Malefactor

by Robert Repino

  Augur placed his head between his knees and pressed his palms to his temples. A choking sound clogged his throat.

  “Someone . . . interfering again,” he said.

  Before Mercy could reach for the door handle, it clicked on its own, operated from the other side. The hatch slid open. A furry creature stepped inside, walking on two feet. It turned away from Mercy, and its tail flipped her in the face. On purpose, she imagined. This creature—this wolf—towered over Augur, still sitting against the wall. In its hand it held a piece of metal with a red plastic knob on the end—a lever from the control room, broken off to create a weapon. A drop of blood fell from the tip and absorbed into the carpet.

  For the first time since this began, Augur gazed at something unexpected, something he could not have seen coming. The terror manifested in his slackening jaw, his parting lips, his hands rising to fend off the inevitable. The wolf plunged the weapon into his chest, so deep that only the plastic knob remained. The wolf turned to Mercy. It was a female, her body covered in puncture wounds, the blood having dried and crusted into the fur.

  “Urna?” Mercy said. She had never seen her sister stand on two legs before.

  Urna eyed her in a way that blamed her for every terrible thing that had ever happened in the world. The truth suddenly dropped into place. Urna did not merely steal the rahvek. She drank it. She must have seen all of this, along with a thousand other futures, and this was the only way to stop what was happening.

  Creek descended on Urna first. The others followed. Snarling, Urna fought back. She was no omega. Those days were over and would never return. Mag yelped as Urna bit into his leg. The others tried to get hold of her, but she proved too slippery, too strong.

  The scrum moved deeper into the aisle. The three intruders retreated, unsure of what was happening.

  “Mercy,” Augur said.

  She rushed to him. His blood-soaked hands pried the lever from his chest. She motioned to help, but he shook his head no.

  “Get your son,” Augur said. “Now.”

  With Urna still holding her own against four marauders, the two dogs and the cat were trapped on the other side of the battle. They knew where Mercy would go next. The wet nurse led them toward the exit in the rear. They would get to the engine from the outside.

  Mercy bolted through the door, stepping across the gap and onto the locomotive. Inside, she followed a narrow hallway, with plastic walls that hummed with the sound of the engine. A set of bloody pawprints on the linoleum floor showed Urna’s path from the control room. A small flight of steps led to the compartment at the very front of the train, where a set of windows wrapped around the face of the car. Beneath that, the controls spread from one side of the compartment to the other in a giant horseshoe shape, covered in buttons, knobs, switches, dials, and levers. Seated at the controls, one of the Toqwa women leaned against the head rest, her ponytail flipped over the front of her deerskin tunic. Blood dribbled from a puncture wound in her neck. Her red hands indicated that she must have tried to stanch the flow before passing out.

  Mercy found the pup shivering at the human’s feet. She crawled over to him, nudged her paws beneath his body, and rested her snout on his spine. She knew then that he must have hated her the way that only a child can hate a parent. She had dragged him through too much, all while telling him to be grateful that he had not seen what she had seen. It was the same mistake every generation made with the young ones.

  Please, she wanted to say. Please, it’s almost over. Trust me.

  Something heavy slammed onto the nose of the locomotive. Mercy scooped the child away from the control panel. A pair of hairy feet stood outside the window. Their owner leaned down, peering inside the cabin. It was a dog, a brown mutt, holding a rifle. A gunshot forced him to take cover against the hull. He fired a few times in response. More dogs surrounded the engine.

  The brown dog rapped his knuckles against the window. “Come on!” he said. “We’re leaving, come on!” He pointed to a sealed door to her right. She turned the knob and it creaked open. A breeze blew a puff of smoke inside. The pup squirmed in her arms, demanding to stay inside amid the shouting and gunfire.

  Mercy stepped out and dropped nearly two feet. The train had almost made it to the stone slab of the train station, maybe a quarter of a mile away. Here, the tracks cut through an abandoned railyard, an expanse of palm-sized granite rocks, rotting wooden beams, and stubborn stalks of grass poking toward the sun. Old train cars rusted on the parallel tracks. She had never visited a city before and would probably never set foot in one ever again. All the right angles, all the metal and glass, plastic and paint. Her siblings told her to fear this place, but the sight only made her angry. The humans cut this land from the forest, and the forest would reclaim it, one way or the other.

  As Mercy exited the car, a group of dogs formed a phalanx around her. Across the railyard, a trio of human soldiers exchanged fire with them from behind the rusted hulk of a boxcar. A bullet grazed the top of the train. One of the dogs grabbed Mercy’s shoulder and forced her to kneel so they could shield her.

  “Get ready to run,” the dog said.

  A fleet of pickup trucks rumbled through the railyard, each with machine guns mounted in the rear. While the gunners provided cover, the lead vehicle wheeled beside Mercy. The dogs hustled her into the pickup as more gunfire erupted, this time from a concrete barrier that sealed the railyard from the highway beside it. One of the dogs slumped onto her shoulder. The pup cried. He batted his paws against the dead soldier until Mercy shrugged the dog away.

  Once inside the pickup, she let out a desperate howl, the signal she used when she needed her bodyguards to protect her. Despite the deafening noise, three wolves tumbled out of the passenger car: Creek, Mag, Quick. Carsa came last, carrying Augur on her back. There was no sign of Urna. Mercy did not wish to know either way.

  The wolves raced to the pickup. Once they got on board, they lifted Augur and dropped him so that his head landed in Mercy’s lap. She slid her arm across his chest and took hold of his bloody hand. He closed his eyes, in great pain but fighting through it.

  One of the dogs pounded on the roof, ordering the driver to accelerate. Carsa leapt onto the pickup halfway, and the others pulled her aboard. Suddenly, her spine went stiff. She tried to yelp but only gurgled. With her eyes fixed on Mercy, the old wolf tumbled out of the pickup as the driver sped away.

  “I’m sorry,” Augur said, his eyes still closed. His mind was right again. And so he saw all of this before it happened.

  Running after them, the wet nurse and the husky barked and hollered. A cloud of dust billowed across the railyard, hiding the attackers from Mercy’s sight.

  Chapter 25

  The Snake

  Falkirk ran alongside the stalled train. The truck carrying his son gathered speed, blasting a plume of oily exhaust in his face. When it hit a bump, the vehicle bounced like a child’s toy rolled across an uneven carpet. After clearing the train, the truck swerved onto the tracks, its massive tires rolling over the wooden beams. One way or the other, this would lead the wolves to Mudfoot territory. They would shoot their way out of this trap and leave their weapon behind.

  More trucks rolled past him. One of the rear gunners shouted, “Get on!” while sticking out his hand. In the confusion, these Mudfoot loyalists assumed that every dog here was on their side. Falkirk realized then that Mort(e) had disappeared, which may have saved their lives. As the last truck passed, a spray of bullets pinged off the side of the train. Human soldiers emerged from their hiding spots, behind empty train cars, concrete barriers, metal switchboxes.

  Realizing they were caught in the middle of a street battle, the two dogs ducked beneath the train and fled to the other side of the railyard, racing down the grassy hill toward the river, where a barbed-wire fence prevented them from going any farther. The bullets found them again, splashing the dirt a
nd pebbles a few feet away. Falkirk tucked into a ball and covered his head. They were pinned here, and their son had disappeared in a cloud of dust and smoke. Beside him, D’Arc lowered her head, looking too tired to cry. With as much tenderness as he could manage, Falkirk placed his hand on her shoulder and eased her below the cover of the hill.

  She rested her head on her forearm. “I saw us saving him,” she said. “I swear I saw it.”

  “I know you did,” Falkirk said.

  He searched for a way out. They could hop the fence and jump into the water, if it came to that. But on the other side, more fighting erupted in the old apartment buildings that had survived the war. Snipers blew out windows and picked off targets in the streets. Soldiers tried to position themselves on nearby rooftops to return fire. This was no coordinated attack. The word had spread to every canine with a grudge, every dog who saw the wolves as their true allies, every stray who remembered eating scraps before the war.

  Ruiz was right. He had seen it all during the occupation. Despite all the dire warnings, the wolves would never invade. Instead, they would ask their sleepers in Hosanna to create havoc. They wouldn’t need training—or even official orders. Just a whisper here, a nod there, a few signals in the night disguised as random howls. Those who rebelled to blow off steam would cause the same amount of damage as the zealots who wanted to live as wolves. The same thing must have happened on the Vesuvius. Ruiz may have survived the bullet wound only to die while defending the ship from traitors.

  More soldiers swept in from the station to drive out any marauders who remained. Falkirk fumbled for his old Sanctuary Union identification badge. If he flashed it in time to the right person, he might live through this. But the soldiers racing to the railyard were young, all human. Red-faced, glistening with sweat despite the cold, with enormous eyes that rarely blinked. Falkirk knew the look.

  He nudged D’Arc. They followed along the embankment, using the hill to hide their movement. They made it to a freight car that had been tipped onto its side and left in place for many years. The rust had eaten through the roof, and the smell of corroded metal wafted from the holes. Falkirk tried to see around the corner, but the smoke hung in the air, shrouding the chaos from the other side of the river.

  “We have to get that bomb out of here,” D’Arc said.

  “I know,” Falkirk said. “Do you see a way?”

  “I’m trying.” Her head jerked back and forth like someone watching a tennis match. He knew right away that she could see multiple scenarios in which they broke cover and tried to reach the train, each one ending in their deaths. “No,” she finally said. “There’s too many of them.”

  A break in the smoke revealed more soldiers swarming into the railyard. Two of them helped a wounded comrade, while several others checked under the stalled train for any stragglers. Another soldier knelt by a corpse, feeling the neck for a pulse.

  “What if I tried talking to them?” Falkirk said.

  Her face went blank. “It depends on what you say.”

  “Obviously!”

  Again, she ran it through her head, all the scenarios that her mind could handle.

  “Quickly,” he urged her.

  “Find the leader,” she said. “Get their attention. Be kind. Speak slowly.”

  “That’s it?”

  “If I tell you more, it won’t happen.”

  His heart lurched as he realized that D’Arc never told him when the bomb would detonate.

  Two soldiers—young men with maybe half a chin between them—turned their attention to the overturned freight car. They split apart, taking opposite ends so they could corner whoever waited on the other side.

  Falkirk wanted to ask D’Arc which one would give him a chance to speak. But there was no time left.

  “Over here!” the human shouted.

  “Sanctuary Union!” Falkirk said, emerging from behind the train car. “I’m with Sanctuary Union! Special Operations!” He held out his identification. The human aimed his rifle, ready to shoot a hole through the ID card. The man’s visor tilted low over his dark eyes. He pressed the stock of the rifle against his freshly shaven cheek.

  The other soldier rounded the corner. D’Arc remained still, letting her sword drop to her feet. Falkirk put his hands high over his head and slowly lowered to his knees.

  “There’s a bomb on that train!” he said. “We have to get it out of here!”

  The man motioned with his rifle for Falkirk to drop the ID badge. He flicked it to the human. The badge landed right in front of the man’s boot.

  “What’s the worst thing you can eat at the academy cafeteria?” the soldier said.

  “Wouldn’t know,” Falkirk said. “I’m still alive.”

  The man lowered his rifle to his hip. With his face revealed, Falkirk could see the smooth skin around his eyes and mouth, not a wrinkle or a crease. So young, like so many of the human soldiers. Another child who knew nothing but war.

  More of them arrived, led by a woman with two lieutenant’s bars on her helmet. Given how this day had gone, she may have taken command a few minutes before, after the traitors killed her captain.

  The lieutenant plucked the ID badge from the dirt.

  Be kind, D’Arc had said.

  “I don’t care what you do to me,” Falkirk. “But we have to get that train out of here.”

  She pocketed the card.

  “It has the rahvek on it!” he said.

  “The what?”

  “Ask one of your commanders. They know what I’m talking about.”

  The humans whispered to one another. Despite their inexperience, they knew enough about animal hearing to keep their voices extremely low. Falkirk could hear their dry mouths clicking, and little else.

  A tremor shook the gravel where Falkirk knelt. He checked on D’Arc, who remained calmly seated while a soldier aimed a rifle at her. But she must have felt it too.

  About fifty feet behind the lieutenant and her men, the train began to move. Someone had disengaged the brakes, allowing the wheels to turn. The lieutenant must have sensed something but did not react until a few soldiers came running. “It’s moving!” one of them shouted.

  The engine kicked on, grinding the wheels against the rails. The lieutenant ordered her soldiers to pursue—though she clearly had no idea what they could do to stop it.

  “Let it go!” Falkirk said.

  An abandoned truck sat on the rails, blocking the train’s path. Despite its slow speed, the engine struck the vehicle with horrific force. The truck twirled out of the way, its tires bending on their axles, the hood crumpled against the windshield. One of the soldiers raced to the flatbed and hung on to the side. Thinking better of it, he jumped off and tumbled in the gravel. After clearing the platform at the station, the train descended into a tunnel that led under the city like a snake retreating into its lair.

  A soldier ran to the lieutenant, saluting awkwardly. She twirled her fingers in a signal that meant get on with it. “It was a cat!” the soldier said.

  “A what?” the lieutenant asked.

  “A cat was driving the train!”

  D’Arc snickered. It unnerved the man who guarded her. “It’s your messiah,” she said. “You saw him.”

  The man pursed his lips in embarrassment. “I mean . . . he was the same color, but . . .”

  “So it’s true,” D’Arc said.

  “What’s true?” the lieutenant asked.

  “The prophecy. Your messiah has finally come to save you.”

  Chapter 26

  Sarcophagus

  The train emerged from the tunnel, somewhere to the south of the city. The throttle pointed to the front of the control panel. A quivering dial showed the speed topped out at seventy miles per hour.

  The woman who once drove the train remained in her seat, facing the ceiling, h
er neck opened like a second mouth. Mort(e) wiped his hand across her face to close her eyes—not out of kindness, but because they seemed to follow him around the cockpit.

  He went to the side window to watch the city as it fell behind. He hoped to spot the dam, but it was too far away. He could only imagine Castor and the rest of the beavers rebuilding once again. Maybe they would write a new song about the crazy cat they once knew. At the Grumpy Beaver, they would belt out the Ballad of Sebastian while slapping their tails and spilling their Lodge City Specials on the floor.

  As the train crested a hill overlooking the forest, a new country spread out before him, the same as every other territory conquered and reconquered since the war began. As he did in his youth, he leaned against the glass and marveled at the world that awaited him if he dared to find it. He could rename this place if he wanted. Might as well. One day, some other warrior would come stomping through to rename it once again.

  But what to call it? His only brush with creativity had come when he decided on his own name. And that was only because he could hardly spell. The Sarcops words bouncing around in his brain could barely be pronounced, let alone painted on a sign. So he went through the names of people he knew. “Sheba” was too on the nose, even for him. The other members of the Red Sphinx came to mind. Maybe Tiberius. Or Culdesac. Right, that made sense.

  “Dead end,” he said, tapping the dead woman on the shoulder. “What do you think of that?”

  He leaned on the control panel as the train entered the forest, where the tree limbs scratched the sides of the engine, their tips bursting with green buds. In another few weeks, the leaves would sprout to drink in the sunlight. New life that he would not see. If he timed it right, maybe a tree would grow on the spot where he finally lay on the grass and went to sleep for good.

  With that depressing thought, the taste of saltwater returned. Of course, he thought. They let him enjoy the view long enough. It was time.