Hacker

by Camille Picott

  “I’ve used this place before.”

  The answer surprises her, though it shouldn’t. A pretty girl, living alone, is a tempting target for many; this is not the first time Lydia has been chased. Hank herself has had to hide before. She recalls the hours she spent hiding under that piss-filled stairwell from the four teenage street rats. In comparison, with the smell of death now permeating her nostrils, that place had practically been a palace.

  “I don’t suppose Global Arms makes regular patrols in the area?” Hank asks.

  Her heart sinks at the grimace on Lydia’s face. “They do come through here, just not on any regular schedule.”

  And the Global Arms compound is over thirty miles away. She and Lydia are on their own.

  “Cooooopper Top!” Jacob’s voice ricochets off the walls outside. It’s impossible to tell how close he is.

  They’re going to kill me, Hank thinks. They’re going to kill me and my family. Even if she does manage to evade and escape them, Logan will come after her for the betrayal. She presses her fingers to her temples. Why had she done it? Why had she risked everything to help Lydia?

  The answer is simple: It was the right thing to do.

  The admission gives her no comfort. Why does doing the right thing have such terrible consequences? In the Pre-‘Fault world, she probably would have gotten a medal for saving another human being. Now all she’s going to get is a bullet in the brain, or worse.

  Lydia squeezes Hank’s wrist. “Thank you,” she says. “I’m sorry I attacked you when you tried to warn me.”

  Hank just nods, feeling sick about the decision she’d made.

  The two of them sit there, huddled beneath the musty old cash register stand. The smell of the dead thing overwhelms all of Hank’s other senses. She concentrates on it, letting the intensity drown her anxiety for her family’s safety.

  Time passes. Hank realizes she hasn’t heard Jacob or Ace for a while.

  “Do you think it’s safe to leave?” she whispers.

  Lydia shakes her head and shrugs. She doesn’t know either.

  “We could just stay here for a week,” Hank suggests. “Hide right here.” Except she has to get back to Timmy and her parents. They have to leave. Move. Hide from Logan.

  “We have to kill them.” Lydia’s words float up out of the darkness.

  Hank senses her world crashing down around her. She looks at the other girl, searching for jest in her eyes. Lydia gazes back at her, her mouth set in a hard line.

  “Are you joking?” Hank asks.

  “Do I look like I’m joking? If we don’t kill them, they’ll report back to your boss. Your family will be punished because you helped me.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone before?” Hank demands.

  “Sometimes a girl has to do what a girl has to do,” Lydia murmurs. “It’s the way of the world. It’s not so hard, really. Not if you don’t think about it too much. Not if you know that the only alternative is you dying.”

  Hank bites back a hysterical laugh. “How are we supposed to kill them? We don’t have any weapons.”

  “There are weapons all around us.” Lydia hefts a thick piece of wood lying on the ground beside them. It looks like an old chair leg. The top has three bent nails sticking out of it.

  Ironic that she had erased this girl’s life, yet knows nothing about her beyond the superficial statistics. Single. Employed. No family. Those miscellaneous facts don’t make a person.

  “We can do this.” Lydia hands the chair leg to Hank. “We’re going to kill those boys. That will buy you time to get your family to safety and for me to get away.”

  How had Hank’s entire world gone sideways in less than an hour? It all boiled down to one impulsive decision to save a girl’s life.

  Fifteen minutes ago, Hank had been hunted. Who was she to think she could be a hunter? A stupid chair leg didn’t make someone a hunter. Jacob and Ace—those guys were hunters.

  Hank shakes her head, pushing the chair leg away. “I’m no hunter. No killer.”

  Lydia purses her lips, shoving the wood back in Hank’s hands. “We are what this world demands us to be. We’re doing this.” Her dark eyes are downright scary. “I’ve fought for everything I have in that apartment. Including my life. I’m not rolling over so two idiots can take everything from me. Neither should you.”

  Jacob and Ace won’t quit. They won’t go back to Logan until she and Lydia are dead. Even knowing this, Hank struggles to shift her mind from defense to offense.

  Maybe it’s the fact she found out she’s been laundering money for a black market organ dealer; maybe it’s the fact that she watched the murder of her mentor and his family; or maybe it’s the fact that she’s put her family at risk to save the life of a stranger. Whatever the case, there is only so many traumatic changes a person can handle in a five-hour period. Shouldering the act of killing, on top of everything else, is too much.

  Lydia eases through the dark shop, her shoes crunching on broken glass.

  Hank winces at every sound. “What are you doing?” she hisses.

  “Looking for more weapons.” Lydia picks up a large piece of glass and holds it up to the light. Then she picks up a piece of fabric that may be an old, discarded T-shirt and wraps it around the end of the glass shard, ripping off the excess and letting it fall to the floor.

  Next, she picks up what looks like a wrought-iron metal shoe. Part of the shoe repair shop, Hank realizes, leftover from Pre-‘Fault times.

  “These will do.” Lydia looks at her. “Come on. Let’s see what else we can find.”

  7

  Hiding

  ––––––––

  There’s a reason Hank never liked playing mercenary like the other kids when she was little. For one thing, it’s insane. Who in their right mind wants to risk his life every day for a wage? Hank always knew she wanted a sensible desk job. Even pretending to be a mercenary seemed stupid.

  She never wanted to be the person sneaking through Oakland in the wee hours of the morning, hunting psychotic boys who worked for an illegal organ harvester. Really. So why couldn’t it be some other kid standing in her shoes right now, living out a mercenary fantasy? Because Hank wants none of it.

  Lydia leads her through the back of the store. What type of kid was Lydia? Did she play mercenary? Does this scenario play into the world she dreamed about as a kid?

  Hank tamps down the hysteria ballooning within her, forcing herself to think of Timmy. Of his skinny arms and bony shoulder blades, both of which she could always feel when he hugged her. For Timmy, she has to keep her fear under control.

  The two girls pass through a doorway into a darker room at the back of the store. The door had long been ripped from the hinges, probably hauled away for firewood.

  The stench is stronger here. The light is dim, but Hank sees a lumpy shape on her left. The smell emanates from it.

  A soft growl fills the room. A pair of glowing eyes looks up from the lumpy shape, fixing on them.

  “Just a dog,” Lydia murmurs. “Leave it be and it won’t bother us.”

  Hank is in full agreement. “Is—is that a dead person?” she asks. It’s hard to tell for sure in the light, but she can’t imagine what else would be so large.

  “Yeah. I . . .” Lydia pauses, swallowing. “I recognize him. His name is Ernesto. He was homeless. He’d been sick for a while . . .” She swallows again, blinking back tears. “He was a nice man. I brought him food sometimes. I—wait a sec.” She approaches the body.

  The dog growls at her.

  Hank hurries to her side, waving her chair leg at the dog. “Get back!”

  The dog cowers back a few paces, still growling.

  “Ernesto always carried an old switchblade.” Lydia reaches out, fumbling.

  As she touches the body, the aroma intensifies. She tries to push aside his arm. It slides away, detaching from his body. Even in the near-dark, Hank sees the squirming white maggots. She gags, but remains at Ly
dia’s side to fend off the dog.

  Lydia grimaces as she rummages in Ernesto’s pocket. “It’s not in this pocket. We have to turn him over.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Dead serious.”

  The two girls look at each other.

  “No pun intended,” Lydia says.

  “I’ll pry him up.” Hank waves her stick in the direction of the body. “You do the rest.”

  She swallows back another gag that threatens to take her. Why had she thought it was a good idea to get up this morning? She should have just stayed in bed. To hell with Logan getting pissed at her if she missed a day of work. She could have pretended to be sick. She could have faked the flu or something. Anything to not be here, right now, scared for her life and contemplating the best way to pry up a rotting corpse.

  She thinks of Timmy. Of her parents. Of what’s going to happen to them once Logan finds out what she’s done.

  She has to do this for them. Everything in her life, she does for her family. She can be strong and do horrible things for them. She can pry up dead bodies and kill people.

  Biting her lip and twisting her face against the smell, she wedges the stick under Ernesto’s side. The dog darts in, clamping his jaws around one rotting leg. He twists his neck back and forth, turning the leg between his teeth.

  A big chunk of meat slides free in his teeth. It sends up a shaft of stench so strong that Hank and Lydia both dry heave. Hank breathes through her mouth, trying to get her gag reflex under control. She worked hard for the little food she has in her stomach. No way is she going to waste it by throwing up.

  Lydia yanks at Ernesto’s jacket. Hank once again uses the chair leg to lever up the body. She keeps her head turned to the side, breathing through her mouth, doing the best she can not too look too closely at the dead body or the inhale the smell.

  “I got it!” Lydia raises a triumphant hand, brandishing a rusted switchblade. “Come on.”

  Hank doesn’t have to be told twice. She yanks out her stick and takes several strides away from the body, only to bump into something.

  She whirls around with a cry, brandishing the chair leg. Her heart beats so hard it feels like it’s going to jump out of her throat.

  It’s just the wall. Nothing else. She just bumped into a wall. It’s covered with peeling graffiti.

  Something touches her hand. Hank jumps.

  “Just me,” Lydia breathes. “Here, I want you to have this.” The other girl passes the piece of broken glass to her. With shaking hands, Hank slides it into her belt.

  “Cooooopper Top.” Jacob’s voice comes out of the darkness. “Cooooopper Top!”

  This time, it’s not an echo. This time, his voice is close. Very, very close.

  Hank’s mouth goes dry. She wraps both hands around the chair leg, gripping it so hard her knuckles ache.

  Lydia tilts her head, indicating they need to go out the back door. Hank follows her without argument.

  Lydia turns the knob. The door opens a few inches, then stops. Lydia leans her shoulder against it and strains. Hank joins her, the two of them pressing their shoes against the floor as they try to lever open the back door.

  It won’t budge.

  They break away, both of them breathing hard.

  “Something is blocking it.” Hank tries to peer through the small gap. “There’s not enough light to see. Probably trash from the people who live in the apartments above. Maybe we can—”

  She breaks off at the sound of crunching glass, breath catching in her throat.

  Someone is in the front part of the shop. Whoever it is moves quietly. Like a hunter.

  Fear paralyzes Hank. She crouches beside the door, chair leg raised, unable to peel her eyes away from the open doorway between them and the front of the shop.

  Lydia grabbing her free hand jolts her back into reality. The other girl’s palm is sweaty with fear.

  There’s no place to hide. There’s nothing in this room besides them, Ernesto, and darkness.

  If all they have is darkness, then that’s what they’ll work with. Hank pulls Lydia into the farthest, darkest corner, opposite to where Ernesto lays. The two girls huddle together, gripping their weapons and barely daring the breath.

  So much for their brave talk of hunting down Ace and Jacob and killing them. The boys are right here and they can only cower and hide.

  “What’s that smell?” asks a familiar voice. Ace.

  Cold sweat breaks out along Hank’s neck and back. Her hands tremble.

  Get a grip, she tells herself. Get ready to fight. This is for Timmy and Mom and Dad.

  For Timmy. For Mom. For Dad. To keep them safe. To keep them alive. It’s up to her to make sure they don’t pay for the decision she made tonight.

  But was it really a bad decision? Hank glances at Lydia. Bad for her and her family, yet the right decision all the same. The right thing.

  Hank feels something inside her shift. The fear is still there, but shouldering up beside it is a new beast: resolve.

  “Something died in here,” Jacob says.

  She hears a hollow thump. Jacob or Ace kicking something, probably the old cash register stand.

  “Something, or someone,” Ace says with a sneer in his voice.

  A silhouette fills the doorway. Hank sucks in a breath. Scared as she is, Lydia’s fingers dig into her forearm. Only shadows and Ernesto separate them from the killers.

  “It’s a body,” announces the boy in the doorway. Jacob. He paces inside, taking a few steps toward the corpse. In his hand is a gun.

  A gun. Of course. He and Ace both carry guns. She swallows against the dryness of her throat. A chair leg against a gun? It’ll have to do. It’s all she has.

  As Jacob advances into a room, a long, low growl fills the air.

  The dog with Ernesto. Hank forgot all about him. She can’t see the dog, but his growl draws Jacob’s attention. She makes a mental note never to underestimate the value of a street dog again. She even considers coming back here if she makes it out alive to feed the mangy thing.

  “Nothing back here but a dead idiot and some dog eating him for breakfast.” Jacob retreats back into the main room, never once glancing in their direction. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Now, Hank thinks. It’s now or never.

  In silent unison, Hank and Lydia surge to their feet.

  8

  Hunters

  ––––––––

  Wordless shouts rend the air as the girls attack, catching the boys by surprise. Lydia is on top of Jacob, latched onto his back like a leech. With a wild cry, she plunges her knife downward. Jacob yells, waving his gun and shooting without aim. Bullets fly into the ceiling, the walls, and—

  Ace. Rushing to the aid of his friend, he gets hit in the leg. With a cry, he collapses and drops his own gun.

  Hank leaps across the room, vaulting over a pile of debris and swinging her chair leg with a shout. The wood connects with the side of Ace’s head. His shout of pain fills her ears. She kicks his gun away, sending it skittering across the room through the broken glass.

  Don’t stop hitting until they stop moving. Lydia’s voice hammers through her brain. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

  Hank swings again. She aims for his head, but Ace rolls to the side. Her chair leg connects with his shoulder, one of its nails biting into his flesh. He screams as she rips it free.

  Ace rolls back in Hank’s direction, tackling her legs. Even as she crashes backward, she tightens her grip on the chair leg, knowing it’s the only thing between her and death.

  She hits the concrete floor, her breath whooshing out of her. Don’t stop. She swings, this time catching Ace across the cheek.

  “Bitch!” he yells. “I’m gonna—”

  Hank hits him again. Something makes a soft cracking sound. He thumps down on top of her, unmoving.

  Is he dead? No. She can feel his chest moving. He’s unconscious. Hank shoves him aside and scrambles to her feet. />
  Someone grabs her ponytail, yanking so hard she loses her footing and falls again.

  Jacob’s face looms above her, teeth bared in a rictus. “You’re mine, Copper Top,” he snarls.

  Hank twists to face him. He keeps a grip on her ponytail, but Hank’s hair is long. Jacob might have a hold of the strands, but his grip near her shoulder. Hank still has room to move. She spins, swinging at his legs. Her blow connects, but her leverage is off and it’s not a strong blow.

  Lydia is five feet away, limp on the floor. She’s alive—Hank sees her fingers moving, her knees drawing themselves closer to her body—but she’s wounded.

  Jacob gives her ponytail another vicious yank, forcing her to look away from Lydia. He pulls Hank close to him, then grabs her wrist and twists. Hard.

  Hank yelps, releasing the chair leg. Jacob smiles. Blood runs down his shoulder and his side.

  “That’s my good girl.” He releases her wrist, only to lock an arm around her waist and squash her body against his. He keeps his other hand in her ponytail, snaking up the long red strands to grip at its base. He forces her face close to his, leaning down for a hard, brutal kiss.

  Hank struggles, clamping her lips together and trying to push away. But he’s so much bigger. So much stronger. She feels the hard, corded muscles of his arms. The hand in her hair is cruel. He’s not going to let her go.

  She knows exactly what he’s going to do to her. He will kill her, that’s for certain, but not before he takes all her dignity.

  Jacob shoves her up against the wall, sucking on her neck. His free hand closes around her breast. She gasps in pain as he squeezes hard.

  His cruel laugh echoes in her ears. His eyes gleam with sadistic pleasure. His blood leaks onto her, its sticky warmth seeping through her clothes and turning her stomach.

  “I’ve been so patient,” he purrs into her ear. “I knew I’d have you eventually. It was only a matter of time.”

  “You don’t have me,” she hisses. “You’ll never have me.”