by T. M. Catron
***
The throat-ripping scream drove the fiery pain into his skull. His entire body spasmed in agony, muscles clenching wildly, and Lincoln just needed it to stop. Rolling on the ground made it worse, but he couldn’t help himself. Who was screaming?
A pressure on his back. Someone sat on him, their knees pressed into his lower spine to stop his flailing. Then the pain subsided, a calm spreading out from his torso in a relief so pleasurable Lincoln cried. He lay panting into the dirt, sobbing with his forehead resting on a tree root. Dust coated his mouth as he gasped for air.
A man was shouting. “. . . can hear him all over the mountain!” Lincoln didn’t recognize the voice. But then, he didn’t exactly remember his own voice at the moment, or if he’d ever had one. Yes, he did. He had been screaming a moment before.
“We can’t get to them! They’re surrounded at that hotel,” Halston said. “Maybe if you’d stuck around to see it through, we could have caught them before they got there.”
“And what did you hope to accomplish by wasting precious E32 for torture?” The voice sounded familiar now.
“I can get more from Simpson. And Surrey had it coming. Thinks we’re playing games. He could have marched in there days ago, got the plans, and been reunited with his team.” Halston directed the words straight at Lincoln.
Lincoln rolled over, his arms trembling when he pushed himself off the tree root. Halston and Baker stood a few feet away with the tall, dark-haired man who’d disappeared a few days ago. The man stood with his back to Lincoln, a ring of authority in his voice.
“Did you ever stop to think what would happen if he called your bluff? You would've lost him.”
“Hey!” Halston glanced at Lincoln. “Keep it down.” Halston took a step toward the man; a vein bulged in his neck.
“Or what?” The man's voice was low, quiet, dangerous. He stood his ground, unflinching, as Halston turned redder. “The game’s up. You wasted a valuable asset on a human man. What were you thinking? What have you been doing all these years, Halston?” He circled Halston like a bird circling prey. Halston turned with him, his body tense, knees bent.
“How did you manage to get this far? I think the Condarri made a mistake with you because you aren’t as clever as you should be. This human could outwit you if given the chance.”
“You're not as much like the Condarri as you'd have everyone think, Doyle.”
Doyle stopped circling, his face taut. “I’ve killed others for voicing thoughts like that. Better watch your mouth, or do you think I won’t gladly rip you apart for all the trouble you’ve started?”
Baker stood behind Doyle, eyes flitting from one man to the other. She eased out her gun, holding it by her side, waiting. Lincoln lay very close to where they were standing, and he pulled his shaky legs out of the way. Moving beyond that was impossible.
“Trouble that hasn’t hurt you at all,” continued Halston. “But you heard what I said. Maybe it’s time you answered some questions. Like what are you doing with Calla? You’ve never made that clear, and you were seen with her near the bunker a few days ago. Where did she go? Then there’s that human woman yesterday. I’ve seen her before, haven’t I? Perhaps you thought we couldn’t see you on the mountain? It seems Doyle has a weakness for human women—you were pretty cozy. Calla would love to hear about that.”
Doyle flexed his hand, but his face remained smooth. “I’m not to blame for your incompetence.”
“And yet you refuse to provide us access to what we need.”
“I thought you had everything you need. You just had to get rid of the competition.”
“And I think you enjoy your newfound power too much to share it.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“Then how does it work?” Halston straightened to his full height. His hand remained near his gun. “Maybe we need to find a new source. Simpson sounds eager.”
Doyle smiled widely, but it didn’t extend to his eyes, which remained hard. “Simpson's dead.”
“I bet you killed him. Convenient.”
“The Condarri did. All of them.”
Spurred out of silence, Baker asked, “All of them? When? How?”
Doyle glanced back at her, shifting so he could see both in his vision. “Six days ago. Or didn’t you get the order to return?”
“We did,” said Baker.
Doyle sat down next to a tree—the same one Baker had used earlier. “They’re all dead. So,” he continued, “you don’t have many options left. None, actually. It’s me, or give it up.”
Halston and Baker stood frozen in their spots, stunned. “How do you know this?” Halston asked.
“Calla still thinks I’m working with her.”
“And they’re all dead?”
“Yes.”
Lincoln’s brain struggled to keep up with the conversation. But he really couldn’t understand any of it. Halston put his hand on a tree for support.
“Pull it together, Halston,” said Doyle. “This is good for us.”
And then they all did the weird thing where they were silent but still made eye contact. When they were done, Baker made to sit down too.
“Hold it,” Doyle ordered. She stopped, half squatting, and rose again.
“Yes?”
“What were you doing at the hotel day before yesterday?”
“I needed to see who was there. We were trying to get the plans.”
“Sure you weren’t tipping off Iverson about them? Because I believe he has them now.” Doyle spoke casually, breaking the news in a calm, even tone. “You’ve known him a long time, yes?”
So that’s why Nelson didn’t turn over the plans, Lincoln thought. He didn’t have them.
Baker’s mouth hung open. Halston jumped up, glaring at Doyle. “You’re just telling us now?” Then he rounded on Baker. “Is it true?”
Baker took a step back. “No! Of course not. Why would I play both sides?” She spoke quickly, her voice trembling as she addressed Doyle. “I swear I don’t know anything about it! Search me! Do it!” She opened her arms wide as if opening herself for a full body search.
Doyle stood too. “We both know you can still lie.”
Baker backed away from the two men, her hand on her gun again. “No,” she said.
Halston pulled out his knife, but instead of advancing on Baker, he turned it on Doyle. Doyle stood still as stone. “It makes no sense,” Halston said. “If Iverson has those plans, it’s because you tipped him off, not Baker. Maybe it has something to do with that human. Maybe she helped you? What’d she do to get in good with Dar Ceylin?”
Baker pointed her gun at Doyle, the muzzle a foot from his nose. “If they’re all dead, why didn’t you and Calla die?”
“I’m not going to answer anything with that pointed at my face. Remove it or shoot me.”
Baker pushed forward, touching the gun to Doyle’s forehead. Halston, however, turned and ran, sailing through the trees like he was being pursued.
“Answer the question, Doyle!”
Baker’s dark face turned ashen, and she trembled, her gun sliding sideways to point at a tree. Lincoln couldn’t understand the sudden change until he saw Doyle twist the hilt of a knife farther into her ribcage, toward her heart.
When he yanked it out, blood gushed from her wound, soaking her Army fatigues in dark red like wine. Baker stood gaping at Doyle who knocked the weapon out of her hand before pointing his rifle at Halston scrambling down the mountain. When Doyle couldn’t get a clear shot, he glanced back at Lincoln, nodded curtly, and took off after Halston.
Lincoln looked at Baker. What had just happened? She stood, hand on a tree, her back to him. Blood covered the entire left side of her body. With all that blood, she should be dead. He could smell its coppery odor from where he sat.
Lincoln climbed to his feet. His right leg was unable to bear its usual weight, so he dragged it over to Baker. Her eyes were closed, but she was still breathing. Lincoln steadie
d himself and reached for the knife on her hip. When he unclipped the sheath, Baker’s eyelids fluttered open. Her mahogany eyes stared at Lincoln as he drew out the blade. They followed his attempt to cut the cord near his wrist. They watched as he slipped, the sharp point taking a chunk out of his flesh, blood oozing from Lincoln’s arm. Lincoln sat and squeezed the knife between his knees to run the bonds over the blade, and then he was free.
“Finish.”
Startled, Lincoln looked up at Baker.
“Last request,” she choked out.
He looked at the knife in his hand and then back into her eyes. Lincoln shook his head. “I can’t,” he said.
He turned away, barely able to raise his right foot, dragging his bum leg through the dirt. He looked back once. Baker still stood motionless against the tree with her eyes wide open. He didn’t turn again.
Day 108
THE TIP OF CALLA’S BOOT dragged across the dirt. Detached at the toe, the sole flopped under, cramming rocks and forest debris between the sole and upper every time she took a step. Going back to the Nomad for a new pair violated her orders, so she fished out the first aid kit from her pack. The white roller bandage would have to work. She cleaned out the bottom of her boot, then held the sole to the leather upper while wrapping the sticky tape around her foot, pulling it tight.
When Calla finished, her boot looked like it had suffered an injury, toe to arch completely wrapped in white bandage. She used the whole roll, tucking in the edge near her laces. The temporary fix would have to last until Doyle picked her up in the ship. Tomorrow perhaps. Or he might still be trying to make his point, in which case he would leave her out here for weeks.
Calla didn’t mind. She would continue hunting rogues until they were all dead. Their plan of turning the rogues against one another was taking too much time. Anyway, Calla preferred her hunter-prey relationship to playing mind games with the traitors.
Doyle’s unsurpassed tracking ability would have been useful to her now. Maybe they would have found all the rogues already. But if he wanted to lure them, fine. Calla would pick them off as they entered the area if they weren't warned first. She suspected the rogues knew they were being hunted as soon as they were in range of the bunker. The group down at the lodge might be warning them. Had they spotted her?
Rogues had evolved faster than Calla had anticipated. When she first hunted them, she could get in close enough to chase them down and corner them, or overtake them on the run. Now, the rogues evaded her easily. They stayed in groups, which were harder to surprise and overpower. And, most frustratingly, they had learned to mask their adarre.
Like this pack at the lodge. They never left camp alone. They used a couple of the hotel rooms at night, on separate floors, so Calla would have to beat down the doors to get to one group while exposing herself to the other group and to the humans.
She could turn sniper and pick them off from her vantage point above the lodge. She might kill two or three, but the rest would get away, using the humans as shields. Then they would be certain she was after them. That tactic would be her last resort.
She walked back to her narrow ledge and observed the parking lot again. No rogues outside, so she watched the humans. They wore various articles of mismatched, tattered clothing—jeans with holes, shirts with sleeves cut off, stains beyond removal. The clothing hung off their bodies, bony shoulders poking through thin cotton, belts tightened to the last notch holding up baggy pants. Weak.
Calla’s clothes had seen less wear. She had put them on fresh a few days ago. Her khaki pants and black t-shirt, not to mention her weapons, would cause a stir among the humans, one the rogues would not fail to recognize. Her faulty boots, with the hideous white bandage wrapped around one, could pass for a refugee’s. Except for the boots, Calla would never pass for a human refugee.
Five rogues stayed here—two males, Iverson and Gault, and three females, Morrison, Smith, and Hadley. She had watched them enough now to recognize them from their files. As Calla looked, Smith and Hadley left their room and crossed the road. They climbed over the guardrail and disappeared into the trees. If she followed, she could surprise them.
***
The shed looked different. Solomon and others had pulled out the mess and stacked it in rows outside. Mina picked her way through aisles of rusted pipe, a radiator bent and folded in half, rubber hoses cracked and brittle, a fender, and bits and hunks of metal Mina couldn’t identify.
“Solomon?” She stood in the doorway, the doors thrown open wide to let in sunlight. More junk and tools lined the narrow walls, but a two-foot section of counter had been cleared. Large bolts lay piled in the middle of the space. Mina halted, unwilling to chance stepping on something important. Anyway, Solomon was not here. She peered around the side, but the shed butted up against the mountain. He couldn’t be there either.
She needed to tell him about Evan. About the gun. If the teen hadn’t told him already. Mina gazed out around the back of the hotel. If the shed was open, he wasn’t far. She leaned against the open door and waited, the cracked wood digging into her back.
Five minutes later, Solomon rounded the lodge, carrying a jug of water. “Mornin.”
Mina stood up straight. “Good morning.”
“Heading out again?”
She gathered her thick hair and lifted it off her neck, letting the air cool her skin. “I don’t know yet. Why haven’t you hooked up the generator to the hotel?”
Solomon set the jug on the workbench and picked up a wrench. “Need more fuel. I only had a gallon last time.”
“I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Solomon shuffled around the shed, looking for something. “Okay, shoot.”
Mina cringed at his use of the word. “It’s important.”
He looked up, blue eyes flashing a look of concern.
“Okay.”
Mina inhaled deeply. “I did something I’m not proud of, and I need to tell you. But I don’t know where to begin.”
“Why do you want to confess to me?”
“It concerns you.”
A man’s voice called from behind Mina, “Hey, Solomon!” She turned to see Marty navigating the piles of metal. “We found some fuel.”
Solomon glanced at Mina. “Give us a minute, Marty?”
Marty reached the shed and stood inside the doorway, angling himself toward Mina as if to block her entrance.
She waved her hand dismissively. “We can talk later.”
Marty shrugged and walked to the counter.
Solomon said, “You sure?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “Good luck with the generator.” And she left.
Mina wasn’t surprised at Marty’s attitude, but it irritated her nonetheless. She rolled her shoulders and brought a hand up to feel the knotted muscles at the base of her neck. Marty’s behavior was typical of the lodger’s attitude regarding strangers. Despite their initial warm welcome, they now treated her with caution. Somehow Mina, Alvarez, Nelson, and Carter had been classified together as untrustworthy.
I am untrustworthy, she thought. She’d pointed a loaded gun at a fifteen-year-old boy. She knew about alien-human hybrids living in their midst and hadn’t told a soul about them. She had been deep inside the silo with one of them. And Mina had hidden the fact she’d survived all these months with the help of one of these hybrids, and injected Carter with an unknown substance of hybrid engineering.
Maybe she shouldn’t tell Solomon what had happened with Evan. He would ask questions, and she would have to relate the conversation leading up to the incident. Then he would ask questions about Iverson. Why he wanted to go to the silo. Mina would have to lie, and she didn’t know what to say.
If Solomon told Mina to leave, he would be right in doing so. But Doyle had told her to stay put. Mina had tossed and turned all night, finally resolving this morning to tell Solomon. But her resolve had wavered at Marty’s appearance.
Coward.
Mina sighed. What
would Doyle do? But Doyle wouldn’t be in this situation at all. He would have kept his mouth shut around Evan, like I should have done in the first place.
Mina ignored the camp and walked to the guardrail. Maybe later she would have Alvarez or Nelson go for a hike with her to check her traps. She'd promised Doyle and Carter she wouldn’t wander off on her own. Alvarez and Nelson weren’t exactly who she would choose if she got into trouble, but their presence reduced her risk of being caught alone in the woods.
She also needed to find Emily. She hadn’t seen her for several days now. Mina pushed down the urge to grab her bag and take off on a search through the woods. She’d promised to stay put. So she leaned against the guardrail, the temporary edge of her world, and watched the trees.
Movement to her right caught her eye, and she turned. Two female rogues—Smith and Hadley—were climbing over the rail further down, their backpacks heavy with supplies. They slipped silently into the trees and disappeared. Maybe they’re leaving, she thought. But she’d hoped that before, and they had returned.
“Hey.”
Mina turned, jumping at the voice so close behind her. Nelson stood there. His shoulders slumped more than usual. His pale face was whiter than she’d ever seen it, and his bloodshot eyes looked hollow.
“Did I startle you?” he asked.
“A little. You feeling alright?”
“I’m fine,” he said. He looked out over the valley. “You have a minute?”
Mina followed his gaze. “I have lots of time these days.”
“Still think Lincoln will find this place?”
“I hope so.”
“Mina.”
She turned to him. Nelson’s eyes bulged, and he cleared his throat. Mina picked at her fingernail, her heart rate speeding up at his strange behavior. “Everything okay?”
“I hate all of this. Hate we were brought here. I feel so helpless.”
“You and me both. But without the Lab’s connection with the Army, I never would have been on that plane. I’m glad I’m here where there’s a chance of finding him.”
