by Sean Platt
Skull Tattoo said, “Looks like you’re going inside” then prodded them to march forward, toward the waiting containers. They were greeted by the old man with the eye patch, holding the doors open. He had no smile. No expression at all. Just a routine day of rounding up refugees and placing them in containers.
Skull Tattoo shoved Brent inside.
Two bright halogen lights were rigged on a pole just outside the container entrance. The old man turned them on to illuminate the squalor. There were four others, chained with wire by their collars, to pipes running the length of both sides of the twenty-foot-long, eight-foot-wide, and eight-foot-tall container. When the light came on, they threw their hands over their eyes, some crying out from the pain of the sudden light penetrating their darkness.
Brent was six steps inside, just in front of Teagan and the kids, still beside Sammy, when the door clanged shut behind them, and they were plunged back into darkness.
Brent gagged.
The room was thick with body heat. The stench of sweat, piss, and shit assaulted his nostrils. He forced his breathing into a regular rhythm, and swallowed vomit rising like a tide in his throat.
Ben coughed. “It smells like the outside bathroom in here.”
“You’ll get used to it,” someone said in the dark.
Brent couldn’t imagine that wasn’t a lie.
The door swung open again, and with it came the bright light. A trio of bandits stepped into the container. Because the light was directly behind them, their faces were cast in shadow, making it difficult to see if these were new people or some of the others Brent had already noted. Skull Tattoo, old Pirate Man, Purple Hair, Tommy, and of course, Marcus.
One guard stood at the doors, rifle aimed at them to ensure everything went smooth.
A part of Brent wondered what Boricio would do. Obviously, they were about to get chained inside the container. At that point, they’d be fucked. But now, they still had a chance at freedom. At least a better chance then they’d have in a few minutes.
He glanced up at Sammy. The man’s eyes were wide, maybe thinking the same thing.
Brent’s heart raced in anticipation, thinking about what the big man might initiate. Before, he didn’t want Sammy to do anything. But now he wasn’t so sure. They had no assurance that Marina would make it back. This might be their only shot. They could disable these men, grab their guns, and maybe shoot their way out of the compound.
Brent looked at Teagan running her hands over the kids’ shoulders, trying to keep them calm.
The bandit closest to Sammy leaned over, grabbed a length of wire, and attached it to the collar on Sammy’s neck, locking it with a small but formidable-looking lock. It happened quickly, but just like that, they’d lost their shot at escaping.
Sammy was confined.
The others were next.
Brent used his scant seconds to survey the room.
Brent imagined he was in the field, absorbing facts for later. He saw everything with the corners of his eyes, afraid that if he seemed to be looking hard, or moving his head too much, he’d earn another blow to the skull.
He looked at the other prisoners.
There was a young mother who looked to be in her thirties. A young teenage girl clung to her side. A fat old man sat beside her, shirt crusted in what looked like old food. Brent wondered how much of the rotten smell belonged to him. On the far end of the bar, a big bruiser with bulging muscles and not an ounce of fat was lying in the corner, eyes closed, face bruised and bloodied. He looked scary enough to be one of the bandits but was obviously not, given that he was beaten, if not altogether broken, maybe even dead.
Becca started crying again, despite Teagan’s attempts to soothe her.
Brent wanted to reach out, tell Teagan and Becca that everything would be okay. Promise his son that they’d get out of this, just like they’d managed to get out of everything before. He wanted to ignore the growl inside him insisting that all hope was false, and that they were surely approaching their end.
He wanted to ask the bandits why they were in there, hoping against hope that one of the three might have enough humanity left to tell them what was coming. They couldn’t all be crazy, violent rapist fucks, could they? Surely, some still had a heart.
But Brent was too scared to make words or raise his head, still smarting — and leaking blood — from the last time he had.
He kept telling himself it was best not to provoke anyone’s wrath. If they stayed under the radar, they might have a chance.
They had to be patient. Help might be coming.
With everyone shackled, Ben clung to Brent, and Becca to her mother. Mercifully, the bandits allowed it. But clemency ended there.
The bandits cut away the ropes that had tied them together then gathered the remains, lest anyone use it to fashion a weapon or something. Brent was no longer tied to the others, but that gave him no comfort. Now they were all tied by metal wire, much harder to break than rope, to the metal pipe along the container’s left side, where Muscle Man lay crumpled in the corner.
The door clanged shut. The container fell into darkness, save for hundreds of thin beams of moonlight coming through holes drilled in the roof.
Brent felt grateful for the relative darkness. At least no one could see him crying, praying he could keep his family safe from the wolves outside the door.
Twenty-Three
Emily Roberts
Emily knew she should be more scared, essentially a prisoner of these rebels. But she didn’t feel like a prisoner so much as one of the group.
All that time living on The Island, she’d hoped there were people somehow surviving out here, in The Wastelands, and not just savages as the teachers and aliens had led her to believe. No, these people weren’t savages; they were survivors reclaiming their lives.
She’d seen, in Luca’s memories, all that they’d been through. Experienced the memories unspooling like a tapestry for her to read, absorb, and experience as if she’d been with them these past few years. Lifetimes of pain, and yet they still fought, clinging to hope that they could have something like normal lives again.
It was admirable, and the opposite of what The Island had taught her — life lived by alien rule, never stepping out of bounds or being noticed, lest you lose your independence and become another body for the aliens to usurp. Just another puppet.
Some of the group scared her, like Mary. But Emily had seen what had happened to her, how the aliens had killed Mary’s daughter, how she’d lost her husband to the infection. How she’d lost two babies. The horrible things the woman had been through, and had to do for survival, was nothing short of admirable. She wished Mary had stayed — Emily wanted her to know that she understood and didn’t hold any grudges for Mary slicing her throat.
Most of the group was sleeping on the apartment floor, using jackets as pillows. Emily was surprised they could sleep in such conditions but knew they’d slumbered through worse. Out here, you took rest as it came because you never knew when you’d need energy to fight or escape.
Emily wasn’t the only one unable to sleep.
Neither could Boricio. He’d spent an hour pacing near the windows overlooking the street below, punctuated with several stops, lifting of binoculars, then a sigh as he lowered them. She’d heard his many unsuccessful attempts to reach Mary on the radio.
Emily got up and went over to Boricio.
“Any sign of her?”
He shook his head.
“I’m sorry if this is all because of what happened with me.”
Boricio looked at Emily like he was about to speak but said nothing. He turned back to the window, staring out at the night. She couldn’t tell if he was using darkness to ignore her or scanning the night for Mary.
“Do you think she’ll come back?”
“Hell if I know,” Boricio said. “At first, I thought so. We’ve done the old Whitney and Bobby before. She’ll storm off but always come backs after she’s let off some ste
am. This time … I dunno.”
“What’s the Whitney and Bobby?”
Boricio looked at her, annoyed. “You get ahold of your daddy yet?”
“No.” Emily looked down. “I can’t feel him.”
“I thought you said you were telepaths. So why ain’t he picking up the ole psychic hotline?”
“We’ve never talked before … like that.”
“What?” He turned to Emily, his eyes wild. She’d seen a few dark flashes of Boricio’s past in Luca and knew the man could be menacing, but nothing prepared her for his fiery stare. “I thought you said you could reach him.”
“I’ve tried before. And I’ve felt him push back, like closing the door on someone you don’t want in your house. They know you’re there and can choose whether to welcome you in. I thought if I knocked, he’d open the door. But it’s like I can’t find his door.”
“Fucking great,” Boricio grunted, throwing his hands up then turning back to the window, crossing his arms.
“I’m sorry.”
“Just stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Apologizing. This is, what, like, the tenth time you’ve said sorry to one of us. Stop it. That shit looks suspicious.”
“What do you mean?”
“We took you. We slit your throat, and you’re walking around here apologizing to everyone for the inconvenience.”
“I feel bad that Mary left, and everyone seems angry at me.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll get over it! Just stop apologizing, and start trying to find your daddy’s knock knock.”
“What are we going to do if I can?”
“Not if, when,” Boricio said, turning back to her. “You are going to get ahold of him. As for what we’re gonna do, I don’t know yet. But you are going to get us on that fucking island so we can take care of Desmond once and for all. Capisce?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, do you understand? Jesus, didn’t you ever watch any movies?”
“Sor — um, no. Not like that.”
Boricio shook his head. “Get some sleep. I’m going to the roof.”
The way he said it, and the way he immediately headed for the ladder, told Emily he wanted to be alone. She’d annoyed him enough.
Emily returned to her spot beside Luca on the floor. He’d been asleep when she left but was now awake. It was so weird seeing him as an old man. In Emily’s head, he was closer to her age. With open eyes, he was a horrible joke. Or a curse.
She settled beside him and looked into his eyes. Deep in his old and wrinkled face, Luca’s eyes were still vibrant and young. The same eyes that had stared back from his younger version when she was in his head.
Keeping her voice low, she asked, “Can’t sleep?”
“Off and on. I’ve been trying to find Mary but haven’t been able to feel her.”
“Do you think something happened? I mean, can you always feel her?”
“Not always, no. And lately, I feel like she’s been pushing me out.”
“My dad does that to me. I tried sneaking into his head, looking around to see what I can find, to figure out what he knows about my abilities.”
“Abilities? You have others?”
“Well, not really. I don’t think so. A few times, I thought I saw things before they happened, but nothing I could be certain of. What about you? What else can you do?”
“I don’t really know until I know.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s The Light inside me, and sometimes it tells me to do or think something. Sometimes, it happens. I can heal. I can teleport. If I really focus, I can control someone.”
“Really? Like the aliens? You get inside them?”
“Not quite. I mean, I don’t think so. More like I think for them to do something. Kinda like your telepathy, where I can hear and see their thoughts, but I can get them to say or do something. But it’s hard, and it doesn’t always work out so well.”
She stared at Luca for a long while, wondering what it was like to be old and young at once. How it felt to have missed so many of the things you looked forward to doing when you got older — driving, dating, getting married, having kids.
Of course, none of those things were common in The Wastelands, or on The Island. Those were dreams of a lost life, luxuries no one could afford.
It’s not so bad, his voice answered in her mind.
Are you reading my mind? she asked, surprised to hear him speaking in her head.
No, you were broadcasting your thoughts into mine.
Oh, really?
Yes. And for the record, I try not to think about it much.
Why do you heal all these people? Why did you heal me, when you knew it would only age you?
Because they needed my help. You needed my help. What’s the use of a gift if you keep it to yourself?
You are a good person, Luca.
“Thank you,” he said aloud. “You are too, Emily.”
Thank you.
“Now go to sleep. We’ll try to contact your father again in the morning.”
Goodnight, Luca.
Goodnight, Emily.
Twenty-Four
Mary Olson
Mary watched from a dark room in a two-story apartment building across the street from the warehouse.
She stood by the window, staring through parted curtains, watching Boricio pace the rooftop. The warehouse was taller, so she could only see him when he edged the roof, looking around.
Mary knew he was looking for her, and it killed her to cause him so much pain. But she had to leave. Had to distance herself from the others. She had a bad feeling that taking Emily into the group would be disastrous. She’d watch them from afar, to look out for them, until she was sure they were safe.
She hadn’t really given much thought to the plan. It seemed like a good idea: get pissed at Boricio, which she already was, and storm away in a huff. Nobody would miss her for a while. She could lie low, watch the surrounding area for the telltale sign of Guardsmen approaching.
But there were a few flaws in her impulsive plan.
First, she’d not had time to gather supplies. She needed a rifle with a scope, not the Glock in her holster. If shit hit the fan, a pistol would be useless from this range. Second, she’d not figured sleep into the equation. She was wired now. Might even be able to go another twenty-four hours, but eventually, she’d fall to exhaustion. If the enemy hit while she snoozed, her plan went to shit.
There was also a third option she’d been stupid not to consider. The one that distressed her while watching Boricio on the rooftop. What if he came looking for her?
Mary hated to think that she’d put his, or anyone on the team’s, life in danger.
His voice crackled over her radio again.
“Mary? You copy?”
A part of her wanted to ignore the transmission. Let him stew in his guilt — if he was feeling any — for failing to back her. She wondered what was wrong with her, why she needed him to repent, to admit he was wrong. She’d never been one for head games, so why start now? Especially when her actions could put him in danger.
“Copy,” she said over the radio.
Boricio had backed away from the edge. Mary imagined his relief, and maybe a smile when he realized she was safe.
“Where are you?”
“Close.”
“Listen, Lucy, I’m sorry about everything.”
“It’s okay, Ricky. I’m not … that mad.”
“Are you on your way back?”
“No.”
“Why? You’re not really going solo, are you?”
“No, I just needed time to think. I’m heading to The Farm for a bit.”
“Let me come with you.”
“You really don’t get the whole I need time to think thing, do you?”
“It’s not safe out there.”
“It’s not safe anywhere. Besides, I’m a big girl. I don’t need you looking out for me.”
&n
bsp; “I like looking out for you.”
Mary closed her eyes, remembering some of their tender moments together. For all his crassness, for all Boricio’s bravado and bluster, for all his disgusting past, he was a different man now. He liked being needed by her. And it wasn’t some damsel in distress thing, so much as a we’re in this together mindset. Boricio had spent his life not giving a fuck about anyone but himself. The events following October 15, 2011 had given him a sense of purpose, an identity, a role other than monster — protector. And she felt bad stealing that from him.
“You need to look after Luca.”
That was something he could still feel good about doing, and a priority if they ever hoped to defeat the aliens.
Mary wondered if she should tell him that she was keeping an eye on them from afar. But her cautious — or paranoid — part, heightened in recent years, said not to. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him so much as she didn’t trust the others not to fall under the girl’s influence. Mary had little doubt that the girl was somehow in contact with her father, feeding the enemy information. It was best to let the aliens think Mary was gone. Not someone to consider or plan for.
Surprise was the key to any attack, and could be critical to an excellent defense.
“I need to go.”
“I … ” Boricio paused.
She wondered if he was going to finally say the three words she’d never heard him say.
She hoped not.
The last thing Mary needed was an overdose of emotion. They knew how each other felt. It didn’t need to be said. She liked that about their relationship. And here it sounded like he was about to go and ruin it.
“I’ve gotta go.” Mary cut him off before he could find the words which escaped him. “Seeya soon. Over.”
“Over.”
Boricio appeared at the edge of the rooftop again, looking out. He looked down, right at her window.
She ducked out of the way.
Did he just see me?
Shit.
Her heart raced, standing out of sight, trying to work up the courage to peek through the curtains and see if he was there. The jig was up if he’d seen her. There was no way he wouldn’t come after her. And if he did, there was little chance she’d be strong enough to push him away again.
