by Deven Kane
Garr laughed, wadding up a piece of paper and tossing it at him. “Save your bragging until after the celebration tonight. You have yet to prove any of your culinary skills, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Inform your taste buds they are about to enter paradise,” Don replied, his drawl more pronounced than usual. “Our final meal in this Hub will be a culinary masterpiece worthy of such an occasion.”
Sheila seated herself beside him, elbows braced on the table, cradling her mug between her hands. “Getting back to Mateo . . . What conclusion did you come to, Colonel?”
Garr paused, studying the table’s scuffed surface. “That he was the most brilliant strategist I’ve ever known. He played both sides so well that none of us, Runners or Hoarders, knew what to think. Mateo didn’t care whether we liked him or not. He had one objective—the Givers.”
Sheila finished her drink and went to pour herself a refill. She held an empty mug aloft. “Garr?”
The Colonel held up a hand. “None for me, thanks.”
Don affected a pained expression. “What about me?”
“You’ve never liked coffee.” Sheila waved him away as she took a cautious sip. “We’ve always said ‘this can’t be about revenge.’ What do you suppose Mateo’s motivation was?”
“It was more than payback.” Don unsheathed his knife, holding it aloft and admiring its blade. “If all he wanted was revenge on the Givers for turning him into a Tracker, he could have gone after them by himself.”
He sighted along the blade, meeting Garr’s gaze. “But he dragged us into it, as well, and that helped us put an end to Darcy’s Implants. He didn’t have to do that.”
Garr nodded as he got to his feet. “He was playing a risky game, doing whatever it took to gain access to the Givers. He knew nothing would change unless they were dealt with. He had it all planned, right down to the last detail.”
“Including his self-detonation.” Sheila stirred a spoonful of raw sugar into her steaming drink. “He fooled us all. More important, he fooled the Givers.”
A profound silence filled the mess hall after she spoke.
At last, Garr gestured to Don. “We’d better get started. I promised everyone a celebration feast when this was over, and I meant it.”
Eighty-Four
THE AFTERNOON SUN WAS warm, offsetting the cool autumn breeze as Connor and Megan ambled among the shops near the Mission. They’d volunteered, at Don’s request, to pick up various items for his “culinary extravaganza.”
Connor tried his best not to stare at his surroundings, but getting used to the Old City was still a work-in-progress. Where he had expected to encounter squalor and cutthroat competition, he found instead—with a few minor exceptions—a vibrant and cooperative community.
It’s not perfect. Connor wasn’t naïve enough to make that mistake. But it’s not like what I was raised to believe, either.
“Last crop, most likely.” The shopkeeper’s voice drew him back to the present. He escorted them to the door of his shop, handing Connor a bag of potatoes. “Won’t be much more this season, what with winter just around the corner.”
Megan smiled and thanked him, and they resumed their stroll along the boulevard. Connor let her do most of the talking, still unsure how to act outside the Enclave.
Megan had brushed her long, wavy hair to minimize her scars, but it was impossible to disguise the eye patch. Connor wondered how people might react, but said nothing. She was the eldest, but he was still protective of her.
Their shopping trip turned out to be a pleasant surprise. A few people crossed the street to avoid them, not trying to conceal their revulsion. But for the most part, the people they met treated Megan with respect.
A fresh start—beyond the Enclave’s walls—might be possible after all.
Megan nudged him with her elbow. “Something on your mind, Connor?”
He hesitated, caught off-guard. Should I even ask? He took a deep breath and decided to risk it. “Darcy was there when the Givers . . .”
His voice trailed off as Megan gave her head a violent shake.
“You’re about to ask me if Darcy had anything to do with our parents’ deaths.” She glanced at him and then away. “I’ve told you everything I can remember. Darcy was there when I became a Tracker, but beyond that, I don’t know.”
She halted, putting out a hand to block him. “And I think it’s dangerous to speculate. Obsessing about the past won’t do either of us any good. Please stop asking.”
Connor raised his hands, surrendering. “I know you’re right, but it’s hard. I’m sorry, Megan—and I’ll try.”
She took his arm and they resumed walking.
Connor glanced at her. “They’ve given you space after what happened at the Citadel, but it’s only a matter of time before Garr—I mean, the Colonel—wants to debrief you.”
“I know. And don’t worry, I’m planning to tell Colonel Rucker the truth.” Megan sighed heavily, not looking at him. “That my little brother, Connor Sinclair, wet the bed until he was seven years old.”
He pivoted to face her, shocked. “I did not.”
Megan doubled over, laughing. Connor stared, confused, and then he caught on. He lapsed into an embarrassed grin, shaking his head. “You know, that’s more how I remember you. Less like a Tracker, and more like . . . you.”
Megan’s laughter faded as she considered his comment.
“I’ll always be a bit of both.” She tucked her hands into her pockets. “And let’s face it—my memories aren’t likely to return. We both need to accept that.”
Connor broke eye contact, making no effort to hide his disappointment. “You make it sound so final. To tell you the truth, I hope you’re dead wrong.”
She stopped and held out her hand, palm up. “Your locket. Give it to me.”
Connor halted, surprised by her demand. He slipped the chain over his head and handed the locket to her.
She pried the casing open to reveal the photo, and held it up between them. “For you, this conjures up hundreds—maybe thousands—of memories. But when I look at it, I only see two things. First, I recognize myself in this picture. Or how I used to be, years ago.”
“And second?” Connor prompted when she paused.
Megan tried, and failed, to repress a facetious grin. “That I was a lot prettier when I had two eyes.”
Her expression changed, turning serious. “I’m free from the Givers and their mind control. That was enough at first, but not anymore.”
She pushed her hair back, revealing the full extent of her scars. “Everything I knew as a child was stolen from me. And if I could, I’d gladly lobotomize myself to erase the memories of what the Givers forced me to do.”
She took a deep breath, allowing her hair to fall into place. “The Enclave wasn’t all bad. I’d like to hear about the good times. I need you to tell me about my past, my family. Our family. Those are the stories I need to focus on.”
Connor nodded, zipping his jacket against the breeze. “I’ll do my best. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
She grinned suddenly, handing the locket back. “And in exchange, I’ll teach my very serious little brother how to buy food in the market like a normal person.”
Connor tucked the locket inside his shirt. “Sounds fair.”
She punched him playfully on the arm. “Let’s get back to the Hub. We don’t want to keep Chef Don waiting.”
Eighty-Five
THE INFIRMARY WAS ALMOST empty. The gurney had already been removed, as well as most of the bulkier items.
Aubrey stood beside Doc, impressed by the number of rucksacks lined up on the workbench, each filled to capacity. She held the rubber ball Doc had found while packing. It had been her constant companion during her rehab.
Aubrey bounced it once on the floor, catching it between her scarred fingers.
There’s so many memories in this room. A lot of defining moments. She pocketed the ball, a keepsake she intended to t
ake with her.
Doc finished packing her prized microscope, the antique model she’d owned since she first started practicing medicine. “What are your plans after the big party tonight, Aubrey? Heading back to your home town, perhaps?”
Aubrey pondered the question for a long moment before answering. “That’s a really good question, Doc. I don’t know, to be honest. I have a hard time imagining myself settling into my old small-town life as if nothing happened. Nowhere to live, no job—I’d be starting over from scratch.”
She glanced around the infirmary, gripping the ball in her pocket. “I’m not the ‘country girl’ Jane met last spring. I’m still Aubrey, but I’m not the same Aubrey. I’m not sure I can go back.”
She laughed, feeling self-conscious. “Sorry, Doc, I didn’t mean to dump all that on you. Just thinking out loud. What about you? What new adventures are you off to?”
Doc waved a hand at her. “Nonsense. You’re not ‘dumping’ anything on me—I’m your doctor. At my age, Aubrey, peace and quiet appeals to me. I’m not looking for more adventure. Although, I’ll admit, when Logan snuck me into the Enclave to remove all those Implants, right under the Hoarders’ noses—that was pretty exciting.”
She laughed out loud, and the sound was so infectious Aubrey joined in.
Doc Simon fiddled with a strap on the nearest rucksack, a faraway look on her face. “I’ve decided to relocate topside. The Mission could use a decent physician, and this part of the Old City has grown on me. Plus, I think I’ll enjoy the fresh air a lot more than the smell down here.”
She paused, regarding Aubrey with a twinkle in her eye. “I could use an assistant, if you’d be interested in a different kind of adventure.”
Aubrey raised her eyebrows, surprised and intrigued by the offer. “Are you serious? Wow, I don’t know—you caught me off-guard, Doc.”
She chewed on her lower lip, turning the idea over in her mind. “Could I have some time to think it over? I’d be a pretty raw recruit . . .”
Doc winked at her. “I’ll whip you into shape in no time.”
Aubrey pulled the ball out of her pocket, holding it up between them. “Another rehab challenge, Doc?”
Doc’s light-hearted smile faded. “I’ll be honest. You’ve all been through hell and back. Psychologically, that’s going to leave a mark. I wouldn’t be much of a doctor if I wasn’t just a little concerned.”
Aubrey squeezed the ball between her fingers—grip, relax, grip, relax. “Thanks for caring, Doc. I hope that’s not the only reason you want me to stay.”
Doc’s smiled flashed again. “Not at all. I could use the help, and I think you’d be good at it.”
They heard Don’s voice, bellowing down the hall.
Doc nodded at the door. “Sounds like dinner is served.”
Aubrey grinned and stepped into the hall. She pivoted to toss the ball back into the infirmary. It ricocheted off the far wall, bouncing once on the floor before she snatched it out of the air. “I will think about it, Doc.”
Doc extinguished the lights in the infirmary. “The offer’s open-ended, Aubrey. Take all the time you need.”
Eighty-Six
AN UNMISTAKABLE HINT of winter’s approach hung in the air, adding its frosty bite to Amos’s every breath. The forested heights would soon be wrapped in a white cocoon of snow, probably within a few weeks.
But this afternoon, standing in front of the cave, Amos enjoyed the sun’s welcome warmth through his jacket.
Their final celebration in the Hub had been memorable. Amos could still smell the mouth-watering aroma of Don’s signature feast.
Turns out, the guy can cook, after all.
The food and camaraderie, as much as Amos enjoyed it, left him with a gnawing restlessness. More was needed, and today’s trek up the rocky hillside was the result.
He slipped out of his shoulder straps, dropping to one knee as he lowered the rucksack to the ground.
The flap rustled as he opened it, the fabric stiff from the cold. The slight noise seemed too loud in the crisp air, a sacrilegious intrusion to the perfect stillness.
He retrieved his Implant, and laid the despised piece of Hoarder technology on the boulder over the cave’s mouth.
He stared at it for a long time, re-living the moment he’d first seen it, freshly cut from beneath his ribs, glistening wet and red in his palm.
Today was different.
No tiny pinpricks of light danced across its metal surface—blue, red, white, green. No microscopic filaments needled in and out of either end, eager to inject their unsuspecting host with homicidal poison.
It lay where he’d deposited it, lifeless and inert.
He reached into the rucksack again, seizing the handle of the tool he’d borrowed from Enrico. The wooden shaft, worn smooth by many years of hard use, felt good in his hand. He hefted it, testing its weight and balance.
This is why I came back here.
He wasted no time, raising the hammer and pounding the Implant against the unyielding rock. The sharp blows rang in his ears, reverberating with concussive echoes throughout the silent forest.
Satisfied, he dropped the hammer into the open rucksack. The frosty air chilled his fingers as he brushed the Implant’s flattened remnants into his palm.
Amos crouched and flung the shattered bits as far as he could into the cave. He dusted off what little stuck to his palm, and stood upright.
The moment was over.
“Feel any better now?”
Jane’s voice was subdued in the natural cathedral. It was an honest question, with little hint of her usual sarcasm.
Amos glanced into the cave’s dark maw, but saw no trace of his Implant. “I’m not sure how I feel. It’s something I knew I had to do. Closure, maybe.”
Jane dropped to a knee beside him, pushing the hammer aside as she dug her handgun out of the rucksack. The shiny metal stood out in sharp contrast to the colorful autumn leaves scattered across the steep hillside.
Jane cradled the gun in her hands, studying it wordlessly. With a half-hearted flip of her wrist, she tossed it into the cave. The gun bounced as it fell—once, twice—the sharp ping of its progress much less punishing than Amos’s hammering.
Jane stood, gazing into the cave, her expression difficult to read. Amos watched her closely, but she didn’t return his gaze. He kept silent, waiting for what he hoped was a respectful length of time.
“What about you, Jane?” he asked tentatively. “How do you feel?”
“Cold,” she replied, gazing into the distance.
She cupped her hands together, breathing on her fingers to warm them. “I don’t know. Maybe I was expecting too much. I’m not even sure what I hoped this would accomplish.”
She gestured half-heartedly at the cave. “None of this brings back the people we’ve lost. It’s just a symbolic gesture. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Amos looked at his feet, then into the cave, and finally, down the steep slope to his brother’s unmarked grave. It was blanketed under frosted orange and yellow leaves, but he knew exactly where to find it.
He would always know where to find it.
“The Givers are gone,” he said, quietly, urgently. “So are the Trackers, and the Implants. Maybe that doesn’t bring back the people we’ve lost, but it means it’s not going to happen to anybody else, ever again.”
He scooped up the rucksack, slinging it over his shoulder. “And it means our future doesn’t have to look like the past. We had a hand—all of us—in creating that future. That’s not symbolic, Jane. It’s real.”
Jane drew a deep lungful of cold air and exhaled in a white cloud of condensation. She glanced at him, the beginnings of a smile toying at the corners of her mouth.
“I like the way you said that. It was profound.” She tried to repress the smile. “You surprise me sometimes, Amos.”
Amos chuckled, stamping his numbed feet. “Gee, thanks, Jane . . . I think.”
She laughed aloud, s
urprising him. It was a spontaneous, genuine sound.
When was the last time she enjoyed a good laugh? Amos couldn’t recall, but hearing it gave him hope. “Maybe you’re feeling better than you think, Jane.”
She faced him squarely, hands on her hips, head tilted to one side. “Call me Snake Lady.”
Amos laughed and sketched her a mock salute.
They turned their backs on the cave—and the grave—and began to retrace their steps.
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Afterword
SHEILA MURPHY ONCE joked to Amos and Don about “living happily-ever-after in a Giver-free world.” (I think that’s the first and only time I’ve mentioned Sheila’s last name.) She wasn’t serious, of course, because life doesn’t work like that. Especially in a dystopian sci-fi novel.
In a perfect, fairy-tale ending, the Enclave’s walls are torn down and the newly-generous Hoarders share their wealth in a burgeoning utopia.
The Runners, no longer viewed as savages or terrorists, become respected members of the Council.
Any surviving collaborators are either brought to justice, or admit the error of their ways and humbly seek to make amends.
The Infomedia commits itself to objective reporting, instead of twisting the news to fit their preferred narrative.
Of course, that wasn’t the Runners’ experience.
The most significant changes always occur within the characters. As Aubrey told Doc Simon, she’s “not the same country girl” she once was. She’s come a long way from being Doc’s patient to her new assistant (assuming Aubrey accepts Doc’s offer, which I think is likely).
The Sinclair siblings have a lot to sort through—Connor as the protégé of a sociopath and Megan as a disfigured former Tracker—but they have each other to lean on. I have a good feeling about them.
