by Aaron Hodges
“Rubbish,” Sam snapped.
Standing, he stared into the man’s eyes until James looked away. Nodding, Sam grabbed the last stack of newspapers and began tearing it into pieces. Slowly, he fed them to the flames.
“They’re on the defensive,” Sam mused softly, “Can’t you see that? Refugees filling the streets, protestors at the heart of the nation. Dissent is spreading. We can’t let them quash it now, not when it’s just beginning.”
“Why does it have to be us?” James asked miserably.
Sam looked across at him, and for the first time saw the man’s age. He wasn’t much older than Sam’s own eighteen years. Just a boy, really. He felt a fleeting empathy for him, but they couldn’t afford weakness now.
“Because we’re here, James. Because no one else will,” he shook his head, “Because we’re the ones fate chose to make a stand. It doesn’t matter why—just that we do it. Because this is important, this fight. You all know that, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. We have to stop them, now, while they can still be stopped.”
“But they’ve already won,” another man whispered.
“No,” Sam replied firmly, “they can’t win, not while we’re still here, not so long as someone continues fighting.”
“Do you truly believe that?”
They all looked around at Jocelyn’s voice. She lay with her back against the concrete wall, her legs stretched out towards the flames, a boy asleep under each arm. Her hazel eyes pierced the shadows of the basement, watching them in the light of the fire.
Taking a breath, Sam replied. “I do.”
Jocelyn nodded, her lips tight. “Maybe if more of us had believed the same, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” her eyes drifted to her children, and she ran a hand through the youngest’s mop of hair, “It’s so easy to ignore the suffering of others, when it means protecting the ones you love. My husband never spoke much about his work, but I know it changed him. Even from the little I learned in the last few years, I knew something wasn’t right, that something was rotten.”
Sam didn’t respond. He’d heard the same story over and over, of people trapped by fear, disturbed by what they’d heard, what they’d seen, but too afraid to act. Without an independent media, without an open internet, there was little the people could do to organise themselves. Every five years they could vote, but even that was a farce. Each state chose an Elector from two candidates, but it didn’t matter which one you chose. Both inevitably elected the same President.
Only now the Mad Women’s protest in Independence Square had provided a rallying point. And bit by bit, the resistance was growing around them. So long as this setback hadn’t destroyed the fledgling movement.
“He tried to quit once, you know,” Jocelyn gave a little laugh, though it held no humour, “Only once, mind you. I’m sure the thugs would have done worse to me if he’d tried again. Not that they ever admitted who’d sent them.”
She looked up then, and Sam saw the steel in her eyes. “But maybe now’s the time we do something.”
“That was our plan,” Sam murmured. “Your husband…he told us the Director runs the new facility he was working at. He wouldn’t tell us where it was though, not until you were safe.”
A wry smile twisted Jocelyn’s lips. “Some job you’re doing,” she looked around the room, a sad smile on her lips, “He told me where it was…his lab…when we met. Just in case.”
Sam’s jaw dropped. “Where?”
Jocelyn was staring down at her boys, her eyes sad. “Whatever crimes my husband has committed, whatever crimes I’ve been a party too, they’re innocent,” she looked up at him, eyes wide, “Will you still protect them, even now?”
Glancing at the other men, Sam pursed his lips. He could promise her the world, but what position was he in to fulfil such promises now? Who knew if the resistance even existed still, after last night’s attack.
“I honestly don’t know, Jocelyn. We might be all that’s left now. If the worst has happened, and there’s no one left, I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to protect you…”
“I’ll do it,” James said from his place in the corner.
Sam looked across at them, eyebrows raised. James smiled back as the other men nodded.
“You will?” Jocelyn whispered.
“You have my word, ma’am,” James’s eyes turned to the children, “They’re just kids, after all. If we’re not fighting for them, what’s the point?”
“Thank you,” Jocelyn said, choking on the words.
Sam could hardly breathe. “Then you’ll tell us where he worked?”
Jocelyn nodded. “I will, but you’re not going to like it.”
Chapter 16
Liz sat high in the tree tops, watching as the sun made its slow climb into the sky. Its light stained the horizon red, and for a moment it seemed San Francisco’s towering skyscrapers wore a coat of blood. Shivering, Liz looked down at her hands, at the dried blood on her gloves and clothing, and fought back tears.
She had sat for half the night by Jasmine’s side, talking to her, begging her to come back, not to leave her alone. But her cries had fallen on deaf ears. Her friend was gone, her soul fled. All that remained was an empty shell, the lifeless husk of her body. Jasmine’s fight was finally over.
Now, as Liz watched the sun climb higher into the sky, she wondered about the promise she’d made to Jasmine.
Don’t lose yourself, Liz.
Closing her eyes, Liz swallowed her grief and stood. The branch swayed beneath her as she looked around. A helicopter buzzed in the distance, but otherwise the skies were clear. Fire flickered in her chest as she watched it, and she longed to tear it from the sky. But she only clenched her fists and looked away. Now was not the time to go to war.
Stepping from the branch, her wings stretched out to catch the air, and she drifted lightly down to the ground. She stumbled slightly as she alighted on the dewy grass, but recovered after a few steps. Looking around, she saw Maria watching from the shelter of the trees, Mira standing silently at her side.
Without speaking, Mira walked forward, her soft grey wings trailing behind her. As she approached, tears spilt from her multicoloured eyes. Liz opened her arms, and Mira threw herself into her embrace.
“Liz,” she sobbed.
Liz held the girl tight against her chest and nodded. “I know, Mira. I know.”
She could feel the tremors running through the girl, the silent sobs of her grief. Gently, Liz stroked Mira’s silver-grey hair, whispering soft comforts, even as tears spilt down her own cheeks. She could feel the dampness of Mira’s tears on her shirt, but made no effort to pull away. The two of them stood like that for a long time, joined in their grief for their friend.
Finally, Mira pulled away with a soft sniff. “Where’s Sam?” she croaked.
Liz bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she replied. Turning, she looked across at Maria, “Will they go to the next safehouse?”
Maria shook her head. “They don’t know where it is,” she gestured under the trees, “Come into the shelter, in case the helicopters are still out looking for us.”
Liz paused, staring into the dark shadows of the trees. Somewhere beneath the leafy branches, Jasmine’s lifeless body waited. Ice wrapped around Liz’s throat and she squeezed her eyes shut, barely able to breathe.
Suddenly a new set of arms took her—gentle, but firm—then she was burying her face in Maria’s cardigan, and all her grief and pain and fear came pouring out. It had been so long since she’d been held, since she’d allowed anyone to comfort her. Even with the long sleeves and gloves, she was terrified of the harm she might cause. Yet she needed it now, more than she could have imagined.
First it was Richard, then Ashley and Chris, now Jasmine. Maybe even Sam. She couldn’t take it, couldn’t bear the thought she might be all alone in the world. That she and Mira might be the only survivors left, from the hundreds who’d once graced the corridors of Doctor Halt’s facility.
> When they finally separated, Liz took a deep breath and looked up at Maria. The old woman’s skin wrinkled around her eyes as she smiled.
“You’re not alone, Liz,” she whispered as though she’d read Liz’s thoughts. Reaching down, she took Liz’s hand, “Come on, she’s waiting for you.”
Liz shook her head, but she made no effort to resist the old woman’s gentle tug. Breath held, Liz allowed herself to be led meekly back into the shelter of the trees.
Jasmine still lay where Liz had left her, eyes closed, black hair appearing to merge with the shadows. Somehow she seemed to have shrunk in the past few hours, as though that last memory of life had left her. Her skin had turned a pallid grey, and the sheen had gone from her emerald feathers.
An involuntary sob tore from Liz’s throat, and hot tears stung her eyes. Angrily she wiped them away.
Moving across, she knelt beside Jasmine’s body. Mira now sat cross-legged on the ground nearby, her sad eyes staring at Jasmine, as though still waiting for her to wake.
Taking off her gloves, Liz reached down and took Jasmine’s hand in hers. She shivered, surprised how quickly the warmth had fled her friend’s body. Closing her eyes, she remembered her friend as she’d been—passionate and strong, unyielding, unrelenting, never willing to backdown.
“Goodbye, Jas,” she said softly.
Liz stood then, eyes still closed. She didn’t open them until she turned away. Maria sat waiting on a log nearby, and silently Liz moved across to join her.
“I’m sorry for your friend, Liz,” Maria offered in a low voice.
Liz took a seat in front of the woman and looked up into her aging face. “Thank you, Maria,” she sighed and looked away, “Curfew’s over now. I should take you to the next safehouse.”
“That could be difficult,” Maria replied, “Given I don’t know where the safehouse is.”
“What?” Liz looked up, eyebrows raised.
Maria offered a sad smile. “You didn’t think I was going to let you go after my grandson’s killer without me, did you?”
“You were planning on coming with us?” Liz asked incredulously. When Maria only shrugged, she swore and shook her head. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, anyway. I’ll take you to Independence Square then. You can wave down some of the Mad Women when they’re leaving.”
“No,” Liz looked up at the tone in Maria’s voice. The old woman was staring off into the distance, to some unseen place beyond the tree branches. “I’m not going back,” she continued.
Liz shifted nervously on the leaf-strewn ground. “I don’t understand. Where will you go?”
Lifting the handgun from the log beside her, Maria drew back the rack and released it, chambering a round. “I had it in mind to kill the woman who murdered my grandson.”
Liz blinked. “And how do you intend to do that?”
A smile spread the wrinkles across Maria’s cheeks. “So you didn’t hear the last thing Doctor Jones said, before he died?”
“What?” Liz shook her head. Her heart began to hammer.
Laughing, Maria set aside the gun and lifted the grenade belt. There were still five grenades attached to the leather strap. “I know where the Director is hiding,” she said with a grin.
Liz’s chest tightened. “Where?”
Maria shook her head, her face turning serious. “It won’t be easy, getting to her. You and Mira will have to carry me.”
“Carry you?” Liz said, confused, “But…you can’t come.”
It was Maria’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “And why not?” she said archly.
Liz blanked. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Finally, she managed to stammer. “You’re…you’re too old!”
To her surprise, Maria threw back her head and laughed. Liz winced, but after a few seconds the laughter died away and Maria wiped tears from her eyes. “Oh, my dear,” she said, “you don’t pull your punches, do you?”
Not having an answer, Liz decided it was best to keep her mouth shut this time.
Maria chuckled again. “You’re right, of course,” she still held the grenades in her hand, and the handgun lay on the log beside her, “but then, you would have never made it out of the house without me.”
“Yes, but–”
“They trained us all to be soldiers, you know?” Maria spoke over her objection, “Back in the war. The men all went off to battle, but we never knew what would happen next, if the US would send troops behind the front lines to invade the cities. So even us regular citizens had to train, to ready ourselves, in case the fight came to us.”
Liz let out a long sigh. “You’ll only hold me back, Maria. Even the men back at the safehouse, they would only slow me down.”
“Perhaps,” Maria replied, “But then, this fight won’t be won by brawn alone. The Director is cunning, ruthless. Do you really intend to take her on, all by yourself?”
“I won’t be alone,” Liz nodded at Mira, “You think she’d let me go without her?”
At that Mira looked across at them. Standing, she wandered across and sat herself in Liz’s lap. After a few seconds of wriggling, she leaned in against Liz’s chest and closed her eyes.
“We’ll make them pay, Liz,” she murmured sleepily.
Smiling, Liz stroked the soft down of Mira’s wings. “We will, kid.”
“I think you’ll find I’m just as stubborn as that one,” Maria said into the silence that followed.
Liz looked up into Maria’s eyes. A long moment stretched out as they held each other’s gaze, testing one another’s resolve. Finally, Liz sighed. In truth, she didn’t want to go alone. She prayed Sam was still out there somewhere, but she had no idea how to find him. Trying to would take precious time—time they didn’t have. Every day they waited was another chance they gave the government to wipe them out.
Even so, bringing Maria wasn’t an option. Chris would have her head if she let his grandmother walk into the middle of a government stronghold.
“Maria, I can’t…Chris…”
“Is gone,” Maria spoke over her objection. Reaching out, she gripped Liz by the arm. “Don’t you see, Liz? I have to do this. I’ve lost everything because of that woman—my home, my daughter, now my grandson. I have nothing left to lose. So let me do this. Let me do something to put things right. If I have to die, let my death have meaning,” she smiled then, “Besides, you might need someone with a cool head if you’re going to break into The Rock.”
It took several seconds for the old woman’s words to sink in. Liz stared at Maria, her mouth hanging open, a chill spreading through her chest. Her fingers dug into the cold dirt as she struggled to steady herself. She shook her head.
“You’re saying…you’re saying the Director is in Alcatraz?”
Maria grinned. “Aren’t you glad you’ll have company?”
Chapter 17
Chris staggered to a stop as a wave of putrid air struck him like a blow. Bending in two, he struggled to breathe through his mouth as a keen wailing carried through the open door. Ahead, even the Director had halted, overwhelmed by the sight that greeted her. Only the man beside her seemed unaffected.
Striding past the massive steel door, the President surveyed the rows of cells before turning back to stare at them. His jaw clenched and anger flashed in his hazel eyes as he glared at the Director. Despite his greying hair, his skin was unmarked by age, and there was no mistaking the power he carried in his massive shoulders. This was a man who ruled with an iron fist, who over twenty years as President had faced challenges from friend and foe alike, and left them all for dead.
He was not a man you crossed lightly.
Watching him now, Chris couldn’t help but think the Director’s position was suddenly teetering on the brink of oblivion.
“Seventy five percent mortality, you said?” the President growled.
The Director’s face was pale, and she was still struggling to recover from the stench. Chris had never seen her so rattled, but sucking
in a breath, she pushed the hair back from her face and nodded. “Yes.”
“Halt’s mortality rate was forty percent,” he murmured, his voice so low even Chris had to strain to hear him. “What happened?”
Swallowing, the Director glanced around, as though searching for someone to blame. “The doctors in his facility…they modified the virus before the Chead came. They thought they’d managed to prevent the host’s immune systems from rejecting the virus. But the modifications, they…” grimacing, she gestured at the cellblock, apparently lost for words.
Nodding, the President turned and started down the hallway, leaving the rest of them to catch up. The Director trotted after him, Chris and Ashley following close behind.
“They were correct—the virus was undetectable to their immune systems,” the Director was speaking again, her voice emotionless, “Accelerated viral reproduction rates meant it spread through their cells in hours. The problems started post integration…” she trailed off, eyes flickering into the cells on either side of them.
Inside the cells, fit, healthy teenagers they’d seen just yesterday lay in various states of death. Some had collapsed against the bars, their hands stretched out into the corridor in desperate beseechment, while others hadn’t moved from where they’d fallen after receiving the injection. A few had managed to drag themselves to the toilet in the back of their cells, where they’d thrown up bile and blood, before surrendering to the inevitable.
And lying amongst the dead, the living still writhed in helpless agony, their foreheads beaded by sweat, their moans whispering down the corridor like the voices of ghosts. They lay in their beds, on the concrete, in each other’s arms, each just barely clinging on to life.
The doctors were already present, moving along the corridor in scrubs, masks covering their faces as they went from survivor to survivor. Guards went with them, lending their strength to the grim task of removing the dead.
“Once the virus integrated with the host, their own cells were no longer recognisable to their immune system,” the Director was saying, “Fallow’s strain of the virus reprogrammed the host’s immune system, so the altered cells would not be rejected. However, the process apparently takes time to establish, until which their immune systems still recognise the altered cells as foreign and attacks them. Inadvertently, the immunosuppressants Fallow’s candidates were given prevented this from happening. Without them…it appears only those with ineffective or already compromised immune systems have survived.”
