Silence descended upon the room as the camcorder screen went dark.
“Where did Tommy get the recorder?” Stevens asked in a small voice.
“He found it on a scavenger run in someplace called Southwood,” Ethan said. “He left two tapes, one for you and one for me, explainin’ his mission. When he finished the recordings, he stashed the whole rig in a locker inside the old Superdome complex, then went to see a tattoo artist to have this done.” Ethan rolled up his sleeve, revealing a New Orleans Saints logo on his left forearm with a series of numbers and the word remember. “It’s how I learned of all this once I emerged from the imprint chamber.”
Stevens smiled weakly. “My sweet Tommy. He always was a clever one.”
“Yes, he was.”
“So…” Stevens shifted. “You’re this other man Tommy spoke of, the one from the old world.”
“That’s right,” Ethan said. “I grew up the youngest of three brothers. After high school, I served twenty-one years in United States Navy.”
“Squid, huh?” Stevens gave a half-chuckle. “My late husband served in the Navy. Where were you stationed?”
Ethan rattled off a few of the nicer places, but kept the rest to himself.
“I see,” Stevens said. “And were you still in the Navy when you signed on with Obsidian?”
No, the passenger stated.
“Yes, ma’am. My wife and I had a baby on the way, and we needed the money to kickstart a college fund.” Ethan took solace in knowing that, at least, part of that was true.
“That’s gotta be hard,” Stevens said, “Showing up out of the blue after all these years, in this godforsaken world no less, knowing you left people behind.”
Ethan averted his gaze.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.” Ethan raised a palm. “My memories end on the day the real Ethan Garrett had his profile uploaded to the database. As for what happened to him and his family afterward, I can only hope they made it out before the nukes hit.”
Stevens nodded somberly. “So, what’ll you do from here?”
“What your son wanted,” Ethan said. “I aim to find Bray Giles and make him pay for takin’ the life of Tommy’s fiancé.”
“Findin’ Bray ain’t hard,” Stevens said. “It’s the makin’ him pay part where you’ll have problems. Bray’s father, Malcom, is one of the Five Kings. That makes him untouchable, and his children right along with him.”
Ethan’s lips formed a line. “Not by me.”
The pair talked for a while longer, mostly about the old world and their respective experiences in it before the Fall. Eventually, the time came for Ethan to take his leave.
“Mr. Garrett, there’s one more thing I need to ask.” Stevens paused in the driveway. “The imprint process, as I understand it, was reversable. If by some miracle you make it out of this alive, is there any chance I get my son back?”
Ethan winced. He’d fully expected that question and had even meant to address it. The right opportunity to do so just hadn’t presented itself. “No ma’am, that ain’t gonna happen.”
Stevens furrowed her eyebrows. “But…why not?”
Ethan exhaled. “The imprinter Tommy used to bring me back…it didn’t survive.”
Stevens was speechless.
“There was a firefight on my way out of the chamber,” Ethan said. “The warlord who kidnapped Dr. LeBeau learned of Tommy’s plan and sent three of his thugs to stop it. I’d just emerged when they jumped me. I got out, but not before the imprinter was completely obliterated in the exchange.”
The faintest flicker of hope vanished from the old woman’s face like candlelight in a hurricane. “So that’s it then. My son really is gone.”
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Stevens. Truly, I am. If there’s anything—”
“Wait here.” Stevens spun on her heels and stormed back into her house. When she returned a minute later, she was holding a small, metal box. “This belonged to my husband. I want you to have it.”
Ethan’s eyes widened when the old woman raised the lid.
Oh, hell yeah, the passenger said.
The nine-millimeter Berretta inside was almost identical to Ethan’s old service weapon. “Ms. Stevens, I couldn’t possibly—”
“You can, and you will.” She shoved the box into his chest. “There’s enough rounds in there for about a magazine and a half, but that’s it. You’ll need to be careful.”
Ethan accepted her gift and lowered it to his side. “I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s a bar called Ken’s Tavern over on Tennessee Street,” Stevens said. “The Giles family owns it. You’ll most likely find Bray and his posse there. When you see that rat-faced piece of shit, you kill him, and I mean good. You wanna thank me for the gun? That’s how you do it.”
Ethan nodded. “You won’t be safe, here, once this goes down.”
“I can take care of myself, dammit.”
“I don’t doubt that for an instant. Nevertheless, Giles and his crew ain’t gonna see Ethan Garrett walk into that bar. They’re gonna see Tommy Stevens. That means the first place Bray’s daddy’s gonna come lookin’ for answers is right here, on your doorstep.”
Stevens opened her mouth for another protest, but apparently thought better of it. “What do you suggest?”
“There’s a man in Panama City named Russo. He’s decent. So is his wife, and they’ve got resources.” Ethan handed her Tonka’s reins. “Take my horse. He knows the way, and he’ll get you there safely.”
“But how will you escape?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Ethan said. “As long as I’ve got woods to get lost in, I’ll be fine.”
Stevens huffed. “You say that now. You’re about to cross the Five Kings. They’ll hunt you to the ends of the Earth if they have to, Malcom especially.”
“Then I reckon it’s a good thing I know how to duck a tracker.” Ethan offered up his most confident grin, then rubbed Tonka’s muzzle to say goodbye. “It’s been a pleasure, bud. Take care of yourself and the lady, okay?”
The horse neighed, then nudged his owner’s palm for a carrot.
“He’d probably prefer to see you in Panama City tomorrow.” Stevens pursed her lips. “I know what you told me before about us never seein’ each other again after tonight. Well, a lot’s been said since then. As such, I’m inclined to empathize with your friend here. You ought not be alone out there, Ethan. Not after this.”
There was a warmth in her voice that hadn’t been there earlier—a mother’s warmth.
Ethan genuinely appreciated that. “I’ll give it some thought.” He turned to go.
“Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
Stevens swallowed. “My son chose well. You be safe now, ya hear?”
Ethan removed his hat and bowed his head. “You, too, ma’am.”
The walk back to campus wasn’t bad at all. To the contrary, Ethan found it downright leisurely, thanks to the scouts who’d been deployed to ensure his return.
“Tell Mr. Templeton I mean to stop off for a drink before headin’ out,” Ethan said to one outside the old grocery store on the corner.
The scout talked into his walkie, ostensibly to Templeton.
The more, the merrier. Ethan hooked east and headed down the sidewalk, until the sign for Ken’s Tavern appeared in the distance.
We can still run, the passenger said.
We can’t, and you know it, Ethan answered.
The passenger heaved a sigh. Well, then. Time to do what we do.
Ethan stopped in the parking lot and peered into the night as, for whatever reason, his thoughts returned to the thing he’d kept from Ms. Stevens. While it was true that the bulk of his naval career had been spent in places like Australia and Brazil, it was equally true that eight of those years had been spent as a SEAL, with multiple covert deployments in Asia, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe, among others. The suggestion that Ethan had met his end while on a
ctive duty, however, had not been true. That’d come somewhere else.
La Isla de los Condenados. Or, as it was translated in English, the Island of the Damned.
By the spring of 2040, America’s prison system had become so overpopulated that the U.S. government had no choice but to privatize the entire apparatus for the purpose of sustainability. Many companies had cast bids, from Blackwater to ITG Corrections. Only one had emerged victorious on the East coast.
Obsidian.
The company’s first order had been to quarantine Alma Island, roughly two hundred miles south of Miami, for use as a dumping ground for America’s worst criminals. Convicted rapists, murderers, pedophiles. They were all sent to the Island, a place where no law existed, save for that enforced by razor wire, guard towers, and a vast expanse of ocean in all directions.
Gangs, bloodshed, brutality. That’d been the way of things on the Island, a lesson Ethan had learned firsthand. The year had been 2051. He’d just returned stateside after retiring from the Navy and was en route home to Galveston by way of San Diego where he’d stopped off to visit a friend. As the night wore on, one drink had become three, then six, then however many more had come after those. Ethan couldn’t recall. What he could recall was the soggy, crunching sensation he’d felt through his knuckles when his fist had crashed through another man’s nose, turning it sideways then straight back. The man hadn’t moved after that, not that this mattered much to the waitress he’d assaulted. As it turned out, the only one who had cared was the man’s father, a local judge with more than enough sway to ensure that the soldier who’d killed his son got zero latitude in court.
Ethan was sentenced to life on the Island three months later.
We did what we had to, the passenger said. We survived.
Ethan dropped his head as fresh rain tapped at his Rangers cap. Yeah…
For four long years, he’d clawed his way from one side of that hellhole to the other, hoping to one day return home. Sometimes that’d meant killing men, clean and quick. Other times it’d meant drawing the process out to send a message to others who’d meant him harm. Those days had been the hardest, rife with blood and entrails and the sorts of cruel, vicious acts that no human should ever have to perpetrate against another. And yet, there, in that place, to do anything less meant forfeiting one’s right to live—and that was the best-case scenario.
Prior to the Island, Ethan Garret had been anything but a vicious man. He’d been a patriot, first and foremost, as well as a husband, a son, a brother, and nearly a father. Had Ethan killed before? Sure, in combat. But this wasn’t combat. This was something else—a game. A savage competition among society’s worst that inevitably stirred the darkest primal instincts in the hearts of its strongest players, Ethan included.
Eventually, that darkness earned a name. The passenger.
By the time Ethan reached year five on the Island, he’d all but abandoned any notion of freedom. Then, one day, he found himself dangling upside down in a trap net, staring at a man in a suit, wearing an Obsidian placard on his lapel.
“We’d like to make you an offer, Captain Garrett,” the man had said. “Donate your skills for use with our training software, and in exchange, we’ll secure your release, then return you to your family in Texas.”
Ethan hadn’t known what an imprinter was back then, nor had he known whether Obsidian would honor their end of the deal. He’d signed the contract without a second thought.
Once more unto the breach. Ethan pulled his hat down low as he pushed through the bar’s entrance. Under different circumstances, the atmosphere inside Ken’s might’ve made him nostalgic for the old world. A lively crowd, a rocking jukebox, a row of taps, flowing with everything from pilsners to stouts behind the bar. The place had it all.
“Hey Bray, check it out.” One of the men playing darts pointed at Ethan. “Look who’s back in town. It’s the Coward of Leon County.”
“Apparently the runt’s run off and joined the Texas Rangers,” a woman cackled.
A chorus of laughter filled the tavern as a young man with clean-cut good looks, stylish clothes, and a slick smile sauntered over from his stool.
Giles.
“Welcome home, retard,” Bray Giles said. “It’s been a long time. What brings you out of your hole?”
Ethan reached for the Berretta.
No, the passenger said. Save the rounds. We do this the Island way.
For once, Ethan offered no argument. He turned back toward the door.
“Runnin’ away again, are we?” Giles clicked his tongue. “Funny, for a minute there you reminded me of Becky. She ran, too, ya know. Then she gave in and decided to roll with it. We had a helluva night, your girl and me, right up until the end.”
The reflection of the young man’s grin in the door glass faltered when Ethan threw the lock, then faced the room.
Rest in peace, Tommy.
A pin dropped somewhere in the distance when twelve inches of Ka-Bar stainless steel glinted in the bar lights.
“My name is Thomas Eugene Stevens, the Third, and I’ve got one thing to say. Any sombitch who don’t wanna die tonight had best clear out the back, now.”
* * * * *
Ian J. Malone Bio
Sci-fi author Ian J. Malone has written in a variety of arenas over the years, ranging from public health to news and sports. When it comes to his fictional work, he’s a firm believer that nothing shapes a person’s writing like experience. That’s why he credits his tenures in radio, law enforcement, and military contracting for much of his inspiration, plus the legion of family and friends who’ve stood with him along the way.
Beyond writing, Malone serves as co-host of “The Dudes in Hyperspace Podcast” and is an avid fan of audiobooks (he’s legally blind). It’s also not uncommon to find him at a ballgame, a concert, or somewhere out by a grill.
Malone is an active member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America and a resident of Durham, North Carolina — but he’ll always be a “Florida boy” at heart.
For more on Ian J. Malone and his books, visit him online at https://ianjmalone.net. You can also follow him on Twitter (@ianjmalone) or befriend him on Facebook. His podcast site is: https://dudesinhyperspace.com/.
* * * * *
Hippocratic Oath by Jan Kotouč
It was June and extremely hot along what remained of Route E59 in the Czech Republic. Franz had stopped counting the kilometers and estimating the temperature. He just kept walking, as he had been for the past several days.
He walked north from Retz, went around the gangs in the ruins around Znojmo, and continued past Pavlice, Moravské Budějovice, and Želetava. All were ghost towns, as were hundreds of other towns and villages he’d visited in his life.
But he had to keep going, sleeping occasionally in the little tent he carried on his back. The bigger problem was water. While there were some ponds and small rivers, his Geiger counter cautioned him against using many of them.
Twenty years after the nuclear exchange between the ruling Corporations turned the world into a wasteland, many of the water sources were still contaminated. Franz wasn’t really surprised by this—especially here—since Vienna, the seat of the Central European subsidiary of Teledyne Industries, was hit by a massive nuclear barrage, and the ruins of the big city were less than 100 kilometers away.
He had just found an old pond with dirty, but non-irradiated water, when he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. The echo spread across the wasteland, and several startled birds scattered.
There was a second shot, then a third. Then came what sounded like a burst of machine gun fire.
The road in front of him rose for about a hundred meters, and he couldn’t see beyond the rise. There was only one way to find out what was happening.
It must be a special kind of stupid, running toward the fire, but everything I’ve done lately has been somewhere between desperation and lunacy, so why not?
He pushed his thought
s aside as he quickly covered the distance and dropped to his stomach, inching the last few meters to the place where the road started to go down again, and he could see the area.
He saw another ruined town—he wasn’t sure which one—with a giant truck parked at the edge. A truck with the trailer. The truck he’d been looking for.
There were some people in the town, running around, scattering like birds. Franz saw two wounded. One was moving and holding his stomach; the other was on top of a truck in an improvised machine gun nest. He was dead, though; even from this distance, Franz could tell that the man’s head had been blown off.
But those people were not firing—they were being fired upon.
Franz shifted his gaze to the right and found what he was looking for.
There were four of them, all in the uniforms of Great Moravia. One had a machine gun and was shooting at the truck in short bursts. The other three were slowly making their way toward the truck. One always covered the others as they moved forward in military formation. It was clear to Franz that this was the Rastislav Regiment, not the rank-and-file army of slaves Great Moravia normally used for a frontal attack; these were their elite warriors.
And they were going to steal the truck he’d spent all his life looking for!
Someone from the town finally returned fire, but it was sporadic and confused. Due to the decline of the road and some vegetation, the attackers were hard to see from the town, the same way it was hard for Franz to see the people in the town.
They regularly checked behind them, but not many people walked through the wasteland, and their target was in front of them.
Franz dropped his backpack and his camelback and drew his gun, wishing he still had his rifle, but he had lost it in his fight with the gangs around Znojmo. He also wished he had more ammunition; he was down to the 22 pistol rounds he had in his two magazines.
From the Ashes Page 32
