lady and Megan had returned during her absence.
Don’s boisterous laugh greeted her as she burst through the half-open door to the mess hall. “Wow, and I thought we looked like drowned rats.”
Jane cradled a hot cup of the chicory root beverage they called “coffee,” warming her hands without actually sipping the steaming liquid. Her eyes widened when she saw Aubrey. “Something’s wrong. I can tell.”
Aubrey pulled out the package. The leather felt damp, but its contents remained untouched by the elements. With trembling hands, she unwound the strap and read the blunt message, her words rushing together.
“Two Hubs destroyed by Trackers. Trust no one. Risk no contact.” She brushed her damp hair away from her eyes. “It’s unsigned.”
A shocked silence settled over the mess hall. Jane spoke first. “It’s unsigned—so it’s impossible to confirm. What if it’s a trick, to keep the Hubs isolated from each other?”
“Whoever left that message knew where our drop-box is,” Doc replied, crossing her arms. “That suggests one of two things. Either the source is legitimate, or the location of our drop-box has been compromised.”
“There’s more,” Aubrey said. “I saw a convoy of Hoarder trucks, not more than a few blocks from the Mission. They’re up to something.”
“Two Hubs gone,” Don’s hand dropped to the handle of his combat knife. “Trust no one, eh? And Hoarders running a convoy not far from here.”
He sighed heavily. “Looks like we’re on our own.”
Aubrey slumped into a chair, her sodden attire forgotten. And Garr, Sheila and Amos are still missing.
Twenty-Five
HERE WE GO AGAIN. Amos steeled himself for a second standoff with the Hoarders.
He’d recovered from the initial shock of Sheila, dressed like a high and mighty Hoarder, welcoming them into Darcy’s apartment (or villa, as the Hoarders called them).
Questions flooded his mind, but the mere sight of Darcy quenched any desire to ask.
“Amos.” Garr bolted forward in his chair, his look of shock morphing into relief. “How did you get past gate security?”
The entire scene was surreal. Garr sat in a comfortable chair, opposite Darcy, before a massive stone hearth. The fire burning inside wasn’t natural—the hearth was sealed behind tempered glass. Garr was also dressed in Hoarder attire.
Mateo pushed past him, raising his hands in a cautionary gesture. “Good welcome, Colonel. My apologies for pre-empting Amos’s answer. I must insist on a certain level of privacy regarding my visits to the Councilor.”
Amos closed his mouth, yielding to Mateo’s appeal. This isn’t a typical debrief at the Hub. We’re in enemy territory.
“Ah, the voice of the all-knowing Tracker speaks.” Darcy’s mild voice was edged with contempt. He stood to his feet, his pale eyes alive with malice. “Is there no ‘good welcome’ for me, as well, Mr. Reyes?”
Mateo lowered his head in a slight bow, a show of deference that caught Amos by surprise. “I meant no disrespect, Councilor. Privacy is my best defense against the Givers.”
Very smooth. Amos gave Mateo credit for his strategic answer. Reminding us about our common enemy, the Givers.
He couldn’t help but be impressed by Mateo’s dogged insistence in bolstering their uneasy alliance.
He also made a mental note to question him later. For some reason, Mateo didn’t want Darcy to know they’d found his secret entrance into the maintenance level.
He wants Darcy to think there’s more than one way to sneak into the Enclave. Why—to keep him off-balance?
He tensed when he realized Darcy’s eyes were now on him.
“You’re the one they call Amos,” the Hoarder said, as if confronted with a problem requiring a solution. “Garr and Sheila have told me fascinating stories about you. Carving an Implant out of your own body—I didn’t think your kind were capable of such dramatic acts.”
Amos gritted his teeth, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks at the Darcy’s undisguised scorn. “You want to see what kind of drama I’m capable of?”
He took a step forward, his hands balled into fists. “I thought you Hoarders were getting desperate for help from ‘my kind.’”
An angry voice interrupted from the opposite side of the room. “Mind your tongue, savage.”
Amos whirled to locate the speaker, and spotted the gray-haired Hoarder who’d been at Darcy’s side during their ill-fated meeting. He was seated in a straight-backed chair, his hand casually resting on a Hoarder rifle. The weapon’s muzzle was angled toward Amos and Mateo.
“Stand down, Tony.” Darcy’s command had the effect of a whip on bare skin. “That’s no way to speak to our new allies.”
Amos whipped his head around, his blood boiling at the smirk on Darcy’s face. Sheila caught his eye, shaking her head imperceptibly. Under her calm demeanor, Amos sensed her anxiety, the subtle tightness around her eyes.
Bide your time. His inner voice jumped into the fray. You’ve got no idea what progress the Colonel’s already made. Don’t blow it for everyone.
It was Garr who broke the tension. He remained seated on the edge of his chair, his calm air bringing equilibrium to the volatile standoff. “Amos, what about the rest of the team? Sheila and I were preoccupied with getting the Citizens out of harm’s way.”
“Where are my manners?” Darcy interrupted, spreading his arms in a magnanimous gesture. “Please, come and sit with us. We have much to discuss.”
The guy’s a total narcissist. Amos eyed him warily. He can’t stand it if he’s not the center of attention. He loves reminding everyone of his power.
Darcy returned to his chair opposite Garr, reaching for a large bottle of an unknown liquid. He tugged at the stopper, and it acquiesced with a wet pop. He refilled his own glass, and then looked at Sheila with a sly grin.
“Sheila, would you be a dear, and bring us some ice? You do remember how to do that, don’t you?” Amos watched as Sheila, eyes averted, strode stiffly out of the gathering room and into the kitchen.
Mateo took a chair across from the two sitting by the fire. Amos noticed Mateo’s choice of seat put him b
etween Garr and the trigger-happy Tony. Amos moved to join them.
Sheila returned, placing a tray on the table. Darcy used some tongs to add ice to his drink, and Garr’s. He didn’t offer anything to Mateo.
“Not you, Amos.” Darcy held up an imperious hand. “Forgive my bluntness, but you’re in my home. Sheila can show you where the shower is, and provide you with clean clothes. Then you may sit on my furniture.”
He leaned back in his seat, twirling the amber liquid in his glass, watching Amos with a cunning smile.
Stung, Amos looked to Garr. The Colonel returned his gaze with steady calm.
“Perhaps you should take him up on his offer,” he said, his soft voice at odds with the sharp look in his eyes. Later, Amos could imagine him saying.
He acquiesced with a nod, and followed Sheila out of the gathering room.
“Nice Hoarder outfit,” he said sotto voce as he caught up to her. “How does it feel to be Darcy’s little servant girl?”
Sheila halted, pivoting to face him. Her eyes burned into his, and Amos knew he’d gone too far. “Sheila, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said that.”
He gestured around the opulent villa. “Everything about this has me on edge. Darcy . . .”
“Is the enemy,” she interrupted, cutting short his fumbling attempt at an apology. “And as long as the Givers are around, he’s also our ally. Have you ever heard of ‘hidden in plain sight,’ Amos? Well, it looks a little different inside the Enclave.”
Amos nodded, chagrined. I deserved that.
She led him to a closet, pulling out a shrink-wrapped set of clothes, measuring it against him. “This should come close. Leave your clothes in the washroom. I’ll get them cleaned for you. Darcy owes us at least that much.”
She gave him a tired smile, her mood lightening slightly. “It’s been an unusual couple of days. I’ll fill you in later. Just get cleaned up, and don’t keep our ‘host’ waiting.”
She ushered him into a washroom nearly as large as the mess hall in their Hub.
“Darcy’s not stupid,” Sheila said as she pulled the door shut. “You don’t have to pretend you like working with him. But whatever you do, don’t cross him. He’s not just an average Hoarder—he’s the one who invented the Implants, reverse-engineering tech he stole from the Givers.”
The door was open a mere crack. All Amos could see was one of her eyes, and for a disturbing moment, he pictured Megan’s disfigured face.
“And he’s nuts,” Sheila whispered. “A total sociopath.”
His eyes. Amos felt a familiar quiver in his gut as Sheila closed the door with a firm click.
It’s always in the eyes.
Twenty-Six
SHEILA WAS WAITING in the hall when he finished cleaning up. Amos felt awkward in the clothing provided by the Hoarders, like an actor dressed for a role that wasn’t his. He said as much to Sheila, embarrassed by his appearance.
“You look fine,” she said, straightening his collar. “If we’re going to do any reconnaissance inside the Enclave, we’ve got to blend in.”
She flashed him a grin. “Just imagine what would happen if the Citizens knew actual savages were running loose on their streets. Hidden in plain sight, Amos, Hoarder-style.”
He was about to re-enter the large gathering room, but Sheila caught his arm just above the elbow, pulling him back. Startled, he swung around to face her.
“The kid’s back,” she whispered, staring into his eyes. “The blond one who called Megan by name. Watch your step. He’s almost as volatile as Darcy.”
Amos nodded, inhaling deeply. “Thanks for the warning. We’d better not keep the Hoard . . . the Citizens waiting.”
Twenty-Seven
CONNOR TAPPED HIS FOOT in a nervous rhythm, but betrayed no other sign of his unease. He affected a bored expression, watching as the floor numbers crept upward on the elevator’s display pad.
The elevators are the eyes and ears of the Givers. The bombing at the protest will be all over the Infomedia by now. Darcy needs to know about the Trackers who were behind it.
Connor felt a growing excitement as he imagined how they might enlist the protesters to join their cause. Failing that, perhaps Darcy could devise a way of using the protests to stir up further unrest in the Enclave. Anything to buy additional time before the Anodyne Initiative went into full implementation.
The doors parted at the twentieth floor, and Connor strode down the hall, his expression carefully neutral. Just another Citizen heading home after another typical day in the Enclave. University classes resume tomorrow. That’ll give me a legitimate alibi.
He fidgeted outside the door of the villa, resenting even the few seconds it took to key in his personal entry code. The door opened, and he stepped inside, eager to share his news.
He halted just inside the entrance. The door hissed shut behind him and he could only stand there, staring, his mouth hanging open.
To his left, Darcy sat in front of the hearth with Implant Twenty-seven and Mateo, the Givers’ traitorous pawn. To his right, Tony sat in a stiff armchair, leaning one arm on the decorative table beside him. The chauffeur toyed with the barrel of a rifle resting on the table, a smug, self-important look on his face which Connor was beginning to despise.
Before he could say anything, Implant Twenty-eight appeared out of the kitchen, crossing in front of him without acknowledging his presence. She paused to place a serving tray on the table between Darcy and his improbable guests, and then continued down the hall, disappearing without a word around the corner.
“Connor.” Darcy smiled, raising his whiskey glass in salute, as if nothing unusual was happening. “How good of you to join us. I trust you recognize Mateo, and also our esteemed guest, Colonel Rucker.”
Connor recovered, shutting his mouth and swallowing hard before he dared to reply. He’s coaching me. From now on, we refer to Implant Twenty-seven by name, not number.
He ground his teeth with resentment, wanting more than anything to pounce on Garr and force him to confess what he’d done to Megan. Then, he remembered the decision he’d made in the aftermath of the protest.
“Have you seen the Infomedia?” Connor managed to keep his voice even. “Do you know what happened during the protest at the Arts and Culture Gallery?”
Darcy’s brow furrowed in consternation. “What protest?”
He has no idea. Connor hesitated, unsure how much to divulge in front of the savages. “Sir? Could I have a moment with you, alone?”
He saw the look of instant suspicion on Implant Twenty . . . Garr’s face. Mateo raised his chin, gazing at Connor from an odd angle.
“I know we promised to share information,” Connor added for their sake. “But I’d like to talk to Darcy first.”
Darcy stood to his feet, leaning over to place his whiskey on the glass-topped table with a firm clink.
“Gentlemen.” He addressed the traitor called Mateo and the savages’ leader with surprising civility. “My son and I would like a moment, if you don’t mind. We will, of course, share any pertinent information with you.”
Connor caught the motion in his peripheral vision. Another savage entered the gathering room, accompanied by Implant Twenty-eight. I’ll need Darcy to remind me what her name is.
The savages were dressed, as was Garr, in the proper garments for a Citizen of the Enclave. Connor had trouble believing his eyes. We’ll have to burn those clothes once the savages are done with them.
Darcy barely acknowledged their presence, addressing his comments to Garr alone. “Colonel, why don’t you and your team wait on our balcony? The view of the Enclave from this height is quite inspiring.”
Garr didn’t reply at once, favoring Connor with a shrewd and appraising look. Not used to people telling you what to do? Connor fumed at the savage’s presumption. Well, get used to it, ‘Colonel.’
Mateo broke the brief stalemate, rising to his feet and heading for the balcony. “Very good, Councilor. We anticipate hearing y
our news. Your foster son appears barely capable of restraining himself.”
I’m restraining myself right now. Connor sneered behind Mateo’s back. Tony’s rifle. Your arrogance. Do the math, Tracker.
One by one, the savages filed out after Mateo. Tony locked the door with an exaggerated flourish. He hefted his rifle, pointing it to the ceiling, clearly enjoying the sensation of power he thought the weapon gave him. Connor ignored him.
Darcy sprang into action, changing the window’s opacity setting to filter. The floor-to-ceiling panes darkened in response, throwing the room into semi-dusk and thwarting the savages’ view of gathering the room or its occupants.
Darcy activated the large viewing screen above the hearth, tuning it to the Infomedia. As Connor suspected, the leading story on every channel was the protest at the Gallery.
The surveillance footage repeated in an endless loop of smoke, screams, and fleeing Citizens, narrated by a dramatic voice-over, describing the scene in precise and graphic detail. The video was then supplanted for a few moments by a panel of talking heads.
Connor was not surprised to hear them taking advantage of the opportunity to promote the Anodyne Initiative. The sooner it was implemented, the panel agreed, the better. For the good of the Enclave.
And then the whole sequence would begin again.
Darcy watched the report in silence, his eyes darting back and forth, absorbing everything he could from the footage. He made no comment on the talking heads’ insistence on accelerating the Anodyne Initiative, obviously not deeming it worthy of discussion.
Connor understood his restraint. This was the Givers’ doing, aided and abetted by the traitors on the Council.
After watching the report cycle three times, Darcy shut the Infomedia off, staring at the blank screen for a long moment. At last, he tilted his head in Connor’s direction, his gaze on the polished floor at his feet.
“You were there.” It was not a question.
