Relapse (Breakers Book 7)

by Edward W. Robertson

  "Where'd that come from?" Lowell said.

  The girl glanced over her shoulder. "Don't you have floors to scrub, bitch?"

  She continued on her way. Lowell leaned against the wall. Being an alien's slave sure made some people pissy.

  "Saw something funny today," Lowell said to Randy at mess. "This girl was wheeling away pieces of that orange crap they house us in. That stuff is tougher than boiled leather, but the edges were sliced clean. You sure there aren't any lasers around here?"

  Randy got a funny look on his face. "I know what did it. I can get you one—but you have to be able to hide it."

  * * *

  Lowell waited and watched, but whatever had wiped out the world had done a good job of it. Civilization said its goodbyes in less than a month. The cabin was in a good spot, though, with streams and reservoirs, fruit trees. Easy as pie to descend into the city and scrounge up whatever they needed.

  In the middle of summer, he climbed the ridge with Garrett, as he still did every day, and saw the ship hovering over Santa Monica Bay.

  Time, which they'd recently had so much of, abruptly compressed. They ran home, loaded as much in the car as they could, and drove north. For the next thousand miles, Lowell only stopped to siphon gas or go to the bathroom. At two in the morning, he pulled up in front of the house—a ski shack a grateful client had once invited him to—and turned off the car.

  Garrett climbed out, breath hanging in the air. "It's cold!"

  "Think this is bad?" Lowell popped the trunk. "Wait until winter."

  The boy turned in a circle, taking in the dark woods. "Where are we?"

  "Colorado. Somewhere we'll have time again."

  And they did—even though, as soon as they finished cleaning out the new cabin, they had to start preparing for winter. Cutting up firewood. Picking huckleberries around the banks of the lake and canning them. Hiking the land to get the lay of it. Venturing into town for ammunition, medicine, water filters, snow gear. Learning to set snares, to hunt deer, and to cure and smoke the meat.

  As hard as they worked, when winter came, they could have stayed in the mountains another fifty years without seeing a worse one. It wasn't just the snow, which drifted halfway up the windows, but the fact Lowell wasn't used to anything like it—it buried the wood pile overnight, leaving it frozen and sodden. Every day, they had to pry pieces out block by block and bring it inside to dry. On one trip, planning to be gone for hours, Lowell put the fire out, but when he came home, he discovered their drinking water had frozen.

  But they made do. They worked together and they learned together. A second storm came, burying the pathways they'd tunneled through the first fall. They shoveled snow from the roof so it wouldn't leak or collapse. At night, which felt twice as long as the day, they slept in the family room in front of the fire.

  Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Icicles hung from the eaves. Garrett made it his chore to bash them down each morning with a broom handle. Lowell supposed it was saving the gutters. Good exercise, too.

  Snow lay on the ground like a layer of cooling white lava. When it wasn't storming, the sky was bluer than a box of sapphires. When it wasn't cloudy, the night was so starry it made you want to believe in God.

  Lowell began to start his mornings by reading. Just a few more minutes in the warmth of his blankets before his bladder took precedence. One day in May, he was doing just that when the front door creaked open. He heard Garrett stomping the snow from his boots.

  "Hey Dad!" Garrett called from the entryway. "Dad, come look!"

  He glanced up from his book. "What is it?"

  "Look!"

  He marked his spot, got up, and walked to the front door, which Garrett had propped wide open. Before he could correct the boy for wasting heat, he blinked. Something new had appeared from the yard's white blanket: grass.

  The snows were leaving. They'd done it. If they'd outlasted that winter—their first, and surely one of the worst the region had seen—he knew they would endure all the others.

  In truth, they got just one more. Two years after they'd traveled to the mountains, Lowell returned from a hunt and found that Garrett was gone.

  * * *

  Randy brought it to him the next day. It had a round handle and a thin, eight-inch blade. No part of it was metal. It felt like bone, but its pearly sheen made him think it came from a shell.

  He took it to his box and tested it against the underside of his cord, where it met the loop around his left ankle. It cut so fast he jerked back his hand, afraid he was about to sever the cord altogether.

  Instead of hiding it in his planned spot—a disused shelf in the cavernous scrap room—he cut a slit where the wall of his box met the floor and inserted the shell knife inside. When four bald adults came later in the day with an announcement that they were "making sure the boxes were clean," they entered his, walked to the back, shining flashlights into the corners, then walked out without a word.

  Two goals down. That left the biggie: finding a route out of the ship. Days later, at the end of his second week inside, he still hadn't found a way to the upper levels. He hadn't wanted to involve Randy in that. Snooping around could get you in trouble. But the kid had helped him with the knife. Randy was smart. Lowell would be stupid not to use him. At the next dinner, he confessed he didn't know how to get off the ship.

  Randy furrowed his brow. On their algae diet, he'd lost some weight and his cheeks no longer looked so childish. "What about the tunnel?"

  "Told you. Anson closed it."

  "But he'll be back sometime, won't he? To bring new kids? Or to talk to the aliens?"

  Lowell set down his fork. "Could be."

  "I know someone who works right by the entrance. Charles. He can tell us if someone reopens the tunnel."

  Lowell gave the okay, but continued to keep his eye open for ways upstairs. Problem was, the area the slaves had access to was a closed ecosystem. The doors beyond were locked. Metal. He tried the shell knife on one, but it barely scratched it.

  That was why they had some freedoms, so few guards. No need to keep close watch when there was no way out.

  At dinner, sometimes he and Randy talked about getting off the ship, but that had become a waiting game. More and more, they talked sociably. About Catalina. L.A. What life had been like there. Randy wanted to be a doctor or a scientist.

  "Hate to be the bearer of bad news," Lowell said. "But those things don't really exist anymore."

  Randy wagged his spoon side to side. "Schools don't exist. But there were doctors and scientists long before Cambridge and Harvard. All I have to do is teach myself."

  Lowell laughed. The other prisoners seemed to be wizened by their captivity, shrunken and bitter. But the more they talked, the more animated Randy seemed to get.

  Somehow, it took Lowell another ten days to understand why.

  "Your dad," he said then, concentrating on his food. "Did he know what he was sending you into?"

  Randy's face darkened. "No. I don't think so. But I don't think he'd be upset."

  "I don't think any parent would be happy for their son to be an alien's slave."

  "You don't know him. He never liked me. He'd yell at me. Say I was fat. Soft. That I was interested in the wrong things. That I was too weak to survive on my own."

  Lowell swallowed a mouthful of pink pulp that tasted faintly of fish. "If so, that's his fault. His job is to teach you."

  "He'd hit me, too," Randy went on. "Whenever I screwed up. But how am I supposed to learn all that goes into farming when I'm too scared of being punished? Everyone makes mistakes, don't they?"

  Lowell's knuckles ached from clenching his fork. He set it down. "He better hope I don't see him again."

  "You're mad." Randy's voice grew thoughtful, eyes shifting between Lowell's. "Do you have kids?"

  "You're too smart."

  "Well?"

  "I had a son."

  The boy's voice softened. "Was it the plague?"

&nbs
p; "No. We made it past that. The aliens, too."

  "Then what happened?"

  Lowell rubbed his jaw, then exhaled. "Doesn't matter. He's gone."

  Ever curious, Randy looked like he was about to say more. Then his meekness won out and he looked down at his plate.

  The days chugged on. As each one ended, frustration bubbled up Lowell's throat. He should have been making more progress. Too much time could be a trap. A way to excuse yourself from putting in the effort and taking the risks you needed to move forward. They had no way to hurry up the reopening of the tunnel, though. Some things were beyond your control. That was the hardest lesson of all.

  He was swabbing out a disused room when footsteps pattered down the hall, stopping outside the door. Randy popped his head inside, face pale in the poor light.

  "It's Charles," he whispered. "The tunnel's reopened—and Anson is here."

  * * *

  "Hey Garrett!" His voice echoed through the trees and the peaks. "Garrett!"

  He wasn't panicked yet. The boy often wandered off, exploring or fishing or checking the traps. Lowell cleaned the rabbits he'd brought back from his venture, then washed up. When he couldn't stand it any more, he went outside to search.

  It was late summer. Flies swirled with every step. He checked the lake, saw nothing. Golden light poured through the pines. As the afternoon weakened, he started to call Garrett's name. The valleys gave his voice the power to carry for a mile, but this only stressed how alone he was.

  Night came. He went back to the cabin for a flashlight. Could be Garrett had simply wandered too far, but maybe he'd fallen down a scree. Stepped in a trap. Stumbled onto another survivor.

  It was dawn. Lowell didn't know how that had happened. His feet were blistered in some places and numb in others. He went back to the cabin for food and water and to check if Garrett had come home. After breakfast, he sat in a chair, meaning to rest a minute, and fell asleep.

  He woke to prongs of guilt and panic. It was afternoon. He ran back to the lake, meaning to check the mud for footprints. There, something pale floated in the shadows.

  Lowell waded into the lake. Only the first few inches of the water were warm; below that, the cold reminded you that winter was never far away. Garrett was cold, too, but Lowell tried CPR for twenty minutes. Exhausted by the effort, he sat back and watched the trout ripple the surface of the lake.

  Mechanically, he checked the body for wounds, lividity, any hint as to what had happened. He found nothing. Didn't make sense. Garrett knew how to swim. A cramp? Had he gone too far, gotten tired?

  The only answer was that there was no answer. An accident had happened. You could be as prepared as you wanted, as well-trained as a special forces team, as knowledgeable as a shaman. You could do every single thing right—and all it took to wipe that out was one moment of bad luck. To a certain extent, this had always been true. But the plague had torn everything loose from its tethers. That was the drowning's only meaning: that there was no meaning.

  Not anymore.

  Lowell buried the body by Garrett's favorite climbing tree. He didn't mark the spot. That night, drunk by the lake, he nearly shot himself, but fired into the trees instead, daring someone to hear.

  In the morning, hungover, he packed up the car and drove south. In L.A., he discovered the aliens were gone, and that people had returned.

  He learned these people placed high value on individuals who knew there was no order left in the world, who knew how to find things and to get them done.

  Then, one day, he met a man with a dream.

  * * *

  Lowell grabbed the boy's shoulder. "You're sure of this?"

  Randy bobbed his head, chin doubling. "Are you going to kill him?"

  "We're getting you out. Then I'll deal with him. Stay right here."

  He walked into the hallway and went to his box and retrieved the shell knife. He returned to the room and wheeled his mop and bucket into the hall, Randy dogging his heels. Ahead, an alien flashed through an intersection, making for the entrance. Lowell didn't slow down. They passed another captive, but the woman didn't make eye contact.

  A man's voice rang down the hall. His voice. "Do you understand what's happening out there? Do you really think I'd be here if it wasn't an emergency?"

  As Lowell neared, Anson's voice grew louder. He passed a doorway. Snatched a glimpse of the blond man gesticulating at an alien's blank face. Four of the Sworn stood behind him. One glanced at Lowell, but Lowell's head was shaved. In his formless gown, he was just another slave.

  "All I'm asking for is one ship. One tank. A few of your people!" Anson was bellowing now. "I've done everything you've asked! Everything! And you're just going to leave me to the barbarians?"

  They came to the foyer. It was empty and smelled like salt water. Could it be that easy? But they'd put in their time, made their plain, chosen their spot. Lowell bent and cut the cord from his ankles. He tossed it in the corner and pocketed the knife. With Randy right behind him, he descended the ramp to the tunnel.

  From above, Anson's voice broke out again—he was in the foyer, still arguing as the aliens escorted him from the ship. Lowell broke into a run. The tube swayed gently in the currents. Lowell kept glancing back, but didn't see a soul.

  The tube spat them into the house. On the ground floor, Lowell shielded his eyes from the overcast sky. He hadn't seen sunlight in a month. Outside, five horses were tethered to the porch. Lowell grabbed Randy's arm and ran uphill. Out to sea, waves splashed white against the sides of the ship.

  He ran three blocks, then turned downhill toward the ocean, veering into the second house he saw.

  "Get upstairs," he told Randy. "Get into a closet. Stay there."

  "You're outnumbered. I can help you."

  "I know you can. But you've got more important work to do. If I'm not back in an hour, go to the Dunemarket. Find a woman named Wendy and tell her about the other kids on the ship. She needs to get word to Catalina. Do you understand?"

  Randy's face and voice were pinched. "Just don't get hurt. Okay?"

  "I promise," Lowell lied.

  Fast as he could, he tossed the house, finding shoes, jeans, a shirt. He didn't find a gun. No matter. One cut was all he needed to make. He took a second knife from the kitchen. He ran outside back toward the house with the tunnel, but when he arrived, the horses were already gone.

  * * *

  Below, the two sides made their speeches. He couldn't make out the words, but the words didn't matter. They were foreplay. Soon enough, the armies opened fire, rifles flashing from the forest and the walls of the Heart.

  He wasn't sure how it would play out. Raina had done good, bringing far more people than he would have guessed her capable. Anson had the walls, but to Lowell's eye, the Sworn's numbers looked a little thin. Could go either way. Would come down to tactics.

  He didn't really care how it would shake out. His eyes were on another prize.

  It took a while for things to develop. Raina hadn't seemed to account for the walls, which struck him as an uncharacteristic blunder—the walls were the whole thing—but then came the fires, the rockets, the literal fireworks setting off the RPGs. He chuckled, enjoying the show.

  Once her warriors had breached the gates, he knew the score. He turned away from the battle and scanned the grounds through the scope of his rifle, waiting for Anson to rabbit. He'd taken the gun from his cache in the hills a half mile away. Randy was waiting there. If Lowell wasn't back by morning, and Raina's people won, the boy was to go to her. If not, to the Dunemarket, as fast as he could.

  The field grew quiet. Warriors maneuvered in the darkness, closing in on the buildings by the lake. He wanted to take joy in Anson's defeat, but many of the Sworn were good soldiers. He hoped they had the sense to surrender.

  A rapping noise carried from the north face of the walls. Lowell got up and jogged clockwise through the heights, angling for a better view. A single gunshot boomed from the trees outside the Hea
rt. Lowell ran harder. A clearing separated the trees from the ridge he was on. Two people ran into the field. It was dark enough that he could only recognize Anson, but that meant the person beside him was that woman of his. Something wasn't right about her and Lowell had always kept his distance.

  Lowell dropped down the ridge and came to the edge of the trees on the north end of the clearing. He took cover behind a trunk and sighted in on them.

  When they were fifty yards away, he said, "Stop right there. You're going to want to put down that gun."

  The two of them stopped in their tracks. Anson pointed his gun into the trees, wild-eyed. "I'll shoot!"

  "You shoot and you die," Lowell said. "And so does she. Put down the gun and I'll let her go."

  Anson bared his teeth, then dropped the pistol into the grass.

  "Very good." Lowell moved from behind the tree. "Now step back."

  The blond man whirled, sprinting toward the woods to the right. The woman stood frozen. Lowell sighed and walked toward her, rifle ready. She glanced at the gun.

  "Don't," he said. "Get out of here."

  She backed up three steps, waiting for a shot, then turned and ran back to the south. Lowell fished the pistol from the grass and ran after Anson. The other man was thrashing about, crunching leaves. Anson was a fitness freak—he liked to show off his arms, shed his shirt at the hint of a warm breeze—and Lowell found himself unable to gain on him.

  All it took was a moment of bad luck. Ahead, Anson tripped on a root and landed hard. He came up limping.

  Lowell kept the gun trained on him. "Your friends in the ship didn't come through for you, did they?"

  Anson turned slowly. "And you came here to gloat."

  "You thought you could depend on them. But at the end of the day, they're just like you. Ready to abandon everyone if it means they'll come out alive. What are they planning in there?"

  "What? You think you can save these people from them?"