by Deven Kane
“Next stop, the friendly gates of Hoarderville,” Don said to no one in particular as they descended the dusty stairs.
Fifty
THEIR HEADLIGHTS STABBED through the pre-dawn twilight, illuminating the little-used road shadowing the Enclave. Clouds hovered low, the threat of a storm adding to the gloom. Aubrey couldn’t see the Enclave’s wall, but she could sense its oppressive presence.
It’s better than risking one of the gates. She strained to see what lay beyond the headlights’ range. There were no stars, no moon, only the humid reminder of the gathering storm clouds.
Sneaking in the back door doesn’t sound as dangerous. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. Who am I kidding? It’s the Enclave, and Darcy the devil will be waiting.
The road was little more than a roughened set of tracks, rising and falling in concert with the uneven terrain. It ran parallel to the Enclave, at a consistent distance of just over a half kilometer.
Amos drove with caution, in deference to the poor road conditions. They were pressed for time, but driving recklessly this close to the Enclave would attract the very attention they wanted to avoid.
Megan curled up in the rear seat. Aubrey couldn’t tell if she was sleeping or not. She envied the former Tracker’s ability to remain unaffected by the anxiety plaguing the rest of them.
Little had been said after dropping Garr’s team off in the Old City. Amos focused on driving. Aubrey sat with her knees drawn up as she gazed unseeing into the murky gloom.
They crested a steep incline, jolting over the ridge, and started an abrupt descent down the other side. Aubrey caught her lower lip between her teeth as the truck slalomed down the embankment.
A muffled cry sounded behind her. She felt the impact as Megan caught herself against the back of Aubrey’s chair.
“Sorry about that.” Amos down-shifted, braking cautiously. The instrument panel gave his worried face a strange greenish glow. “We’ve got to be there by sunrise. It’s a short window of time between low tide and the start of the day shift.”
“I was at the briefing.” Aubrey braced one foot against the dashboard for good measure, regretting her sarcastic comment as soon as she’d said it. That’s not helping, I’ll bet.
Megan poked her head between the front seats, her wavy hair a disheveled cloud around her head. “Don would probably say something funny to relieve the tension.”
She sighed, brushing her hair back with one hand. “But I’m not Don, and I can’t think of anything.”
The dashboard lights painted Megan’s face with the same otherworldly glow, but to Aubrey it seemed somehow even more alien. She’s still a blank canvas. Now that she can talk, it’s like I have to get to know her all over again.
Megan glanced at her, and Aubrey averted her eyes. She stared out the windshield, and realized the sky was changing color. She stole a look in the side mirror, and saw the sun lightening the sullen storm clouds.
“Do you want me to thank you, Aubrey, or forgive you?” Megan leaned further forward, her good eye fixed on Aubrey. “Which would you prefer?”
Aubrey twisted in her seat to face the former Tracker, too close for comfort in the truck’s cramped interior. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Megan placed her elbow on the console between the seats, leaning her weight on it as she edged further into the front seat. “It’s pretty simple, actually. Do you want me to thank you for freeing me from the Givers? Or forgive you for blinding me with your prod?”
Aubrey recoiled from her frank stare.
“I don’t expect anything from you,” she said, fumbling for the right words. Uh oh, that came out wrong. “What I meant is . . . you don’t owe me anything.”
You’re digging the hole deeper, Aubs. She forced herself to not flinch away as she struggled to marshal her arguments, her justifications, her rationale. After a brief internal battle, she gave up. “Megan, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what you want from me.”
Megan gestured at Aubrey’s arm, hidden in the folds of her hoodie. “Roll up your sleeve.”
Aubrey obeyed without hesitation. Megan evaluated the scars running up her arm with a distant, clinical expression.
Aubrey was aware, in a peripheral way, of the rocky terrain they sped through. But for the moment, Megan held her full and undivided attention. She waited, spellbound.
Amos was abnormally quiet as the kilometers sped by. He appeared content to allow the drama to unfold in the seat beside him.
Megan pointed at Aubrey’s scars with her chin. “You weren’t yourself when you got those, were you?”
It was a rhetorical question—Aubrey caught Megan’s point.
“No, I wasn’t,” she replied anyway. “Any more than you were when . . .”
Aubrey paused for a moment, at a loss for the right words. “When we first met.”
The Implant turned me into one of Darcy’s assassins. The Givers turned Megan into a Tracker. We were both forced to do another’s bidding against our will. Aubrey was shaken. She’d never noticed the similarities before.
Megan nodded, not breaking eye contact. “Then will you please just relax?”
She gestured at Aubrey’s arm, and reached up to trace the outside edge of her eyepatch. “Guilt is a distraction. We can’t afford it once we’re inside the Enclave.”
“You sound like Mateo.” Amos broke his self-imposed silence. “But you’re not wrong. We’ve got to function as a team. That means no second-guessing each other. We need to have each other’s backs.”
“And you sound like Colonel Rucker.” Megan laughed, sliding back into her seat once more. Aubrey saw Amos’s slight smile, but he said nothing.
The road remained little more than a wide stretch of packed earth, barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass each other. The trees on either side towered over them, masking the Enclave’s massive walls, now less than one hundred meters to their right.
Amos rolled his window down, and Aubrey caught a salty whiff of ocean air. The lowering clouds were dark gray, and the distant rumble of thunder provided an aura of angry menace.
Aubrey opened her window, invigorated as the chill breeze rushed in. Let’s keep that overactive imagination in check, Aubs. The weather is the least of your worries.
Amos slowed as they rounded another curve, angling the truck off the road to halt behind a copse of thick underbrush.
“End of the road,” he said, climbing out of the truck. Aubrey and Megan followed. Aubrey pulled her jacket tighter in the damp air. She couldn’t see the ocean, but she heard the unmistakable sound of waves breaking on the shore.
Amos shrugged into his rucksack, eyeing the threatening storm clouds above them. “Let’s move. We’ve got another half hour of hiking yet, and the tide won’t wait.”
Fifty-One
DAWN ARRIVED, BUT IN name only. The skies remained gray and threatening, but aside from an occasional sprinkling, the rain was held at bay. Aubrey was grateful the loose stones underfoot were dry as they scrambled over them.
The wind was another matter. The storm clouds just off-shore were menacing, and a stiff breeze preceded the storm inland. The wind carried the unmistakable tang of sea-salt as it lashed against them. Amos’s voice grew hoarse as he continued to urge, encourage, and cajole them to keep moving.
A stronger gust lashed against Aubrey, pushing her off-balance. Low tide won’t wait. It’s like the Givers arranged for a storm at just the right time.
She shook her head, banishing the thought. You’re trying to keep a rein on your imagination, remember?
“How much further?” Megan raised her voice against the howling wind. Like Aubrey, she’d corralled her long hair inside her hooded sweatshirt, knotting the drawstring under her chin. “I can see the waves breaking on the shore ahead.”
“We’re almost there,” Amos replied, pausing near another of the endless series of rocky outcroppings. “Just around this next corner.”
You’ve said that
before—at least three times already. Aubrey braced herself against the rock wall. “How far are we from the Enclave?”
The wind snatched her words and reduced them to shreds. Her voice sounded thin and fragile in her ears.
“It’s just over there.” Amos waved one hand to the north. “We can’t see over the edge of this escarpment, but it’s roughly fifty meters from where we’re standing.”
Fifty meters. That’s all? Aubrey shivered, and not entirely from the cold. Steady, Aubs. You are not the weak link.
Amos pulled her with him as he rounded the corner. The ocean wind lashed at them as they left the relative shelter of the small cliff.
They’d taken no more than four or five steps when Amos halted without warning. Aubrey collided with him, scraping her cheek on the rough fabric of his rucksack.
“Good welcome, Amos.” Mateo’s voice was distorted by the salty wind, muffled by the pounding surf, but he sounded genuinely pleased. “I’ve been waiting here for some time. I see you’ve brought young Aubrey with you, and Megan. Excellent.”
“Where have you been?” There was nothing warm in Amos’s response. A low rumble of thunder offshore seemed to echo his angry challenge. “Your disappearing act is starting to get old.”
Mateo squared his shoulders, his expression one of mild consternation. “Doctor Simon gave the order for me to vacate the infirmary. I took her suggestion to heart—in my own way. It was only a matter of time until you brought a team to this entry point. It was logical to wait here.”
He stepped closer, ducking his head to ensure they heard him above the wind and waves. “We did discuss this during the briefing.”
“I heard Garr’s strategy,” Aubrey interrupted, unwilling to be a mere spectator. “You made pretty good time getting here, didn’t you? We’re a long way from the Hub.”
Mateo raised an eyebrow, as if the answer to her implied question was blatantly obvious. “I am a Tracker.”
“His enhancements work. That means he’s fast,” Megan said to Aubrey, pushing to the forefront. “Your experiment worked—I can talk. Now, let’s get out of this storm and into the Enclave. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
Mateo nodded, looking pleased. He led the way, scrambling over the sea-drenched stones, taking care to avoid the slick green vegetation uncovered by the receding tide. The Runners hastened to follow, driven by the threat of the storm.
Mateo crouched low, disappearing beneath one of the seaweed-draped outcroppings. Amos shucked off his rucksack, holding it before him with both hands as he awkwardly followed in Mateo’s wake.
Aubrey splashed into the ankle-deep seawater, sliding her rucksack off. She bent down and shuffled into a narrow passageway, the rucksack clutched to her chest.
She raised a cautious hand over her head, flinching away from edges that stung her fingertips. So warned, she ducked her head to avoid the barnacle-encrusted ceiling. For once, I’m glad to be the shortest person in the group.
Mateo handed Amos a battered lantern. Amos hastened to light it, and the warm glow dispelled some of the darkness in the confined space. The air was heavy with the reek of sea-borne flotsam, but the howl of the wind was muted. Even the pounding surf seemed lessened.
Don’t kid yourself, Aubs. The tide’s already coming in. The ocean is not your friend.
Megan splashed past Aubrey to stand beside Amos. She looked troubled in the lantern’s meager glow.
“Something’s wrong,” she said, nodding at Mateo.
He stood with his back to them, unmoving, before a barnacle-encrusted wall. Aubrey could make out the oblong shape of a doorway in the shadows beyond him. A circular handle, with four spokes, was set in the center of the hatch. Amos lifted the lantern higher, its flickering light casting the portal into sharp relief.
The door’s outer rim was discolored, blackened, as if it had been burned in a fire. The surface was puckered in places, the bubbles of molten metal now hardened into a solid mass. Amos tried the handle. It shifted slightly, perhaps a centimeter or two, but no more.
“It’s been welded shut,” Mateo said bleakly, retreating to his instructor’s voice. Aubrey felt her throat constrict. I’ve never seen that look on his face before.
“We’ve been cut off.” Amos stared at the fused portal in disbelief. “They knew we were coming.”
Fifty-Two
“THERE’S SOMETHING SERIOUSLY wrong with this coffee.” Jane wrinkled her nose in disgust. “You’d think the high and mighty Citizens would know how to make a decent cup. Oh well, at least it’s hot.”
Connor paused as he sipped his latte, fighting the instinctive urge to retaliate.
Don’t let the savage bait you. By this time tomorrow, she’ll be just another weapon in Darcy’s arsenal.
Tony lurched forward in his seat.
“We grind our coffee from the best imported beans.” He glowered at her as if spoiling for a fight.
Jane paused, cup in mid-air, a perplexed look on her face. She glanced across the table at Sheila and Garr, mouthing a single word. Beans?
Sheila patted her on the arm, trying to hide her smile. “I guess the Citizens of the Enclave haven’t discovered chicory root yet.”
Connor glared at them, irritated and making no effort to hide it. “In case you forgot, video surveillance is everywhere. I chose a table on the outer rim of this café because it’s the farthest from the cameras. That doesn’t mean we haven’t been catalogued already.”
Don tugged at the sleeves of his new apparel, annoyed by the unfamiliar fabric. “And yet, it was your idea to sit out here, on full display for all of Hoarderville to see. We’re lucky nobody else wants to get rained on, or we’d be surrounded by Hoarders.”
“Hidden in plain sight, Don,” Garr said amiably. He leaned back in his chair, glancing over the railing behind him at the mad dash of traffic on the level below. “And it’s not raining just yet. We couldn’t afford to stay in the parking garage indefinitely, waiting for Darcy to contact us. That would look more suspicious than having coffee.”
“Darcy will contact us when it’s safe.” Connor shielded the lower half of his face behind his latte. “After the Givers took out the Council Chamber, we’re walking on a thin line. We have to act like normal Citizens—shocked and horrified by the ‘tragic events,’ as the Infomedia calls it—and watch our step more than ever.”
Tony glowered at him, speaking as if the Runners were invisible. “You talk too much, Connor. They don’t need to know all this.”
“We’ve been over this before, Tony,” Connor replied with equal heat. “Darcy wants us to share information freely with our new allies. What kind of allies would we be if we didn’t trust each other?”
Wow, listen to me. Almost as smooth as Darcy. And with a straight face, no less.
His feeling of triumph was short-lived. The leader of the savages, the so-called “Colonel,” was watching him. He’s clever, that one. Just sits back and observes. Very cagey.
“I was just relieved we made it through security without getting caught.” Sheila pulled her jacket closer, warding off the chill breeze. She was speaking too quickly—clearly an attempt to distract. “Once we were inside, there weren’t many places to run if things went sideways.”
“We’re not amateurs.” Tony bristled at her remark, taking offense where none was intended. “It’s going to get harder, once the Initiative’s complete. The guards would nail you on the spot, if you don’t have a node.”
No node, no Citizenship. Connor had begun to detest the Infomedia slogans, mindlessly parroted by the gullible masses.
“The Initiative hasn’t been implemented yet?” Garr raised his eyebrows in surprise. Connor couldn’t tell if he was feigning his reaction or not. “I was under the impression the Council considered it a top priority.”
Connor licked his dry lips, feeling the blood drain from his face. He was sure the savages noticed, but he forced himself to answer candidly. A “dangerous amount of the truth,” Dar
cy had said. Well, here goes.
“We’ve got a day, maybe two, before we’ll be required to get our nodes.” A hollow sensation settled into his gut as he faced that reality. He took a hasty gulp of his latte, hoping to disguise the sudden tremor in his hand, scalding his tongue in the process. “Darcy’s on the Council. How would it look, if he wasn’t leading by example?”
Connor knew his bitterness was showing, but he didn’t care. “The collaborators will be watching for any hesitation on the part of their fellow Council members. If the bombing didn’t motivate every remaining Councilor to get their node, it would raise questions.”
He closed his eyes, cradling his latte against his cheek, still careful to mask his face behind it. “Family members included. They’ll be watching all of us.”
Sheila rested an elbow on the table, cradling her chin in one hand. “Can you tell us more about these ‘collaborators’? That’s the second time you’ve mentioned them.”
Tony jumped into the conversation before Connor could respond, eager to assert his own importance. “They’re Council members who’ve been cozying up to the Givers for years. They’re always looking for ways to ingratiate themselves, in hopes of gaining more power.”
You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Tony? Connor kept his expression neutral as he eyed at the chauffeur with a new level of contempt. You’d jump off the top of the Enclave wall if Darcy told you to.
“The Givers use them to control the Enclave.” Connor addressed Garr, ignoring Tony. “Not the whole Council, but a significant number of them. I’d be willing to bet they were behind the bombing.”
“Weeding out anyone who wouldn’t play their game?” Don sounded suspicious, his low growl barely audible. “Or have they figured out what you and Darcy are up to?”
“Darcy should lead the Council,” Tony interrupted, his face darkening. “The Enclave would be better off if he was in charge.”
