by Amy Cross
Looking down at my foot, I realize that my best bet would be to see if I can straighten it out somehow. I reach down with my one good arm and, before I have time to rethink what I'm doing, I attempt to snap the foot back into place. The pain is brutal, causing me to scream as I feel the sharp, broken bones rip through my flesh. After what feels like an eternity, the pain becomes less intense and I look down to see that the foot is a little better.
Hauling myself up the side of the steep river bank, fighting against the pain, I somehow manage to get to the top and roll onto the grass. Staring up at the gray sky, I take a deep breath and try to gather together my remaining energy for the journey ahead. It's going to take me hours to reach the nearest road, and I'm not even sure of the quickest route. All I can do is hope that some opportunity presents itself. Still, I've always known deep down that I'll see Sophie again before I die, so there's a part of me that thinks there has to be some way out of this. I'm not going to give up.
"Patrick!" I shout as loud as possible. I can't see him, but I know he can't have got too far. There's no sign of him, though, and I realize with a sinking feeling that he's left me behind.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my communication unit and check for signal. Nothing. I hold it up, hoping that somehow - miraculously - I might be able to call for help. After a moment, I see a single bar of signal show up on the display. It's almost impossible to believe, but I quickly cycle through the contact numbers, trying to think of someone - anyone - I could get in touch with. Finally, I realize that every single person in my life is somehow connected to Benjamin and the Watchers. I don't have any friends or family. Going through the list of numbers again, I eventually find the one person who I feel I can call. She won't be able to help me, of course, but it'd be good to hear her voice one more time.
The phone rings and rings until finally she answers. "Hello?" she says tentatively. I can hear the caution in her voice, and I don't blame her.
"Shelley," I say, trying not to let her hear that I'm hurt. "It's me."
There's a pause on the other end of the crackly line. "What do you want?" she asks after a moment. "I told you I don't -"
"I just wanted to hear your voice," I reply, interrupting her, "and to warn you. You were right when you said Benjamin can't be trusted. He's going to come after you, so make sure he can't find you."
"Are you okay?" she asks.
"I'm fine," I reply, wincing as the pain in my arm starts to get worse. "Just promise me you'll be careful."
"Where's Abby?"
"I don't know," I say. "We found Patrick, but there's no sign of her. I'm pretty sure Benjamin hasn't tracked her down. Hopefully she's strong enough now to take care of herself. She should be pretty much untraceable, as long as she's careful."
"You sound bad," she replies. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit," she says. "Tell me. I can hear it in your voice."
"I'm fine," I reply, "I just..." I sigh, trying to decide how much to tell her. She might be the last person I ever speak to, and I feel like I want to think of something profound or deep to say. The problem is, I'm not a profound or deep kind of person. My adult life has been focused on one thing, and one thing only: the Watchers. There's been little room for anything else. It's sad to admit this, but Shelley - even though I don't know her very well - is the closest thing I've got to a friend.
"Where are you?" she asks. "Are you in Dedston?"
"No," I reply. "I'm a long way from Dedston."
"Are you in New York?"
"No," I say. "It doesn't matter where I am. All that matters is where you are. You can't trust Benjamin. Are you in a position to go somewhere safe? Do you have family anywhere?"
"I have a friend in -"
"Don't tell me!" I say, before she can say the name of the place. "This line is probably bugged. Listen to me, Shelley. You have to do exactly what I tell you. Put this phone down and run. Don't take your phone, or your computer, or anything with you. Benjamin has connections and he'll be able to trace you if you're not careful. Withdraw as much money as you can and try not to leave a digital trail, okay? Just keep low for a few months. Hopefully he'll lose interest after a while and won't see you as a threat once Abby is out of reach."
"But if she -"
"She's not with Benjamin," I reply, "so she's free. She can find her own way. She's getting stronger by the day. We did what we had to do. We kept her away from Benjamin and Patrick for as long as possible. And... if you ever see her again, tell her I love her. Tell her she's the best niece anyone could ever hope for."
"Why can't -" she starts to say, but I cut the call dead, before throwing the phone down into the river. There's no point being sentimental: either Shelley will take my advice and be okay, or she'll ignore what I said and probably end up dead. I'm just going to assume she'll be smart. Crawling across the ground, I decide to keep looking for a way out of here. Sure, my chances are almost zero, but I can't give up. It's just not in my nature to sit here and wait for Death to claim me.
Eventually, after I've been crawling along the ground for what feels like hours and hours, I lose all strength. Stopping in the middle of a small clearing, I take a deep breath and realize I can't go any further. The wound on my arm is already becoming red and swollen, indicating that an infection is likely, and I've lost more blood than perhaps I initially realized. The pain has become so complete and total, I've almost become accustomed to feeling it run through my body like a second pulse. Finally, as I try to haul some more energy from the depths of my soul, I sense someone standing behind me.
It's her. I can feel it.
Tears well up in my eyes and start to run down my cheeks. All this time, I've been sure that I can't die yet because I haven't seen Sophie. Ever since her funeral, all those years ago, I've been certain that I'll get to see her one more time before my death. Now, broken and dying, I know in my heart that if I turn around, I'll see her. Delaying the moment, I can feel her presence so strongly, it's almost as if she's inside my body. Finally, I turn and look straight at her.
Chapter Six
Afghanistan - Five years ago.
Everything is calm and silent. Tranquil, almost. Except, that is, for the distant sound of artillery fire, interrupted every few minutes by the boom of mortar shells hitting their targets. It's surprising how easily you can ignore the sound of death and destruction, once you get used to it, and around here you have no choice but to get used to it. This is a war, and people are dying every day.
"You okay?" asks the sergeant, watching me from the shadows. He's been sitting there for a while now, casually examining a gun while sipping shots of whiskey. Frankly, he's giving me the creeps.
"I'm fine," I say.
"You're fine?" he replies, as if he doesn't believe me.
"Like I said," I tell him again, "I'm fine." The truth, though, is that I've spent the evening trying to figure out how I ended up here. When Benjamin said he needed to train me, and ensure I'm physically capable of working with the Watchers, I thought - at most - he'd sign me up for a gym. Instead, he sent me to study various physical disciplines in Asia, before moving me on to Afghanistan. Now I'm surrounded by a war I don't understand, and I have no idea when I get to leave. I feel like a puppet, being pushed around for the benefit of Benjamin and the Watchers. The only way I'm getting through this is by forcing myself to focus on the goal: one day, I'll use all my newly-acquired skills when I go and hunt down Patrick.
"No-one's fine in a place like this," the sergeant replies, drinking from his glass of whiskey. "The only people who claim to be fine are the ones who've been shell-shocked, the ones who are numb inside, the ones who don't give a shit anymore."
I smile, looking down at the book I've been trying to read for the past few hours. Unfortunately, I've been so distracted that I've ended up reading the same page over and over again, and I still have no idea what the words are saying. It's impossible not to think about the possibility that - at any mome
nt - a lucky strike could land straight on top of this tent and blow us to pieces.
"You want to know how I'm doing?" the sergeant asks.
"Sure," I reply. "How are you doing?"
He grins. "I'm fine!" he says, before laughing hard at his own joke.
"That's good," I say, still trying to focus on my book.
"What you reading?" he asks after a moment.
I hold the book up for him to see.
"Never heard of it," he replies. "You know what I like reading? Those Russian door-step novels. Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, that sort of thing. Big fucking books like slabs of meat. And you know the best thing about those books? They're so big, you could swing one at a guy and knock him clean out." He laughs again. "That's my kind of book. One that can be used as a weapon if someone disturbs you while you're trying to read."
"Yeah," I reply, trying to be polite. I've never read any Russian literature in my life, and this is hardly the place I expect to be dragged into a high-brow conversation. I just want to be left alone until I get word that I'm out of here. Benjamin clearly sent me here so I could get used to combat situations, but I don't get why I can't just turn around and leave right now. I've seen people die, and I've experienced moments when I worry that I could be next. The last thing I need is to sit around here much longer and listen to the sounds of people dying in the distance. Hopefully Benjamin will give me the signal to get out of here soon. Unless he's forgotten about me.
"You're one of them, aren't you?" the sergeant asks after a moment.
I turn to him. "One of who?"
"The Watchers." He pauses for a moment. "I've heard about you. Every so often, a bunch of you arrive for some kind of training exercise. You sit around looking bored, and occasionally you go out and spend a day with the real soldiers, but you don't actually do anything. It's like you're just here to soak up the atmosphere."
"Training," I say, feeling a little uncomfortable.
He smiles. "Top secret, huh?"
"I guess." I look back down at the book, but I'm very much aware that the sergeant is still watching me.
"So what kind of stuff does your organization deal with?" he asks.
"This and that," I reply.
"This and that?"
"Yeah."
He sighs. "You're not a very talkative guy, are you?"
I smile, hoping to defuse the tension. "I'm just tired, man. I don't mean to be rude."
He stares at me for a moment. "No, you're not being rude," he says eventually. "You're being a professional. I like that. I'm a professional too. We're very similar, you and me. Very fucking similar."
Taking a deep breath, I turn the page of the book before realizing I can't remember what I just read.
"There are werewolves on the border between India and Pakistan," the sergeant says suddenly. "That's the rumor, anyway. Never seen anything myself, but I know some really good guys who swear they've seen these things out there. Always at night, never in direct confrontations. But they're real and they're big, strong things. Sometimes they attack the locals, but for the most part they keep to themselves. There's some fucking horror stories out there, that's for sure." He pauses. "Seems like the kind of thing a guy like you might be interested in."
"Why would I be interested in that?" I ask.
"I dunno," he replies. "I guess I just assumed..."
"Pretty big assumption," I reply, starting to get worried. Before I left the US, Benjamin explicitly warned me that I have to ensure the Watchers' activities remain below the radar. This sergeant, however, seems to know rather too much about the kind of work I do, which means he's a potential security threat. Security threats have to be dealt with. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Benjamin had arranged this little conversation as a test, to see what I'll do.
"I just thought you might want to go and see these creatures," the sergeant says, setting his gun down on the table. "Thought you might want to go and watch them." He emphasizes the word 'watch', making it clear that he knows more than he's letting on. "Maybe you could take me with you," he continues. "I'm good with that kind of stuff, and I'm sick of this bullshit war. I want to get involved in something more meaningful, something that really counts. I don't want to sit around waiting to get killed, you know?" He's clearly warming to the subject now. "Modern war's about luck. A man can't make his own destiny. I want to be in control."
"I don't see what -" I start to say.
"I want to join the Watchers," he says, pulling his chair closer to me. "I've heard about you guys. I know what you do. I'm damn good at my job, and you need someone like me. I get how your organization operates. You hire smart people, and then you train them up so they're tough. Why not take on a smart guy who's already tough?" He holds out one of his arms, flexing the muscles. "See that? If we met one of those werewolves out there, I could fucking rip its head right off its body."
"You could, could you?" I say, impressed by his enthusiasm.
"With ease, man," he says. "With fucking ease. I've been looking for a way into your organization for years. I've been trying to find out how to apply. When I saw you, though, I could tell immediately that you're one of them, so I figured I might as well try. Can't you put in a good word for me?"
"I don't know if it works like that," I tell him.
"I'm tough and I'm smart," he continues, sounding as if he's offended. "Why the hell wouldn't you take me on? I mean, you're like this top secret organization, but I found out a little bit about you. That must show I'm good at ferreting out information, right?"
I look over at the gun he left on the table. "Maybe it just means you've been set up," I say, as I realize what I have to do.
"I know every fucking thing about every fucking gun in the world," he says. This guy clearly takes himself very, very seriously. It'd be amusing, if it wasn't so tragic. "That there is a semi-automatic Spillsbury Special. One of the finest fucking handguns in the whole world. Not many people have even heard of them, but I'm a fucking expert on the damn things." He reaches across and grabs the gun. "They don't make many of these," he says, clearly in awe of his weapon. "I consider it a matter of pride to pack this every time I go out that fucking door. You want to take a look at it?"
"Sure," I reply.
He hands me the gun. It takes me a few seconds to determine that this particular Spillsbury Special is loaded with three bullets; I know this, because I've handled these guns extensively and I know that they weigh six hundred and twenty grams when they're empty, but this one weighs more like six hundred and eighty, which means it has two or three bullets inside. Maybe two, probably three. There's no safety catch.
"Impressive, huh?" he asks.
"Yeah," I reply, a little sadly. I pause for a moment, before deciding that I might as well get on with what I've got to do. "Cool little gun," I say, handing it back to him.
"Damn fucking straight," he says, holding it again. "So what do you say? Give me one chance? Like an audition?"
"I don't know, man," I reply. There's a pause. "What's your name?" I ask.
"Thomas," he says.
I smile. "Hi, Thomas." Suddenly I grab his hand, twisting it toward his face and shoving the end of the gun into his mouth before pulling the trigger, blowing the back side of his head away. He slumps down in his chair, with blood, brain matter and pieces of skull sprayed across the canvas wall behind him. My heart's beating like crazy, and it takes me a couple of seconds to regather my composure.
"Sorry, Thomas" I say, getting to my feet and walking to the door. At that moment, a solider comes running through to find out what caused the noise.
"Holy fuck!" the soldier says.
"Guy killed himself," I say, by way of an explanation.
"No fucking way," the soldier says, his face white as a sheet as he steps back. "There's no way he'd -"
I hold up my I.D. badge.
"Right," the soldier says as he realizes who I am and who I work for. "I'll... tell the coroner we've had a suicide."
Walkin
g away, I hear a distant explosion somewhere on the other side of the city. Benjamin warned me that I might meet a 'fan-boy' out here, someone who'd take a little too much interest in the Watchers; he warned me, also, that I'd have to neutralize any such interest, which is what I've done. As Benjamin has told me a number of times, it's sometimes necessary to remove people who are a threat. It wasn't easy to kill a guy in cold blood like that, but part of my training is about learning to eliminate threats in any situation. In other words, I'm forcing myself to become a heartless bastard; I'm forcing myself to become more like Benjamin. Reaching my quarters, I sit on my bed and look down to see that my hands are shaking.
Chapter Seven
Dedston, Today.
Opening my eyes slowly, I struggle for a moment to understand where I am. The last thing I remember is being in Louisiana with Constance, and now I'm in some kind of hospital room. There are various wires and tubes leading from my chest to a machine that beeps constantly next to the bed. When I try sitting up, I find that I'm far too weak to move, and something feels wrong, as if I'm somehow lop-sided; after a moment, I look down and see that my left arm has been amputated just below the shoulder. All that's left is a bandaged stump.
"How much do you remember?" asks a familiar voice.
I look over at the door and see that Benjamin is watching me.
I open my mouth to reply, but I have no idea what to say. My mind is still pretty foggy, although I'm getting impressions drifting back into my consciousness.
"You were injured," he says. "Do you remember the circumstances?"
I pause for a moment. "There was an explosion," I say, remembering what happened when Constance tried to use the digital flare. "Patrick..." Everything comes flooding back to me, right up to the moment when I saw Sophie's ghost. After that, I'm not sure how I ended up being found and brought here. "My arm..." I say, looking down at the stump. "Did you really have to take my arm off?"
