by Deven Kane
“The Gallery footage, unedited.” Darcy didn’t waste time or bother to introduce them. Lindholm gestured at the various screens, apparently unfazed by Darcy’s officiousness or the anonymous group crowding into her personal domain.
I wonder if it’s respect or fear. Amos was sure he already knew the answer as they clustered around her workstation.
The trip from Darcy’s villa on the eastern side of the Enclave to the bustling downtown—if there was such a thing in Hoarderville—was eye-opening. There was little conversation along the way. They were unable to fit into a single Hoarder truck, and were forced to take the subway instead.
Darcy’s instructions had been very specific. Say as little as possible—the eyes and ears of the Givers are everywhere. None of them felt like making small talk, and aside from minimal verbal directions from one of the Hoarders, they were left alone with their own thoughts.
The subway afforded a limited view of Enclave’s interior, and the high-speed transportation rendered what little they could see into one big blur.
Amos stifled his dark humor as they were whisked through the tunnels, surrounded by dozens of unsuspecting Citizens.
All blissfully unaware that the dreaded savages are seated among them. Amos repressed a sardonic grin. I’ll bet this is what the tunnels under our City used to look like, when the subways were still running.
Lindholm’s voice jarred him back to the present. She sat at her workstation, the rest of the group gathered around her in a tense semi-circle, all eyes on the various view-screens. “Would you like to review the protest itself, Councilor, or are you more interested in the terrorist attack?”
Darcy crossed his arms, glaring at the multiple screens. “The whole thing, but slow it down as the attack begins.”
There was a great deal of additional footage compared to the Infomedia broadcast, from several distinct angles, each camera providing a differing perspective. For the next several minutes, they watched the footage in silence, alert for any extraneous detail.
“Wait—freeze it.” Connor pointed to one of the monitors. Lindholm complied. All eyes were on the screen he indicated, top right in the panel. “You can see when the Trackers started chasing each other. Look at the trail they leave when they start pushing through the crowd.”
“Slow motion from this point.” Darcy leaned on the back of Lindholm’s chair. She acquiesced with an irritated look, not appreciating the way his weight offset her balance.
Amos leaned forward, intent on the footage as the two Trackers crashed through the protest. The first one—the female—traveled in a straight line, while the second angled through the crowd on an intercept course.
Their paths converged a few meters short of the Gallery’s entrance. Just beyond, the beleaguered protestors huddled together, seeking protection from the surly mob.
“There.” Connor pointed, triumphant. “Two explosions, one after the other. I’m telling you, this wasn’t a coincidence. The female Tracker meant to take the other one out.”
“One more time, as close as you can magnify it.” Darcy squinted, straining to make out the details. Lindholm obeyed, but the video was already close to maximum magnification.
The scene played out as before, slow and choppy, until the overlapping explosions. Dust and fire-tinged smoke filled the screen, obscuring their view.
“Trackers hunting each other.” Darcy stared at the murky screen. “What’s the Givers’ strategy? What possible advantage could this give them?”
Amos glanced covertly at him. For once, it sounded as if Darcy was asking a legitimate question.
“To silence the protesters?” Garr stared at the screen as the smoke began to clear, revealing the human carnage in the blast radius. “There’s no point—not with the Anodyne Initiative already underway. A handful of protesters aren’t going to sway public opinion that much.”
“What’s this?” Sheila interrupted, pointing to a separate view-screen, set on its own console against the wall. Unlike the cluster of screens Lindholm monitored, this instrument panel was overlaid with a grid-like pattern.
A street map. Amos squeezed past Tony to stand next to the console. Probably the Enclave.
“New technology,” Lindholm replied crisply. She glanced over her shoulder, waiting for Darcy’s approval. At his curt nod, she continued in her clipped monotone.
“It was installed just a few days ago. See the red outlines?” She reached over to adjust the tech, and the screen zoomed in to highlight a smaller subsection of the grid. “Those are vehicles, and the dots inside represent the precise number of Citizens in each one.”
She stabbed a finger at the icons, tracing their progress. “These people have already received their nodes. They’ve also voluntarily registered their vehicles. Once the Initiative is up and running, we’ll be able to pinpoint anyone’s location, what vehicle they’re in, and who they’re traveling with.”
Amos frowned, puzzled by the convoluted strategy of the Givers. Beside him, Sheila uttered a startled gasp, and he knew she’d figured it out. “So, if you see a vehicle on the grid, but there’s no occupants with nodes inside . . .”
Lindholm nodded, a predatory look in her eyes. “Then the vehicle’s been stolen. No node, no Citizenship. We could isolate and eliminate them within minutes.”
She waved a nonchalant hand at the cluster of view-screens. “We’ll still use video surveillance, but the real security will be the nodes. And this new technology.”
“What about the protesters?” Garr asked. “The Citizens who decide—for whatever reason—they don’t want to join the Initiative?”
Lindholm snorted. “They’ll be given nodes anyway, for the good of the Enclave. Exile is the only alternative. If they want to live like the savages, they can live with the savages. That’s just my opinion, of course.”
Darcy leaned in close over her shoulder.
“This meeting never took place,” he breathed in her ear, the implied threat chilling. “And you have never seen these people.”
Lindholm froze, and Amos saw her eyes widen in fear. She stared straight ahead, her hands limp at the controls. “As you wish, Councilor.”
Darcy pivoted to face the rest of the group, his pale eyes boring into each of them in turn. Even Connor, Amos noticed, was not exempt from Darcy’s withering gaze.
“Tony will meet you on the parking level. He’ll transport you outside the Enclave. It’s time you returned to your Hub.”
He paused before opening the door, turning to issue a final warning. “The Anodyne Initiative is moving ahead. You must return, with reinforcements, before it’s complete. Tony will be waiting for you.”
Thirty-Two
REINFORCEMENTS. Amos fumed, staring out the passenger window as they waited in line to exit the Enclave. After all the innocent people he’s Implanted, he expects us to forget it ever happened, and rush to his aid.
He was being petulant, and he knew it. He understood the logical necessity of the alliance, but his emotions—fueled by too many memories—held a different opinion.
Like it or not, Darcy’s our ticket. Mateo can sneak us into the Enclave, but only Darcy can give us access everywhere else.
Amos shifted his position in the rear seat of the idling truck, impatient to be under way. He couldn’t wait to change out of the ridiculous outfit the Hoarders had given him to wear. He glanced over his shoulder at the small luggage bag in the cargo area. Tony had assured them their regular clothes were inside.
Amos settled into his seat, his restless eyes wandering to the driver. Tony exuded stress—drumming his fingers in an uneven rhythm on the steering wheel, stealing furtive glances at their surroundings, whistling a discordant melody.
I’ll bet Mateo sitting beside him doesn’t help. Amos hid a smirk at the thought.
“This line-up sure is taking a long time.” Sheila sat beside him, resting her chin on her hand as she stared out the opposite window.
To his right, Garr spoke for the first
time since they’d descended to the vehicle level. “You don’t suppose Lindholm betrayed us to the Givers?”
Amos knew he wasn’t serious, but Tony jerked as if he’d been shot. He twisted, mumbling something incoherent into his collarbone. Mateo leaned toward him, a bemused look on his face.
“Mr. Moretti, there’s a saying your new allies are fond of: hidden in plain sight.” Mateo tipped his head to one side, watching for Tony’s reaction. “Unfortunately, you seem to be achieving the opposite. We’re far too close to the checkpoint for such unprofessional behavior.”
Tony flushed a dark crimson. He stole another glance at the checkpoint—two vehicle-lengths ahead—and snarled a quick response under his breath. “I said, don’t mention the Givers. Everyone knows they exist, but only a few people have ever seen them. And—in case you forgot—until we’ve cleared the gates, we’re probably being watched.”
Mateo leaned back, glancing over his shoulder to wink at the Runners. “Ah, yes, the vaunted security of the Enclave, keeping the good Citizens safe behind their walls.”
Whatever retort was in Tony’s mind was never spoken. The vehicle ahead of them shifted into gear, and advanced to the checkpoint.
Tony coaxed their truck forward, coming to a nervous stop. He reached one shaking hand between the front seats, retrieving the small packet of permits Darcy had prepared for them.
The vehicle ahead of them roared, tires squealing as it accelerated. The guards on either side of the exit brandished their weapons, relaxing only after the gate dropped into place with a thump that Amos felt through their vehicle’s chassis.
The checkpoint guard waved an impatient hand, and Tony maneuvered their vehicle into place. He said nothing, opening his window to hand their permits to the guard.
Amos was expecting a closer inspection, but he saw the guard’s eyes widen in astonishment as he perused their permits. He wasted no time in handing them back to Tony, affecting a crooked smile as he waved them through.
Darcy’s signature carries weight. Here’s hoping Garr can come up with a way to take advantage of that.
The massive gate lifted with a heavy groan, revealing the bustling shantytown outside, bathed in the late-afternoon sun. Tony gunned the engine, popping the clutch with an awkward foot, and the truck lurched forward.
The guards on either side of the gate stood at attention, their weapons held ready, flanking the vehicle as it plunged into the open country beyond.
The gate slammed down as soon as they cleared the exit, raising a cloud of dust. Tony wasted no time in accelerating, the spinning tires spewing dirt and small stones as the truck jostled over the packed earth outside the Enclave.
They were at the shantytown’s outer perimeter in less than a minute. Amos saw Mateo’s gaze flicker to his former shop’s location.
Another merchant had already taken over his space, like a hermit crab moving into a vacated shell. Business continued in the shantytown without a hiccup. Mateo said nothing.
Tony drove to the outskirts of the Old City, skidding to a stop in the middle of one of the anonymous intersections. He left the engine idling, turning to look at Mateo for the first time since they’d begun their tense journey through the gauntlet of gate security.
“End of the line, Tracker.” He tried—and failed—to sound authoritative. Mateo smiled, cocking his head to one side as if listening to the pampered demands of a child.
Tony bristled at his lack of response. “Did you hear what I said? Get out of the truck.”
Mateo held his stare without flinching, while the Runners took advantage of the opportunity. Once they were clear, Mateo opened his door and exited the vehicle.
His gaze never left Tony’s. He seemed to be enjoying his ability to agitate the driver.
Amos slipped behind the truck, opening the tailgate to retrieve the duffle bag with their clothes.
The sooner I get out of this Hoarder outfit, the better. He grimaced, slamming the tailgate shut. He slung the duffle bag over his shoulder and joined his companions on the sidewalk.
“Five days.” Tony spoke through his open window as he revved the engine. “This is the meeting spot. Bring the rest of your group here. I’ll pick you up and sneak you back inside the Enclave.”
“Five days isn’t much.” Garr raised an eyebrow, ignoring Tony’s attempt at intimidation. “We’ll be on foot for at least part of the trip. If we have to hike both directions, there won’t be any way . . .”
“Find a way,” Tony interrupted, scowling. “The Givers aren’t going to wait, and neither can we. We’ll probably all have nodes by the time you get back. You’ll be the only people able to travel inside the Enclave without being tracked.”
Mateo leaned one arm on the truck, speaking through Tony’s open window. “Are these your words, or those of the esteemed Councilor?”
Tony glowered at him, revving the engine again.
“Five days,” he repeated, rolling up his window. Mateo stepped back as the truck reversed direction. Tires squealed on the pavement, and Tony was gone.
“You heard the man,” Garr said dryly, as Tony’s truck disappeared in a cloud of dust. “Five days isn’t much. We’ve got a lot of planning ahead of us, not to mention a long walk.”
Mateo and Amos exchanged glances, and Amos thought he detected the slightest glint of amusement in the Tracker’s eye. We’ve got a truck they don’t know about.
“We might be able to help with that.” Amos shifted the duffle bag on his shoulder. “As long as nobody minds a quick detour to the ocean side of Hoarderville.”
Thirty-Three
“LAUGHTER. NOW, there’s a sound I don’t often hear around this place.” Doctor Simon leaned against the doorframe in the mess hall, a pleased look on her face as she took in the euphoric scene.
Don turned away from the counter, feigning indignation as he pointed a wooden spatula at her.
“I don’t know what Sheila’s been saying about my culinary skills, but it’s all lies.” He shook his spatula for emphasis, splattering drops of sauce on the floor. “I’ll have you know I’m a highly respected chef. In certain circles.”
Sheila swatted his arm with a dish towel. “I think you’re confusing ‘respect’ with ‘dread.’ There’s a reason field rations are popular when you’re on kitchen duty.”
Aubrey smiled as she sliced the vegetables, basking in the light-hearted patter of their verbal sparring. She was more than content to leave the cooking to them. Doc’s right. Until today, we haven’t had much to laugh about. Everyone’s back where they belong, and that’s reason enough to celebrate.
The unexpected return of Garr, Sheila, Amos—and even Mateo—lifted everyone’s spirits. The tension, hanging over the Hub like a dark cloud since the Tracker ambush, vanished the moment Amos poked his head in the door, echoing Don’s signature greeting.
“Did anybody miss us?”
Bedlam erupted in response, as boisterous as it was uncharacteristic. What followed was a day crammed full of emotions and dialogue, as the group embarked on a rigorous debriefing session.
Doctor Simon candidly compared it to a “rollercoaster,” although it took several minutes to explain to her younger colleagues what that meant.
They exchanged tales about their various escape routes after the Trackers raided their meeting with the Hoarders. The conversation became spirited as they swapped impressions of Darcy and his companions.
Later, they listened with fascination to descriptions of the Enclave, and speculated about the protestors’ impact and the significance of Trackers hunting each other.
Several hours later, Garr called an end to the debrief, and announced a celebratory feast for the evening meal.
As the exhausted Runners separated into smaller groups, there was an undeniable atmosphere of giddy relief. Don and Sheila set about preparing a meal such as they seldom enjoyed, recruiting Aubrey to assist them. She’d never looked forward to chopping vegetables, until today.
“What is th
at incredible smell?” Jane’s voice was oddly upbeat, accented by her genuine smile. She squeezed between Doc and Garr, joining Don at the cooking unit, sniffing with great gusto.
“What—you’ve never tasted chicken that wasn’t raw?” Don placed his spatula on the counter, looking down at her with affected pathos. “This may come as a shock, but many civilizations have been known to cook their meals.”
“Was this your idea, Sheila?” Jane asked, ignoring Don. Aubrey couldn’t recall ever seeing such an open, carefree look on her face. She doesn’t look like the Snake Lady I first met. Was that only six months ago?
Sheila shook her head, tending to the sizzling meat in the frying pan. “The credit belongs to Garr. We had to hike to the far side of the Enclave to get Mateo’s truck, and he insisted we pick up some fresh meat on the way home. I guess he started planning this during the drive.”
“Thank you,” Aubrey called over her shoulder, spying Garr in the doorway behind Doc. “This mess hall has never smelled so good.”
Garr sketched a small salute, smiling. “You’ve earned it. That aroma might even convince me Don isn’t the menace in the kitchen I thought he was.”
Don performed an exaggerated bow.
“Don’t let it go to your head, big guy.” Sheila poked him in the ribs. “Stirring a pot of sauce isn’t the same as cooking the entire meal.”
“Is that so?” Don scowled at her, resuming his task. “You don’t want to see what would happen if I stopped stirring. For the record, my role is crucial.”
Amos appeared in the doorway, craning his neck to see over Doc’s shorter frame. “Let’s get moving, Jane. I want to be back by the time the feast is ready.”
Garr had assigned Amos and Jane to check on the drop-box. Doc crossed her fingers, hoping they would return with a new package to offset the cryptic message Aubrey had found.
