by Joe Hart
I’m going to fall, she thinks even as her fingers slide free of the bar. She tumbles toward the open air and snatches at the taut safety cable extending from the ceiling. Her skin flays open as the cable glides through her hand, but her momentum slows as one leg falls free of the aircraft.
Zoey yanks her leg back in as if she’s been burned and the helicopter levels out, a looming hillside tumbling away as they fly past. She leaps toward the slack form of the second Redeye and snags the belt that holds him to his seat.
A gunshot rings out in the cab and for a moment she thinks she’s accidentally discharged her own pistol. Then she feels blood spatter her face and a gaping wound opens up in the dead Redeye’s chest. She turns and sees the pilot aiming a handgun over his shoulder while trying to maneuver the craft closer to the ground.
She aims as he glances out the windshield, knowing either way she’s going to die. These are her last seconds of freedom, her entire stint bathed in violence with only a shining moment of moonlight on water to remember.
Zoey fires.
The bullet misses, spider-webbing the glass past the pilot’s head.
The helicopter rolls, but she holds tight to the strap and shoots again.
This time the round goes through the back of the pilot’s seat, and he chokes out a moan before slumping forward.
All is movement, a tandem of gravity and floating.
The entire helicopter rotates, spinning sickeningly counterclockwise. Zoey catches a glimpse of something tall and silver, glowing in the night. The engines shriek and the rotors take on a slower, more powerful chopping that batters her ears.
The shadow of a hill out the window spins past.
Moon.
Sky.
Ground.
A slight shudder, then a hissing snap.
An explosive boom that makes her feel as if her heart has detonated.
There is a colossal impact and then flooding darkness.
17
Zoey wakes to the sound of a helicopter and knows it was all a dream.
Dellert never took her from her room. Meeka is still alive, as are Crispin and Assistant Carter. She never escaped to the roof and stowed away on the helicopter. She is in her bed in her room, and for some reason Lee wasn’t able to come the night before, and she fell asleep waiting for him only to dream of her escape. Yes, that’s what happened. She tries to roll over and fall back to sleep when the pain hits her.
It is a rolling wall of ache that begins in her skull and penetrates deep into her spine. She’s left breathless from it. The pain is so powerful she can see it. It is a red, blinking light that flashes in strobes of agony with each heartbeat. It is only when she finally manages to drag some air into her lungs that she realizes the light is mounted in the helicopter’s dashboard barely a foot away.
Zoey shifts, trying to determine how long she has left on Earth. There is no way she can survive the pain that consumes her, it must be a result of a mortal wound. She manages to sit up and places a hand to her head. Her hair is wet with blood. She moves her arms and closes her hands into fists. Wiggles her toes and draws her knees up, which sends a bout of pain through her midsection. Looking down at her stomach, she sees why.
There is a gash in her shirt several inches above her waistline that reveals a long cut in her flesh. It seeps blood steadily, and when she moves the gap widens, releasing more crimson onto her already ruined clothes. She hisses through her teeth and blinks as her vision seems to tip to one side. When she can see straight again, she takes in her surroundings.
She is sitting on the ceiling of the helicopter.
The red light blinks continuously, and a pale illumination leaks from a crack in the control panel to her right, shining on the dead face of the pilot whose neck is cranked at nearly a ninety-degree angle.
Zoey gazes around at the wreckage, tasting blood, smelling death.
The sound of a helicopter rises again in the distance, a low and even chop that’s growing louder.
They’re coming.
She searches frantically for the pistol, but it’s gone. A nylon strap catches on one of her fingers as she’s looking and a rattle accompanies it. She pulls the strap closer and makes out the shape of the rifle at its end. The helicopter is louder, the rotor more insistent. Her bracelet, she’s almost forgotten. They’ll be able to track her as long as she wears it.
She yanks on the plastic around her wrist, but it doesn’t break, so she runs her hand over the dead Redeye’s belt until she finds the handle of a knife. Zoey slides the blade beneath her bracelet and gives a sharp pull.
It cuts through without resistance, and the bracelet she’s worn since she can remember falls away. She has no time to appreciate its departure. Instead she tosses Dellert’s and Carter’s bracelets away as well. Without hesitating, she rolls to her side and cries out at the strafing pain. Each movement sends a shower of sparks through her vision, but she keeps her eyes locked on the open door six feet away.
The night air is a blessed relief on her face, and she can feel her sweat cooling as she drags herself free of the crash. The ground is rough and gritty with dry, crackling grass growing sporadically everywhere. Zoey crawls for a dozen paces before climbing to her feet.
She is in a narrow valley created by two rounded hills that rise several hundred feet into the night. The shining silver tower she saw from the air stands a hundred yards below her and thick cables extend from its distant pinnacle to the helicopter. They appear to be huge electric cables of some type, their lengths shredded and tangled in the ruined helicopter blades. Above her position is the uneven horizon beginning to lighten with morning.
The immensity of the space around her, the utter openness of it all, yanks her breath away. She could stay here for days, examining the jagged outcroppings of rock that protrude from the sides of the hill, feeling the texture of the plants at her feet, letting the gentle breeze coast across her skin, but the second helicopter is getting louder. Any second it will rise from the river valley below and swoop up to her. They will surely shoot her after what she’s done, there will be no second chance.
Zoey moves away from the overturned aircraft and heads into the thicker darkness to the west. The going is rough, mostly because each step rings a bell of pain in her side where the gash continues to bleed. She concentrates on breathing, pausing after a hundred yards to hoist the rifle’s strap over her shoulders.
The helicopter’s beat thickens, the air thrumming with it.
She hurries up the grade, legs burning, air turning to acid in her lungs. She makes it to a low stand of brambly brush and sinks behind it as the helicopter slides into view from the south. Its running lights glow red and green, a white strobe on its tail flashing. It flies past the crash site before banking hard to the left. A white spotlight shines on the downed chopper’s jutting landing struts.
They think you’re still in there, Meeka says. Now’s your chance. Go! Go! Go! Go!
Zoey climbs to her feet and shoots the helicopter one last look before breaking from her cover. She flits to the next stand of bramble before cresting the last hundred feet of the valley. A long plateau extends away from her toward a flat, winding trail that’s barely discernible in the growing light. She has to get away from here. How long until they land and discover that she’s not in the wreckage? Minutes? No more than that.
She hobbles onward, wooziness growing and receding in her head. She breathes evenly, blinking to keep her vision straight and locked on the path ahead. As she nears it, the helicopter’s solid thud begins to slow. They’re landing.
She forces herself to run.
When she makes it to the path, she sees that she misjudged its width. It is more than a path, it’s a road. The hard pavement beneath her feet is covered with layers of dirt and grime. Thin branches crumble under her shoes and she skids, nearly falling as her foot slides over a large pebble.
She has to find a place to hide, there is no chance out in the open. The road extends up the s
ide of another hill before turning to the left and out of sight. The light is taking on a grayness as if everything is wreathed in smoke. Her air puffs from her mouth, a ghostly cloud before her. Only then does she feel the cold that has wormed its way inside her destroyed clothing.
As she crests the top of the hill, the sound of the helicopter winding back up reaches her. She glances back, but its form is hidden below the edge of the valley. Soon it will rise into the air and fly toward her, the spotlight stabbing her to the ground.
She breaks out into a full sprint.
Gravel crackles under her feet.
Air courses past.
She gasps for breath.
On the other side of the curve a stand of houses begins. They are dainty and gapped apart only by strips of brown lawn. Their paint has faded to muted versions of the colors they were before, now dismal blues, greens, tans. Beyond them the road continues by a larger metal building with some type of awning covering rows of boxy shapes with hoses looping from them. Past that is a small bridge and more houses lining the edge of a narrow stream.
Zoey turns to the right and rushes down the alley between the last of the two houses. Her footfalls echo off their sides before she emerges into a flat yard. A low fence borders the back of the property, and beyond that is another line of larger homes. She hurries to the fence as the chop of the helicopter takes on another pitch.
They are airborne again.
She scrambles over the fence, the hole in her shirt catching on its top. She rips it free and runs to the nearest house as lights appear above the farthest hill. She slides to a stop at a door with a partially broken window. The handle holds fast when she turns it, and panic climbs to a new level within her as the spotlight lances the top of the houses she passed. She reaches inside through the broken window and finds the interior door handle. She spins it, and the door pops open. Zoey swings inside as the thud of the helicopter grows so loud she imagines it coasting directly over the house.
She stands in a narrow entryway that is littered with rubbish. Broken glass and water-stained paper cover the floor. The walls flake paint in long, drooping strips, and the air smells of old dampness. Zoey makes her way to the doorway ahead, glancing back to make sure her footprints aren’t visible.
The next room is devoid of any features. There are spaces against the walls containing shadows of dirt that give her an impression of the objects that rested there for years. Tangles of spiderweb dance from the ceiling and there is a dried pile of what appears to be feces in one corner. To the right a narrow set of stairs extend up to a second floor. Zoey sweeps up them and finds two rooms at the top, windows shattered, sills warped with rain. A stained blanket lies in the center of the second room before an open closet door holding darkness.
“Where. There’s got to be somewhere to hide,” she whispers to herself. She emerges into the hall again and is about to return to the first floor when she spots a short chain hanging from the ceiling. It trails to a square outline of a panel large enough to climb through.
She shucks the rifle sling off her shoulder and manages to hook the steel ring hanging from the end of the chain with the gun barrel. She pulls and the panel opens.
A moving shape descends from the darkness above, and she nearly screams before seeing it’s some type of a wooden ladder. It unfolds in front of her, bracing against the floor.
The helicopter cruises over the house again as the first rays of sun leak through the windows.
Tentatively, Zoey climbs the ladder, sure it will collapse under her weight at any moment. Brisk air meets her as she pokes her head and shoulders through the ceiling. There is a flashlight attached to the rifle but it takes her several tries to find the switch before clean, white light blinks on.
The space above the ceiling is low and filled with some type of fluffy material. She touches it and its coarseness surprises her. She scans the area before descending the ladder again. In the second bedroom she grabs the blanket, grimacing at the stench that rises from it. It smells as if something has died in its folds, ingraining death into its very fibers. Ignoring the odor, she climbs the ladder once again. When she’s steadied herself on the edge of the hole, she pulls on a handle set near the top of the stairs. She strains for a moment before the ladder refolds itself into a neat bundle above the panel that locks back into place.
Darkness rushes into the space, pressing upon her skin like a physical force. She reaches for the flashlight as the helicopter draws near again, and Reaper’s voice booms outside of the walls.
“Zoey, I know you can hear me. You need to come out in the open so we can take you home.”
She trembles and nearly loses her balance. Grasping a rough beam, she holds her breath.
“One way or another we’re going to find you, Zoey. You can make it easy on yourself, or very hard.” The helicopter flies past the house, and the roof shakes with its passing.
They’re very low, very close.
“If you come out now, you won’t be punished.”
She huffs a derisive laugh that sends bolts of pain through her stomach. How stupid do they think she is?
“You’re weak and wounded. I saw the blood myself, Zoey. Come out before it’s too late.”
She pulls herself across the material, which she realizes is some type of insulation, and settles into a low depression. From her vantage point she can still make out the trapdoor and the ladder, but someone would have to climb fully into the attic to see her. Her body aches everywhere, and a thirst has begun to build in the back of her bruised throat. She checks the wound on her stomach, the crusted blood almost black in the harsh glow of the flashlight. It’s stopped bleeding but still hurts as if it happened seconds ago.
The helicopter sounds as if it’s getting farther away, the blades no longer concussive. She spreads the stinking blanket over her and settles into the nest she’s made before clicking off the light. Sleep immediately begins to pull at her with claws of fatigue. She has to hold on and wait until she’s sure she’s safe. Wait until she can’t hear the copter at all.
“If you refuse to come out now our only choice is to punish Terra and the other women when we return. Do you want that on your conscience, Zoey?”
She blinks at the darkness, trying to ignore Reaper’s voice. “I’m going to kill you,” she whispers, her words ragged and venomous. The helicopter’s sound is fading, or maybe she is, she can’t tell now. She only knows that her eyes won’t stay open a moment longer, their weight too immense to hold up.
As she drifts deeper and deeper away from the world, Reaper’s voice comes one last time, filtering its way through the old boards of the house to where she lies.
“Think about what you’re doing, Zoey. Think of the repercussions. There is nothing out here for you. You need us.”
She comes awake to the sound of footsteps on the stairs below her. Her eyes pop open, and for a precarious second she doesn’t have any idea where she is. Several pinholes pour thin cones of light across the space, and Zoey resists the urge to move.
The crackle of boots passing under her is loud. A door swings open, bangs against a wall. Whoever it is clears their throat and spits.
The rifle lies across her stomach and hip. Slowly she picks it up, straining her eyes to see how the weapon actually functions. In the low light the details are extremely hard to make out, but she finds a switch marked with the words Safe, Semi, and Auto. She turns it to Semi.
The footsteps retrace their path, closer, directly below her, and stop. There’s a short click and a man begins to speak, his voice so loud and sudden that she nearly yanks the rifle’s trigger.
“This is D two. In the second to the last house on the northern side. What’s the next move after I clear the final? Over.”
A crackle of static, then a garbled reply that she can’t discern.
“Received. Heading that way now. Over.”
There is the scuff of boots on the treads, the squeak of a stair, then silence.
S
he waits, heart steadily picking up rhythm as the stillness draws out.
The footsteps come back up the stairs and pause.
“Zoey?”
Her name being spoken sends a violent spasm of fear through her. How? How could he know that she was here? What did she leave behind?
Carefully, she adjusts the rifle so that its muzzle points directly at the ladder and the opening below it. She barely breathes.
There is a creak and she watches the ladder unfold and disappear as the trapdoor is opened. She swallows, vision jangling with each heartbeat. If she kills him, they’ll know, they’ll find her and catch her before she has a chance to run.
The ladder squeals in protest of the heavy weight ascending it.
Zoey slides the blanket up and over herself, covering her entire length along with the rifle. She keeps the barrel pointed at where the soldier must appear and leaves the tiniest gap through which she can see.
The top of a helmeted head inches into view. Then the red reflective goggles, as well as a rifle barrel. The Redeye flicks on a flashlight and shines it around the space. Zoey eases the blanket down completely as the light passes over her. She hears the soldier sniff and snort in disgust. He utters a quiet curse, and she sees the light pass by her before winking out.
The ladder barks again as he descends. A second later it rattles up into place, and his passage down the stairs is marked by much quicker footsteps. A door slams, and all is quiet again.
Zoey pushes the blanket away, silently thankful for the rancid odor it gives off. She sits up, wincing as her entire body cries out. It feels as if she is a rusted piece of iron that’s meant to move but hasn’t in years. The wound in her stomach throbs. Hunger is a storm that fills up her insides, and the first inklings of thirst she felt before falling asleep is now a burning that screams to be put out.
Zoey manages to get her feet beneath her and moves as quietly as she can to the door. She listens for a long while before unfolding the ladder down to the second floor. When there are no shouts or movement below, she clambers down until she stands outside the first bedroom. She moves to the second bedroom, seeing the muddy outlines of the Redeye’s boots. It must have rained while she was sleeping.
