by S. S. Segran
“That was close,” Deverell said through his teeth. He jerked his head at three fifty-gallon fuel drums secured to the railing beside him. “Good thing you missed those. Would’ve been really gutted if we were blown up after getting this far.”
“Was that a morbid pun?” Victor asked in disbelief.
“Don’t look at me like that, you curmudgeon. You’re the one who always tells people not to lose their humor.”
They leapt onto the deck. Deverell jumped down into the towboat on the starboard side of the barge and yelled for the captain and his assistant to leave. As the terrified crew fled to dry land, Victor made a break for the mooring lines securing the barge to the dock. His chest hurt from breathing the cold air too fast and his freezing fingers struggled with the ropes. As he cast off, the approaching Marauders, less than forty yards from the ramp, seemed to pick up speed as they neared.
“Dev!” Victor shouted, dumping the ropes onto the deck. “Get us out of here! Now!”
He heard a dull rumble of the towboat’s engine and let out a huge breath as they started to put distance between them and the shore. Chief slunk up to him, snarling at the Marauders as they drew closer to the riverbank. He patted his companion’s head wearily. “We’re good, Chief. We’re good.”
The beasts let loose a roar that drained all the blood from the Sentry’s face. They made it to the edge of the shore and, muscles bunched, leapt. Victor stared in horror as they soared nearly twenty yards in the air and crashed onto the unsecured ramp trailing in the water, half of their bodies in the river, claws penetrating the metal gradient.
He grabbed Chief before the wolfdog could descend the ramp to go head-to-head with the Marauders, and flung him toward the towboat. “Go!” he ordered. Chief hesitated, but when Victor shouted again, he dove over the side to join Deverell in the wheelhouse.
Victor looked back down the ramp. The Marauders, using their claws as hooks, had worked their way up to the deck. The Sentry faced off against them. He reached into whatever energy he had left and cast out a concussive blast. It barely ruffled the beasts’ fur. He tried again but the attempt was even weaker than his last. The Marauders’ jaws parted in a mockery of a smile. Their sulfuric, manic eyes followed the Sentry’s every motion. Water dripped off their obsidian coats as they closed in like pincers. Victor backed towards the center of the deck. He glanced at the towboat, contemplating his chances of reaching it.
The beasts sprang, throwing him onto his back and covering him in a pungent flurry of fur and ivory fangs. Victor fought to keep their faces away from his exposed throat. He bellowed, releasing an acoustic wave that flung the Marauders off the deck. They splashed into the water and disappeared beneath the waves, then broke the surface, eyes locked on the Sentry. With frenzied rage, they propelled themselves after the barge.
Victor got up, swaying, before his legs gave out. He fell heavily onto his arms and knees, forehead against the deck. Despite the biting cold, sweat glazed every inch of his body and dripped off his face onto the rusty ground. His head hurt and his heart hammered against the confines of his chest. His vision tunneled for a few seconds but still he pushed himself up, steadying himself against the rocking of the barge.
The Hummers that had followed them from the Sanctuary veered toward the project’s staging area. Victor pressed his hand against his throbbing head. What are they doing? His gaze slid ahead of the Hummers’ path and he groaned. He stumbled over to the railing where the towboat was churning the water. “They’re heading for workboats at the dam site! They’ll be coming from the south! We need to go faster!”
Deverell poked his head out of the wheelhouse. “We can only do six knots with the barge attached! At this rate it’ll take twenty minutes to make it across!”
“Six knots? The Marauders are doing better than that!” Victor turned back to the staging area. Three high-powered aluminum workboats pushed away from the shore and tore through the water toward the Sentries. “They’re on the move!”
“Get over here! Let’s lose the barge!”
A report sounded, shattering the air. Victor threw himself to the deck. Bullets whizzed around him from the direction of the staging area, striking the truck, the side of the barge, the railings and the mast above the towboat’s wheelhouse. Can’t let them close in, he thought. And the Marauders are catching up.
He glanced toward the bow of the barge and spotted the fuel barrels beside the truck. At the first sign of a break in the shooting, he vaulted over the railing into the towboat and rolled into the wheelhouse. Grabbing Deverell’s backpack, he rummaged through it.
“What are you looking for?” the other Sentry yelled as the gunshots resumed.
Victor shoved a few explosive cubes into his utility jacket. “These. And—” He pulled out a black-and-red tactical knife. “Are you kidding? I’ve been looking everywhere for this!”
“I meant to return it after the shindig in Novosibirsk!”
“That was two years ago!”
“Sorry!”
Grumbling, Victor put the hilt of the knife between his teeth and climbed back onto the barge. He’d only taken a few steps when something struck him, sending him spinning, before he slowly crumpled to the ground. A stream of red spilled from his head, tainting the deck.
It took a few moments for the Sentry to realize he was still alive. With shallow breaths, he shakily felt the right side of his head, aware of a dull burning sensation. Blood curled over his fingers and into his eye. He wiped it away and continued to feel around.
No holes. Just a graze. That’s a lot of blood. So much blood. Just a graze.
He slid his thumb over his ear. It was jagged—part of the helix had been torn off.
You’re fine. Get up.
He stepped over the scarlet puddle, doubled over, and ran to the truck. Using it as cover, he opened the cap to one of the fuel barrels and pulled a cube from his jacket. There were three indents on its surface, timers set to detonate the cube in two hours, half an hour, or forty seconds. If all were pressed at once, it would detonate within seconds. He pushed the forty second timer, forced it into the circular opening, then capped the barrel and cut the rope holding it in place.
He waited for another break in the gunfire and rolled the barrel toward the ramp. Bullets flew again. Victor kept close to the deck but a projectile scraped past his calf. The hot metal tore his jeans and skin. He fell onto the barrel, gritting his teeth, but didn’t stop.
He made it to the edge of the ramp and looked down at the Marauders less than thirty feet from the barge. He grinned at them, eyes cold, and with one final heave he pushed the fuel drum into the water.
The barrel exploded between the beasts, sending steel shards into the air. Parts of the Marauders exposed to the explosion were completely skinned. And yet they lived, braying in pain and rage. Then puddles of fuel ignited, engulfing the beasts in a furious firestorm.
Victor darted back to the truck amidst another hail of bullets and tried to get the other two drums loose but found that they were secured, not just with ropes but with chains as well. Frustrated, he looked around the vehicle. A couple of hundred yards from the other side of the barge, the three workboats bounced over the waves toward the Sentries. Thinking fast, Victor armed the rest of the gel cubes, shoved two into each barrel and dove over the railing into the towboat, landing on his side. His injured leg screamed in protest and his vision tunneled again. He dragged himself to the ropes that bound the boats together and struggled with them until they were released from the bollards.
“Go!” he yelled.
The smaller vessel surged past the barge with a sudden burst of speed, as if thankful to be rid of the excess load. They were now a quarter mile from the east bank, from freedom. Victor made his way into the wheelhouse. Deverell did a double take. “Your head!”
“Just grazed,” Victor said. The blood had already started to harden against his skin and jacket. He gripped the back of the wheelhouse seat. “I’d suggest holding onto
something.”
“What did you do?”
Victor watched as the guards, ignoring the loose barge drifting towards them, sped after the Sentries. “Detonation in three, two . . .”
Four explosives in a hundred gallons of fuel erupted in a massive fireball stretching hundreds of feet into the air. The discharge tore all the way through the barge. The shockwave and ensuing wall of water hoisted the workboats violently off the river before capsizing them, and the guards were flung haphazardly into the cold water, screaming and sputtering obscenities. Smoke spiraled from the barge as debris rained down around it. Fire danced on splotches of fuel floating in the river, spreading quickly.
The wash from the explosion sent out swells that pushed the Sentries closer to the frozen shore. As they neared the bank, Victor passed Chief one end of a long rope and secured the other to a capstan on the towboat. The wolfdog leapt ashore, pulling the boat until it grounded, and the Sentries helped each other onto land. They collapsed on their backs to catch their breath, then propped themselves on their elbows, facing the river.
The flames on the barge, surrounded by a blanket of black smoke, reached out like glowing fingers in the cold air as the vessel began to sink. One of the workboats’ fuel tanks ignited into a ball of cardinal fury, engulfing the boat.
Deverell started to cough, only it wasn’t a cough but a weak snicker. Victor felt his lips pull into a smile and he joined in, holding one hand up. Deverell grasped it tightly, then they threw their heads back, laughing hysterically into the sky, hollering and whooping and crowing. Chief joined the merriment, loosening a howl that made them laugh even harder.
After a few moments, Victor rested his head back down. The last of the adrenaline had left him and now he could feel the pain of everything—his leg, his head and ear, his body, his face, even his teeth ached. By Deverell’s fading laughter, Victor suspected the other Sentry was starting to feel the agony of his mangled arm as well.
“Reyor will probably have people watching the hospitals around here,” he wheezed, sitting up. “I’ve got a first aid kit in my car, but it’s still a bit of a walk.”
“Where did you park it?” Deverell asked.
“A small town about three miles south to keep away from prying eyes.”
“Guess what they say about great minds is true. That’s where I stashed mine as well. You can grab your things and we’ll take my truck.”
They moved as quickly as possible but it still took over half an hour to reach the town. They ignored the puzzled expressions directed at them and got into Deverell’s vehicle, patching themselves up as best they could. And, though they both loathed it, they were forced to take painkillers.
“I’ll drive,” Victor said.
Deverell smacked his hand away from the wheel. “No.”
“You—”
“I know I’ve got a gimp arm, but whatever they did to you pushed you to the brink of death. And that’s before your multiple injuries, not to mention that the adrenaline boost I gave you has completely worn off. Mate, you look like you should be in a hearse right now.”
“You sure know how to flatter people.”
“I’m driving and that’s that. You should rest. We’ve got a long way to go.”
Victor glanced into the backseat where Chief, exhausted, had fallen asleep. He reached out to stroke the wolfdog between the ears, then sighed. “Alright. But don’t push yourself, Dev. The moment you need a break, you wake me up. We clear?”
“Crystal.”
The older Sentry crawled over into the back as Deverell started the engine. Hugging Chief close to him, Victor allowed himself to feel safe for the first time in days and willingly walked into the blackness that called out to him.
33
“Momma, are you okay?”
“It’s nothing, sweetheart.”
Mariah, sitting at the dining table with Tegan as they Skyped their mothers on Aari’s laptop, leaned toward the screen. “You sure?”
One of the two women on the other end of the video chat, a near carbon copy of Mariah down to the copper-blonde hair and warm cognac eyes, smiled meekly. “I’m concerned, that’s all.” She blew a kiss at the screen. “I love you so much, baby. Don’t worry about me.”
“We’re taking good care of her,” Mrs. Ryder added.
Tegan slid her arms around Mariah. “And we’re taking good care of this one.”
Mrs. Ashton beamed. “I don’t doubt it. The five of you have always looked out for each other. Speaking of which, how’s Jag? His parents told us what happened.”
“He’s doing alright, all things considered,” Tegan replied. “The boys are keeping him company while he’s stuck in bed. He’s actually healing pretty fast. The Dema-Ki compound is doing its thing.”
The front door opened and Marshall stepped in, cell phone to his ear and grocery bags in hand. He saw the friends and gave them a shake of his head, then entered the kitchen. The girls exchanged glances. Guess he hasn’t found the people tailing us yet, Mariah thought. The possibility they were being followed was one detail the friends decided to skip while updating their mothers.
“Marshall, come say hi,” Tegan called.
The Sentry, still on his call, popped in to wave at the camera, then ruffled the girls’ hair and headed back to the kitchen. Their mothers smiled tightly, lines appearing on their foreheads. Mariah gave them a look. “What is it?”
Her mother shifted in her chair. “I . . . we . . .”
“It’s nothing,” Mrs. Ryder said hastily.
Tegan lifted a brow. “It clearly isn’t nothing.”
Mariah’s mother looked down, silent for a few moments. “This has been so difficult for us, letting all of you go because of some prophecy. There are times when we take a step back and wonder about what we’ve done. It’s hard to make sense of it all. And then we remember Elder Nageau’s words . . . but still. Look at Jag. We could have lost him. Marshall, too. Sometimes we can’t help asking if we made the right decision letting you go.”
The girls didn’t know what to say. Mariah’s mother rubbed her face. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Mariah said softly.
Her mother glanced away from the camera and quickly wiped her eyes. “So, are you any closer to finding the cure?”
“We hit a bump on the road,” Tegan said. “But we did get a break, and one of the Sentries is chasing a lead in Moscow. We were gonna visit someone in Haifa yesterday who may have some answers, but it was Shabbat. Today is an off day as well, so we’ll go tomorrow.”
“You sound annoyed.”
“Well, yeah. We just don’t have the luxury of wasting time. We’ve tried calling the man but he never picks up.” Tegan huffed. “Anyway, how’re things at home?”
“There was talk about reopening the schools in March,” Mariah’s mother said, “but the disease has hit larger cities on both coasts. There’s worry that it could spread inland, so there’s a chance that it may not happen.”
“We saw the news,” Mariah said. “People are going crazy in New York and San Diego. And I read online that the government’s about to impose martial law in harder-hit places.”
Her mother shifted aside, letting Mrs. Ryder move closer to the screen. Sighing, Mrs. Ryder scratched the back of her neck. “Both strains of the disease were incubating for a while and now we’re beginning to see the effects here, yes. About martial law . . . it’s just a rumor as far as we know, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the government decides to call in the National Guard to help maintain order.”
Mariah noticed Tegan going still as she stared at her mother. She nudged her friend. “Teegs?”
Tegan ignored her. “Mom. Did something happen?”
Mrs. Ryder gave her daughter a helpless look. “Nothing escapes you, does it?”
“What is it?” Tegan asked, moving closer to the laptop.
“Honey, one of your dad’s cousins . . . you remember Bill? We used to visit him in Florida when
you were younger? He loved taking you and your brother to Epcot for the rides.”
“Yes . . .”
“He’s got the disease, Tegan. Dad and I spoke with his wife. He’s not doing well. She said he’s aged so much and he’s so frail, so . . . so . . .” Mrs. Ryder’s bottom lip trembled and she bit down to make it stop. “The doctor said that at this rate, he won’t make it past next week.”
Mariah turned to Tegan, a hand over her mouth. Her friend had a glazed, faraway look in her eyes. Then, in quiet submission, Tegan said, “Please give Uncle Bill and the family my love, Mom.”
And there it is, Mariah thought, placing a hand on the other girl’s back. The brave front.
“How’s Dad dealing?” Tegan asked, not looking directly at the screen. “I know how close they are.”
“He’s shaken. It barely hit home when we first heard that the disease had arrived here, but now . . .”
“I’m glad he has you and Damian to lean on. And Great Fall’s entire police department.”
Tegan’s mother smiled slightly. “The PD’s been so good to him, hon. They’re looking out for him. For all of us.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less. Is Dad on patrol now?”
“Mmhm. Police all over the state—all over the country, really—have been pulling extra shifts. The disease may not have made it to Great Falls yet, but there’s still scattered unrest from the food crisis. And some people continue to take advantage of the situation to loot stores and destroy property.”
Mariah’s mother glared. “I don’t understand how some folks can be so selfish and awful.”
“Surely it’s not all bad?” Mariah asked; she hated to think that her peaceful city could be so obscenely turned upside down.
“No, it isn’t,” her mother acknowledged. “Times like these often bring out the best in us. Neighbors show love and concern, families come together. But it can also sometimes bring out the worst in people as well.”
