by David Estes
“It makes sense,” Minda says. “I mean, it makes sense to someone like Jarrod who’s willing to do anything to succeed in his mission.”
“Even killing a Slip? The very type of person he’s vowed to help?” Simon asks.
Benson remembers Jarrod’s knife at his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Even that.”
They sit in silence for a moment, until Janice says, “Jarrod was nice until he wasn’t.”
Benson almost wants to laugh at the simplicity of the statement. At the truthfulness. How many other similar statements could be made that encapsulate the beauty and horror of life? Thousands, Benson thinks. But only his mother would think to make them.
He also thinks of Check and Rod and Gonzo and Geoffrey still being with the Lifers. They’ll be safe there, he recognizes. They are nothing to Jarrod and his cause. He has no reason to hurt them. None at all.
His mind moves on to the next puzzle. The guy that saved them. “How did that guy manage to become a Hunter if he doesn’t believe in population control?” he questions aloud. “Who is he?”
“I think I can answer that,” Minda says.
All eyes, even Janice’s, flick to hers.
“Although I’ve never met that man before, I know him only by the alias SamAdams, eight characters on a screen, no spaces,” she says. “He’s part of a small consortium who has pledged to reinvent the RUSA government. I’m also part of this group. They know me as ShirleyTemple.”
~~~
Hours later, long after the last few wispy snowflakes settle on the ground, Benson, his mother, and the others reach Saint Louis. Although Benson expects to feel like a stranger amongst the drab, gray buildings, he doesn’t. He immediately feels at home, a sensation that’s as foreign as it is unexpected. He’s never had a home, not really.
Minda told them almost everything while they hiked northwestward toward the city. About the four-person consortium. About their secret online meetings. About how each of them plays a specific role within one of the major fixtures in the deadly game they find themselves in: Minda implanted herself in the Lifers, to keep track of the rebellion; SamAdams, obviously, lied his way into Pop Con so he can gather intel on their enemy; two others, known as JoseCuervo and BloodyMary, infiltrated the mayor’s office and the press, respectively.
Together they seek to quietly take down the current government and the Department of Population Control.
Easier said than done.
However, long after Minda has answered all of their questions, Benson suspects she’s holding something back. Something vitally important. Something that might answer his most important question: Why has he just found himself in contact with not one, but two of the members of the consortium? Two members who have helped protect him and his family at a great risk to themselves. He’s just one Slip—not important in the greater scheme of things, maybe more valuable in death than in life, as Jarrod seemed to think.
But Benson doesn’t ask Minda any of that. He’d rather her not know that he knows she’s hiding something. Instead, he files the information away and focuses on the task at hand. Finding Harrison and Destiny, who he hopes are still okay and have not yet succeeded in their mission to kill his Death Match. He can’t have another death on his hands, no matter what it could mean for his own life.
As they discussed during their hike, the starting point for their search is obtaining a black market holo-screen. Minda hasn’t checked in with the consortium in hours, and the fact that she came face to face with one of their members doesn’t mean he knew who she was. For all they know, she might be dead. She needs to assure them that she’s not. Plus, with their respective resources there’s a good chance they’ll be able to help them locate Benson’s brother.
Finding a holo-screen on the shady outskirts of the city is easy enough. In fact, Minda manages it on her own, leaving them in an alley behind a Dumpster while she tries a few known black market hotspots. She doesn’t want too many people—especially someone as large as Simon—to scare off potential sellers. On the fourth attempt she returns with a small, flat device and a grin. “Cost me sixteen grand, but it’s a recent model,” she says.
“You have that kind of money just sitting around?” Benson asks.
“Perhaps,” is all Minda says.
She fires up the device and logs into an account that is clearly fake, under yet another identity—Samantha Smith.
“Who are you?” Benson asks, slightly in awe of her.
“Minda,” she says, curling one side of her lips.
She speaks a series of commands within some type of a security program that cycles through various questions and passwords, and then she enters a chat room where a discussion appears to be already in full swing. “Private Forum for Agriculturists, by invite only” it reads at the top.
“This is it?” Benson says, somewhat underwhelmed. Could this unimpressive chat room really be the key to saving his brother?
“No one would suspect an intellectual agriculturist chat room to be a threat to the government,” Minda says, scanning the conversation for anything of importance.
Benson does the same, shocked to see a lengthy description of the exact events that transpired in the snow field, including their rescue. Names are replaced with initials, BK and JK for Benson Kelly and Janice Kelly, but there’s no doubt as to who is telling the tale: the Hunter who saved them. His screen name is SamAdams, just as Minda had suspected.
When Benson gets to the bottom, the last message reads:
JoseCuervo: ShirleyTemple? Is that you?
Benson looks at Minda and she smiles an I-told-you-so smile. She starts typing and Benson and Simon track the discussion on either side of her while Janice taps two knuckles on the Dumpster, giggling whenever a hollow echo rings out.
ShirleyTemple: It’s me.
JoseCuervo: You’re okay?
ShirleyTemple: I’m fine. I was injured in the attack and my holo was destroyed. But I’m back now.
SamAdams: Thank God. There have been some developments since we last heard from you.
ShirleyTemple: Thanks for saving my life.
SamAdams: ……..
BloodyMary: What is she talking about?
SamAdams: That was you?
ShirleyTemple: Yes.
SamAdams: ShirleyTemple was the woman in my story travelling with BK and JK and LC.
“Who’s LC?” Simon demands. “Is that supposed to be me?”
“Large Canadian,” Minda says. “Sorry, I made up the nickname a while ago.” She starts tapping another message while Simon mutters something under his breath.
ShirleyTemple: Everyone is okay. I’ll protect the key.
SamAdams: That was too close. The key was almost killed. Are we sure the key is safe?
Benson’s heart skips a beat. The key was almost killed. Right away, he knows who they’re referring to: him.
“I’m the key,” he says.
Minda says nothing. Stares at the screen, waiting for the next message.
“What does that mean?” he asks.
She says nothing. Words appear on the screen but they turn to fuzz amidst his confusion. “Tell me,” he says. Then louder, grabbing Minda by the shoulder: “TELL ME!”
Her head jerks up, her eyes meeting his. “It means we have to protect the key so we can find out what it’ll open,” she says, twisting away from him. “Now get your hands off of me so we can figure out where your brother is.”
All fight leaves Benson as he processes this new information. He stops his mother from tapping on the Dumpster, holding her hand while her bright, curious eyes study his face. Everything fades away except her and him, mother and son. He’s the key. To what? he wonders.
It’s as if a lifetime of mysteries has led him to this single moment, a mountainous summit built on boulders full of secrets and questions, where finally a boy who’s lived half of his life without a name is a hairsbreadth from understanding who he really is.
Minda’s voice shatters his th
oughts into speckles of light that seem to shimmer in the gloomy alley. No, not his thoughts. The reflections are from a broken glass bottle, likely chucked aside by some wino. Is everything in his life an illusion? “Got it,” she says. “I know where your Death Match is.”
Who Benson really is skitters away from him like a speck of dust blown in the breeze, forgotten immediately as he focuses on his twin. “Lead the way,” he says, pulling his mother to her feet.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
His world has dissolved into a dark red tapestry of pain, fog, and oblivion.
Harrison wakes up from what he thinks is a nightmare only to find that the real nightmare is standing right in front of him, playing with a pair of razor-sharp shears. “How’s your hand?” the Destroyer asks.
When he glances down at his hand, he’s surprised to find it bandaged tightly with thick white cloth. A spot of red bleeds through from the center of his palm.
“We couldn’t have you bleeding out on us,” the Destroyer says. “At least not until you give us what we need.”
“You’ll get nothing,” Harrison mutters, but it comes out barely more than a whisper.
“What was that?” the Destroyer says, holding a hand to his ear. “New rule. You don’t speak unless you’re giving me information.”
“You want information?” Harrison says, pain and anger kindling a growing fire within him. “Here’s a tidbit: If you untie me I’ll take your fist and shove it so far down your throat you’ll start digesting it.”
As he watches a wave of fury roll across the Destroyer’s face, Harrison wonders why he can’t seem to be a little smarter. Benson wouldn’t be insulting his torturer—he’d be reasoning with him, coming up with some clever way to survive longer. Harrison is only speeding up his own demise.
The Destroyer grabs Harrison’s other hand and bends a single finger—his pinky—back much further than it’s meant to go. Harrison lets out a guttural cry from the back of his throat but refuses to scream, even as he feels his knuckles pop in two places and hears the cringe-worthy sound of his bone snapping in half.
After that, he’s not sure exactly what kind of sound he’s making—something low and guttural and wet with spittle—only that it doesn’t sound human, like perhaps he’s possessed by a demon.
The Destroyer laughs, throwing back his shoulders and cackling at the ceiling, enjoying the act of torture like some comedy holo-film. When he’s had a good long laugh, he says, “Tell me where your brother is.”
“Go. To. Hell,” Harrison says.
“Wrong answer,” the Destroyer says, bringing the metal shears together quickly, like a shark snapping at a fish. He slides them past his broken finger to his ring finger, the metal cutting into his skin on either side.
“No,” Harrison says.
“Tell me.”
“Please.” He hates the way he sounds, like he’s begging. Which he is.
“Tell me.”
He won’t. He can’t. He owes his brother for the life he stole from him. Owes him everything, including his own life, if it comes to that. He says nothing.
Snap! The shears come together with a shrieking finality. Harrison howls, clamping his eyes shut and seeing spots flashing all over the inside of his eyelids—red and white, red and white.
They fade to all-consuming blackness.
~~~
His body still humming with adrenaline and excitement, the Destroyer exits the room until his prisoner regains consciousness.
Corrigan Mars is waiting for him. “He doesn’t fear you,” he says, without kindness. “You’re taking too long.”
“He’ll fear me,” the Destroyer says, biting down on the words. “He’ll tell me everything. Give me time.”
“There’s a reason we’re doing this off the books in this hellhole. We need information fast. As soon as word leaks—and it will—that we have the Slip’s brother, the people will start asking why we don’t have the Saint Louis Slip himself yet. They’ll start questioning my leadership.”
“There won’t be a leak,” the Destroyer says. “You told me you readjusted the memories of the five Crows that brought him in.”
“I did.”
“Then what’s the risk? That I talk? That you talk?”
Mars’s jaw tightens. “The tip came from Chuck Boggs. Considering who his father is, he’s untouchable. And he’s a kid. Kid’s talk.”
“No one’s untouchable,” the Destroyer growls.
“He is,” Corr says, finality clear in his tone.
The Destroyer laughs. “To think I once looked up to you.”
Corr’s eyes narrow and for a moment he thinks his boss might hit him. “Watch it.”
The threat is there, and the Destroyer is smart enough to know when to pull back. “I said give me time. I’ll get the information you need.”
“We don’t have time. Once again, you disappoint me.”
The Destroyer opens his mouth in rebuttal, but Mars waves a hand to silence him. He clamps his lips together and waits.
“Perhaps some of your failings are my fault,” Mars says. “Perhaps I haven’t instructed you well enough. This world you live in…it’s all you’ve ever known. I don’t think you fully appreciate the importance of what we’re doing.”
“I do,” Domino says, but Mars continues on as if he hasn’t heard him.
“When you were born, the Rise and the Fall were over, just another piece of history. The border walls were already up, protecting us from countries that would start a war over food and resources. The Atlantic seaboard had already vanished, buried under millions of gallons of seawater, dumped on us by melting icecaps and freakish tsunamis. Population control laws were already in place to protect you from starvation. Your world was relatively stable.” Mars pauses and the Destroyer lets it all sink in. A sudden pang of jealousy hits him. He wishes he was born earlier, when the world was falling apart. Something about the chaos that would’ve ensued interests him—no, more than that: excites him. Stimulates him. In comparison, his world seems dull and mundane, with only the Sliphunt and boring old torture to entertain himself with.
Mars continues. “I lived through the worst of it—your parents would have, too. The panic as entire cities—entire states—were wiped out, as if they never existed in the first place. Highways jam-packed with refugees, most of whom didn’t make it. Those who were lucky enough to flee inland far enough to avoid the floods were destroyed by their fellow humans, reduced to barely more than animals, killing for a stale loaf of bread or a swig of drinkable water.
“I was just a boy living in Philadelphia when it happened, well outside of the flood zones, but well within the evacuation area, where people lost their minds. Looting. Rioting. Murder. Bodies in the streets. Martial law. Human killing human. Fellow citizen killing fellow citizen, the worst since the Civil War, hundreds of years ago. I witnessed the terror that causes people to do horrible things. Starvation and dehydration make people crazy. My father was killed protecting us and getting us to safety. My uncle and aunt, too. My grandmother, confined to a wheelchair, was left behind. My dog, too. I loved them both and I hated my mother for years because of it.
“But all the loss only made me stronger. It sculpted me into the pragmatist I became. When the country had been restructured and rebuilt and the population boom began a decade later, I was a few years older than you and already discussing the notion of population control and rationing of resources within small circles. It made sense. Lobbyists like us pushed ideas in front of lawmakers, all backed by facts and figures, and at first they brushed us aside. For years they said we were extremists and that the general public would never go for what we were suggesting.”
Although the Destroyer learned much of this story in school, never has he felt the truth of it so deep in his chest. An eye-witness account from someone on the cutting edge of positive change. A pioneer. For a moment he puts aside his anger at his master to expand his own knowledge. “What happened?”
“Th
e population crept higher. Supermarket shelves became emptier. Food shipments were getting hijacked and sold at a premium on the black market. Left unchecked, we would’ve bred ourselves to extinction. My group and a few others like us received an audience with government leaders. This time they listened to every word. A bill was introduced. Human rights activists, of course, jumped all over it, labeling it as the worst tragedy since slavery. But popular opinion was already slanted in our favor. All the empty bellies across the country guaranteed that. The first Population Control Decree was passed and the Department of Population Control created.
“We saved the world,” Mars finishes, spreading his hands out to either side with a grand flourish.
“And we have to keep saving it,” the Destroyer says.
“Every single day. You don’t respect this world because you inherited it. You think you’re entitled to it. Your thinking has to change. You have no more right to this world than the Saint Louis Slip.” The Destroyer’s fist clenches at the notion, but Mars doesn’t seem to notice. “Not if you don’t respect what you’ve been given, what we’ve created for you. Earn your right to live. Hunt Slips and UnBees for the right reasons, not because of some sick desire to kill. Then maybe I won’t need to use this on you ever again.” He holds up the device that’s somehow linked to the Destroyer’s circuit board.
“I’ll respect this world. And he’ll talk,” the Destroyer growls, taking a stride forward.
Corrigan Mars holds the device higher. “I dare you to take one more step.”
The Destroyer remembers how helpless he felt as the electricity coursed through him. How pitiful he was as a string of drool tethered his mouth to the ground. Never again. Not if he can help it.
“When he wakes up again, he’ll talk,” the Destroyer promises.
Mars nods. “Prove it. Focus on the location of the surviving Lifers.”
“Sir?” Domino says, frowning. “We need to find the Saint Louis Slip.”
