by Aaron Hodges
“What? Can’t a girl enjoy an early flight to stretch her wings?”
Now it was Liz’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “What is it, Jasmine?” she pressed. “What’s happened?”
Jasmine shrugged and spread her wings. They stretched out to fill the alley, her emerald feathers catching in the first rays of daylight. “I’ll explain on the way,” she grinned. “You’re not going to like it.”
Then she was lifting off, the downward beat of her wings sending garbage swirling around the alleyway, and all Liz could do was leap after her.
Chapter 1
Sam’s wings creaked as he settled himself down on the smooth granite surface. The stone was slick beneath his feet, still wet from the night’s dew, and he took a moment to balance himself before glancing around. The top of the obelisk formed a half pyramid, with the tip sliced flat rather than the usual point. He supposed someone had suggested the change to differentiate Independence Square from the Washington Monument—although by then that old relic must have been long gone, burned away by the nuclear blast that had engulfed the American capital almost two decades ago.
Skyscrapers stretched up around the obelisk, their silent glass walls staring down at Sam’s solitary perch atop the obelisk. Absently, he wondered if today would be the day someone finally noticed him, but he doubted it. He had been coming here for weeks now, winging his way through the skies before the dawn’s light broke over the city. He found it was a good place to think, to watch and listen to the activity taking place below in Independence square. With his enhanced senses, he had little trouble viewing the crowd, while it would be all but impossible for those below to spot him perched seven hundred feet above them.
Looking down, he scanned the crowds of people, wondering how the world had spiralled so out of control. Thousands of refugees packed the square, camping out on the cold tiles, beneath the trees surrounding the obelisk, on the sidewalks and benches—wherever they could find a hint of shelter. They had come from all across California, from small rural towns and villages, fleeing the scourge of the Chead. Rumours abounded of great packs of the creatures roaming the countryside, driving people from their homes, slaughtering them with wanton abandon. Desperate and afraid, those who’d survived had abandoned their homes and fled to the one place they believed would be safe.
San Francisco.
Of course, their plight had made them easy targets for the government draft, and thousands of youth had already been conscripted into the army. Many even went willingly, still believing the official story that Texas was behind the spread of the Chead virus.
Those below were the ones who had escaped selection—those too old or young to be of use. But having finally arrived, they now found themselves shunned by a city unmoved by their plight. Ruled by their fear, the urbanites had slammed their doors in the faces of their fellow citizens, denying them sanctuary. No one wanted to risk inviting a soon-to-be Chead into their home.
So, homeless and alone, the refugees gathered in the streets and parks, making a home for themselves wherever they could.
But watching the first of them stir below, Sam couldn’t help but think they might be the lucky ones. It was the fate of their children that worried him, that kept him up at night, haunting his dreams.
Because he knew all too well what the government was capable of, what they would do with all those young bodies. Halt might be dead, but the Praegressus Project lived on. Sam had seen to that. Somewhere out there, in the mountains, beneath the earth, somewhere, the experiments continued.
How many of the conscripted youth would find themselves in cages, instead of the battlefields?
He closed his eyes, shivering as Ashley’s words echoed through his mind.
Halt used me, Sam. He used me to get to you. If any other kids die in their vile experiments, it will be my fault as much as yours. We have to stop them, before they hurt anyone else.
Gritting his teeth, Sam slowly lowered himself down onto the cold granite. Dangling his legs out over the side, he tried to ignore the awful pain in his chest. How long had it been now, since that fateful day? Three weeks? Four?
He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, trying to keep the tears from his eyes. Hard as it was, he had to move on, had to focus on living. It was the only way he would find the strength he needed to fulfil Ashley’s final wish—to put an end to the government’s vile experiments. Since recovering from his bullet wound, spreading the truth about the government’s role in creating the Chead had become an obsession.
Not that it mattered—apart from the Mad Women and their limited allies, he was pretty sure everyone else thought he was mad.
I miss you, Ash.
He cast the thought out into the void, wondering if somewhere out there, she might be thinking the same. Yet in his heart, he knew it was impossible. He had held out hope for days after the university massacre. After everything they had been through—the trials and the torture, the bullet wounds and imprisonment, how could it be true?
Yet, as the days had turned to weeks, the only story that emerged had been that two fugitives involved in the attack on the university had been killed by government operatives. They’d plastered Ashley and Chris’s faces all over the television, as the Director crowed of their demise.
And beside her, as always, with his trustworthy face and easy smile, was the translator Jonathan. He would nod along to everything the woman said, before stepping up to play his role in their little act. With teary eyes he would explain how hard the government was working to bring his family’s murderers to justice, how much it meant to him to see their deaths avenged.
It made Sam sick to his stomach to think he’d ever trusted the man.
Even so, he was finally forced to admit the truth. If Ashley had been captured, the Director would have happily staged an execution for the whole world to see.
No, Ashley was gone, her life snuffed out, as if it had never been.
If only I had been there…
Even as the thought rose, he forced it back down. Wallowing in regret would get him nowhere. With the bullet wound in his leg, he had been in no state to go with them. He would have only been a liability. If he’d joined them, none of them would have gotten out alive.
Sam sat up as the tone of the whispering voices below changed. Leaning out over the edge, he watched as a group of old women made their way through the crowd. His heart lifted as the Mad Women returned to their station around the base of the obelisk. In silence, they began their solemn march, eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring the soldiers stirring around the square. The green-uniformed men readjusted their rifles and looked around, but they made no move to intercept the protestors.
Since the official story about the attack on the monument had painted the Mad Women as innocent victims, the group had returned to their march in force. And with hundreds of refugees packing the park as witnesses, there was little the government could do to stop them. Only the women still on the wanted list stayed away—such as Chris’s grandmother, Maria.
Their courage gave Sam hope that things might still change. Yet their defiance had not come without cost. With the prospect of open war with Texas on the horizon, few citizens were willing to stand with them. Even the refugees below, persecuted as they were, directed their hatred at the Texans, for the plague the Lonestar State had supposedly unleashed on their lives. It was a strategy the President and his people had used successfully in the past, and without a way to prove his involvement with the Chead, there was little they could do to counter it.
Still, Sam wasn’t about to give up without a fight. Swinging his backpack from his shoulders, he unpacked the shortwave radio and placed it on the granite surface. He quickly looked over the steel box, making sure it was still in one piece, and then picked up the transmitter. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Each morning he had been broadcasting to anyone who would listen, although he had no way of knowing how many that might be. He could be talking to ghosts for all he knew.
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Clearing his throat, Sam lifted the transmitter and began to speak. “Good morning, America! Testing, testing, one…two…three. Is anybody out there? Hey, isn’t that a song about a war? Someone with the internet look that up for me…” he paused and then laughed, “Yeah, that’s what I thought, phonelines are dead. Guess you’re all in bed still or something. Come on, it’s only…oh my god it’s 6am, maybe I should go back to bed myself.”
Standing, Sam moved to the edge of the flat surface at the tip of the obelisk. He still held the transmitter, its long cord stretching out behind him. “On second thought, it’s a beautiful morning here in San Fran. Why don’t you make a start to the day instead? There’s a lot of people here in Independence Square who’ve had a hard night’s sleep—come down and see for yourself! Or are you still listening to our noble dictator’s wild tales of covert soldiers and foreign spies?”
Sam sighed audibly into the microphone. “Yeah, thought so. Sad to think we’ve all become such sceptical creatures. Time was, a madman could claim he would build a 2000-mile-long wall and we’d believe him. Maybe I should ask the President for an interview…think he’d let me talk this time? Haven’t you wondered why I never said anything, standing there beside him with my wings out, like some pet chimp?”
He paused, remembering that day on the stage, the crowds thronging the streets around Fisherman’s Wharf. What if he’d said something then? If he’d stepped forward and told them all it was all a scam.
Don’t look back. Nodding to himself, he took a breath and forged on.
“I was in Independence Square too, when the attack went down. But I wasn’t fighting for the government. I took a bullet fighting off their soldiers, protecting the widows of our veterans. Just come down and ask the Mad Women, they’ll tell you the truth.”
Releasing the transmit button, he chuckled softly to himself. No doubt to anyone listening, he was coming off as stark-raving-mad. “Still not convinced? How about if I told you the government were behind the Chead? That they created them twenty years ago, and have been using them ever since to control us? What’s that? You think I’m crazy? That I should be locked up in a mental asylum?”
He paused to take a breath and then continued, “Too bad, budget cuts got rid of ‘em all. Guess a shift in Alcatraz will have to do. Maybe I’ll fly over and hand myself in. That’s right, I have wings remember?”
Taking a break, he leaned out over the edge and felt a touch of vertigo despite the wings sprouting from his back. His lips tightened as he watched the Mad Women continue their slow march. Sadness touched him as he counted their numbers, and noted several more absentees. He shook his head, wondering where they got their courage.
Though the Director couldn’t openly act against them, that had only slowed her crusade against the group. Over the past four weeks, dozens of the Mad Women had gone missing. At first they’d thought the women had merely given up. But when their houses were found empty, it became clear something more sinister was behind their disappearances.
Yet, still the marches continued. Some had taken refuge in safehouses dotted throughout the city, but most refused to be driven from their homes. They stood in open defiance against the threat of violence—and paid for it with their lives.
Sam bit his lip as he lifted the microphone again, taking on a more serious tone. “Look, I know you have no reason to believe a disembodied voice on the radio. Heck, a few months ago I would have been at the head of the cue baying for my blood. But I’m telling you, every word I’ve said is true. I know you don’t want to believe it, that you want to stay safe in your own little world, ignoring the voices outside screaming for help. But it won’t work. They’re coming for us, for all of us, and whether you stay in your bubble or not, one day it’ll be your turn. So come down to Independence Square, look at what’s happening here. Speak to the Mad Women, listen to their stories. And decide for yourself what the truth is.” As he finished speaking, Sam sucked in a long breath and switched off the short-wave.
Suddenly exhausted by his outburst, he sat down too quickly and almost slid off the side of the pyramid. When he recovered, he leaned forward and placed his head in his hands, feeling the oil in his long brown hair. He really needed a haircut, but there had been no time to keep up with things like personal grooming. His palms brushed the soft fuzz of his beard, and he wondered briefly what Ashley would have thought of it.
Laying on his back, he rested his head against the cold stone and closed his eyes. Despite his weariness, he fought the pull of sleep. It wasn’t safe to stay here—especially not in daylight. He had to leave, had to return to the safehouse before it got any brighter. Even so, he was loath to desert his friends below.
His ears twitched, catching the faint whisper of wings from overhead. Looking around, he watched as Mira’s small form settled down beside him. Her mismatched blue and green eyes watched him closely as she folded her slate-grey wings behind her back. The wind gusted around her, lashing at her grey hair until she reached up and pushed it to the side.
“What are you doing here, Mira?” Sam asked, sitting up. “You could have been spotted.”
Mira stood on the edge of the obelisk and stared down at the crowd below. “They don’t see good,” she commented, shaking her head. “What are you doing…up here?”
Sam sighed. “Thinking. Watching.” He forced a smile. “What about you, Mira? To what do I owe the honour?”
“Honour?” Mira’s brow creased as she crossed back to where he lay. Seating herself, she folded her legs. “What do you mean, honour?”
Sam sighed. “Never mind.” He waved a hand. “I just meant, what brings you up here? My captivating radio show?”
Mira wrinkled her nose. “Liz is more fun.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Just because she spends her nights beating up soldiers…” he trailed off as he saw the glimmer in Mira’s eyes. He scowled as a mischievous smile spread across the girl’s face. “Okay, troublemaker, what’s the news?”
“Not supposed to say.” Smiling, she lay back and looked at the sky. “Secret.”
“So what are you doing here?” he sighed. Sometimes talking with the strange girl was like conversing with a brick wall.
Mira had lifted her feet until they were perpendicular to her hips, but now they flicked back down, her wings extending at the same time to propel her to her feet. Sam looked at her with raised eyebrows, waiting for a response.
Instead, she wandered back to the edge. “You have to promise…not to get mad,” she glanced back at him, “that’s what Jasmine said.”
Groaning, Sam slowly lifted himself to his feet. “I promise.”
“Good.” Mira smiled, her face lighting up like Christmas. “Let’s go.”
Straightening, she stretched her wings. She crouched at the edge of the obelisk, but before she could take off something below caught her attention. “Oh,” she murmured, and then cast a sheepish glance over her shoulder, “I think…they’ve seen us now.”
Sam muttered a choice curse under his breath as he heard the first shout carry up to them. Moving to stand beside Mira, he shook his head. Below, the soldiers at the edge of the square were gesturing up at them. Several began pushing their way through the crowd towards the obelisk, as though that would somehow bring them closer to the two winged fugitives seven hundred feet above them.
Scowling, Sam glanced at Mira. “Brat,” he muttered, but she only grinned back at him.
“Shall we go?”
Chapter 2
Mike’s head whipped back with an audible thud as the guard’s fist slammed into his forehead. He slumped forward in the chair, blood dripping from his cracked lips, a faint moan whispering up from his emaciated chest. Before he could recover, the guard swung again, a left hook that caught the imprisoned Texan in the jaw and sent him reeling sideways. Only the steel shackles strapping Mike to the chair kept him from tumbling out.
Chris watched on, a silent spectator to the Texan’s torture. A steel helmet with a f
ull-faced visor darkened Chris’s vision, concealing his face, and the skin-tight polyester uniform he wore made him a clone to the other guards standing around the room. Only the wings sprouting from his back gave him away. Those, and the steel collar strapped tight around his neck.
On the opposite side of the room, Ashley stood in a matching outfit. The sleek black material clung to her body, revealing the tension in her arms as she clenched her fists. The suits they wore left little to the imagination. Red hair tumbled down the back of her helmet, and her wings were half-spread, the slightest of tremors running through her white feathers. Around her neck, the steel collar reflected the harsh glow of the overhead lights.
In the chair positioned in the middle of the room, Mike coughed blood as the guard punched him in the stomach. Chris’s heart went out for him. In the four weeks since their capture, Chris had watched Mike wilt before his eyes. Now his bronzed Texan skin had faded to grey, and it seemed a man in his sixties sat in the chair, rather than the youthful thirty-year-old who had bounded around the safehouse back in San Francisco.
Even so, Chris made no move to help him. He had learned in his first week it was every man for himself here. Even while Chris’s wing and ribs were still healing, the Director had brooked no disobedience. No transgression, however small, went unpunished. And while she lacked Doctor Halt’s deranged taste for violence, she was well versed in the art of breaking men—mind and body.
She stood beside Chris now, arms folded, watching the Texan with a disinterested frown. But as the guard stepped up to continue his assault, she lifted a hand. Striding past the retreating guard, she came to a stop over the Texan. Her thin frame moved with an overt confidence, her authority over the room unquestioned. Hazel eyes stared down at Mike, her short blond hair carefully dyed and styled to mask her age. Crouching beside the chair, she took a handkerchief from her pocket and gently dabbed at the blood dribbling down the Texan’s bearded chin.
