by Ilsa J. Bick
She might be strong now, but she wasn’t stupid. She had weapons. Along with her Glock 19, she’d packed in a Mossberg 500. A single shot would drive off the wolves. But she was curious why the pack followed. If she now could sense certain things, did they taste her difference? Smell it? Were they playing a guessing game, the equivalent of lupine twenty questions: animal, vegetable, or mineral?
Jack, again. “Kate, what are you going to do about this guy?”
“I don’t know, Jack.”
“Hey. Careful, honey. It’s one thing for me to talk to you, but another if anyone catches you out.”
Yeah, yeah. He was right. Although talking out loud made this all feel so much more natural, she had to be disciplined, even in private. No slip-ups, nothing that would make Vance and the DARPA boys more curious about what was happening in her head than they already were.
“So, honey, about this guy?”
Right. Give me a second. Letting her eyes drift shut, she cleared a space in her mind. While she wasn’t a telepath—well, not yet, anyway, if that was even possible—she was pretty damned sensitive now. With all the modifications they’d made as well as the sensors and DNA chips and silica biobots busily laying down neural connections, her brain was now cross-wired in new and novel ways. Not that the DARPA 7UV9 guys or Colonel Vance knew about the spidey-sense thing she had going—or Jack. If they found out, Vance would throw her in a steel room somewhere and then the 7UV9 boys would dissect her a little at a time to figure out what made her tick.
Now, she took a deep breath and inhaled the man. His scent. His taste.
Something dank and swampy settled on her tongue.
He’s sad. Or really depressed. And what else? She drew in another long inhalation and now got a Purple Heart tang, gluey as a blood clot. That was the taste of anger. Of rage.
“Bad combination, Kate. Depressed guys can be dangerous and aggressive. They can have a death wish. Dowell once said that.”
Yeah, yeah. She remembered—and actually agreed with the little pissant on that one.
“So what are you going to do? He’s getting close, Kate. You got to decide. You really want to meet up with this guy?”
Not particularly. So, she could make herself scarce. Get off the trail and let this man pass by, none the wiser, especially if he was spoiling for a fight.
“Might be good. You have no idea where this guy is going or whom he’ll talk to when he gets there. The last thing you need is for a story about some kick-ass bionic woman to make its way to Vance. Of course, you get into that kind of fight, you’ll have to kill him.” A pause. “Well, unless he’s armed. You’re fast, honey, but not faster than a speeding bullet.”
I’m not killing anyone. Though that would solve all her problems. The more time she spent around people, the greater the chance she might slip up. Do that, and Vance would figure out she knew how to tinker with her neural tracker, too. Confuse it a little. Make the boys who were monitoring her think she was where she wasn’t. She’d never completely disable the thing. That would raise all kinds of alarms. Worse, Vance would be pissed. Probably scramble a black-ops team to hunt her down, PDQ. They’d haul her back, maybe even shut her down. She couldn’t risk that.
Although, sometimes, she wondered if she didn’t hunger for that kind of test.
Because what if she beat the black-ops boys at their own game?
“So, if you don’t want to fight, Kate, get under cover.”
“That won’t work, Jack,” she said, forgetting her promise to herself. “If he stays on this path, he’ll pass my campsite. All my gear’s there, including my weapons, so...” If this man was bent on violence, all he had to do was wait. Maybe turn her own weapons against her. She couldn’t hide forever.
So…no choice.
“There are always choices, Kate. You’re making one now.” Jack was quiet a beat. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say you wouldn’t mind if he came at you. Just to see.”
Well, maybe so. Pivoting, she faced into the woods, arms out at her sides, hands at waist level, and eyed the spot where this man would emerge. About fifty feet and change. No sweat. She could cover that in less than six seconds. The last time they clocked her, she was off the blocks in point-one-seven-one seconds. Not quite Usain-Bolt territory, but plenty fast enough.
She had another advantage, too. She knew this man was coming and what he felt. She might even sense a decision before he made it.
Another interesting test, come to think of it.
But you watch. All her senses were alert, taut as the strings of a too-tight guitar. If she’d still had the balls of the feet she’d been born with and the correct muscles, she might have felt herself lift and tense, her thighs clench and calves tighten, ready to spring. It’ll be fine. He’ll just be some guy. I won’t have to do a thing. I’m freaking myself out over nothing.
“Uh-huh,” Jack drawled. “Famous last words.”
8
The day was sliding toward its gloaming, the colors bleeding away, the woods beginning to lose definition. Gabriel wasn’t really thinking of anything, only walking, putting one foot in front of the other, listening to the hollow clop of his boots against packed earth and the Rice Krispies crackle and crinkle of dead aspen leaves underfoot.
The center of his chest was as empty as a dried-up corn husk. Last night, swaddled in a too-thin sleeping bag and his poncho, he’d lain awake, shivering and too cold to really sleep, and put his hand where his heart was supposed to be.
Didn’t feel anything. Like...nothing. No beat, no vibration. Nothing.
Shit. His breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t dead. Right? Or maybe I am. Bolting upright, he’d thrashed out of his bag then ripped open his shirt, buttons flying everywhere. Please, God, please. He pressed both trembling hands over his chest. Please don’t make me have died and not even know.
For another long second, there was nothing, and still nothing—and then, a quickening and a flutter...and then a thump, ba-thump, ba-thump.
Oh Jesus. He was so relieved, he had to bite a knuckle to keep from bawling like a little kid. Oh sweet Christ.
Later, though, as he groped for buttons in the dark because his flashlight had died a day ago, he also considered he might be just a little bit crazy.
Maybe I shouldn’t have thrown away those pills. The VA doc said he didn’t have post-traumatic stress, which Gabriel supposed was good. On the other hand, the doc did think he was probably pretty depressed, and that was bad. After writing out scripts for three months’ worth of three different meds—one was for an antipsychotic, and Gabriel was, like, whoa, wait a second, I ain’t seeing little green men, you know—the doc told Gabriel to stop at the front desk on his way out and take the first available slot for a follow-up appointment because he thought Gabriel really did need to be seen again ASAP.
Gabriel did what he was told. Stopped, made an appointment. Told the blank-faced clerk the doc said ASAP. The clerk didn’t bat an eyelash or laugh in his face. What he did, though, was give Gabriel another appointment to return…in six months.
And Gabriel was, like, what the hell? What was he, a chemistry experiment? Did any of these people have any idea how hard it was to swallow his pride, make this damn appointment in the first place? How weak that made him feel?
Well, screw that. Screw them all. Assholes.
So, he didn’t take the pills. Oh, he filled the scripts. But, pills? Really? Anyway, Gabriel didn’t feel sad or down.
What he felt instead was...alien. Detached. Even a little dead, which might explain why his buddies from Afghanistan popped by now and again. Not lately, but often enough. Just to say hi, shoot the shit.
Which was kind of a problem, considering they were worm dirt and all.
Although what if he had this the wrong way around? What if he was the ghost? It would be like that movie...what was it, old one, Bruce Willis, spooky little kid... Sixth Sense, that was it. He was Bruce Willis, a dead person who just didn’t know it yet.
He had plenty of evidence for this. First off, no one really saw him. Wander in to watch a game with his dad or sit down to supper with his family—his little brother, Joshua, going on about how unfair it was that his high school football coach never played him, while his dad talked which milkers were doing well, although old Brandy was on her last legs, and maybe have to call for that cow man soon enough, cart her away while they could still get some decent money out of her and blah-blah-blah-blah—and Gabriel would sit there, silent, forking in mashed potatoes with a stunning, robotic automaticity. Chew and swallow and chew and swallow and sip water. Rinse and slot his plate in the dishwasher, and then the ordeal was over until breakfast.
So, almost a ghost.
Until there came a moment—and it always did—when his mother seemed to remember he was there and turned on a smile that was too bright, too wide, toothy as a commercial for dental floss. “And how did your day go, dear?”
Him: “Fine.”
Mother: “Any luck finding a job?”
Him (or was it he?): “I put in a couple applications.”
Mother: “Oh, how nice. Where?”
He (whoa, that sounded weird):
Mother: “Any idea when they’ll call you back?”
Him (screw it): “I just put them in, Mom. They have to call me first before there can be a call back.”
Mother: “Oh. Well, but surely, with your qualifications...you were an MP...have you thought of the police department? Or perhaps the county sheriff? Why are you settling for private security?”
Dad: “Jean, leave the boy be.”
Joshua: “Security cops aren’t real cops anyway.”
Mother: “But it’s a job.”
Him: “Which is why I applied. It’s not a question of settling. Look, just because I was an Army cop doesn’t mean they just automatically got to take me. The departments around here want you to go to the academy first. Maybe if I move to a real small town or something, it would be different, but there wouldn’t be much to do.”
Mother: “I’d think you’d count it a blessing to have no one shooting at you for a change.”
Joshua: “Yeah, but then he’d just drive around a cruiser all day and eat doughnuts.”
Mother: “I don’t understand why they need you to go any academy. Really, boot camp and three tours weren’t enough? You’re still in the reserves.”
Him: “Which could be a problem since I got to take off a weekend every month. I could get benched for Gitmo or something.”
Mother: “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s only a weekend. What are the chances they’d actually pull you back on active duty again?”
Him: “Depends. Actually, I was thinking of switching over to the National Guard. That would solve some problems.”
Mother:
Dad:
Joshua:
Him: “You get a signing bonus, too.”
Dad: “But then you’d probably have to deploy again, wouldn’t you? Doesn’t the Guard almost always deploy first?”
Him: “Yes, sir.”
Dad: “Do you know where?”
Him: “Wherever I’m needed?”
Mother: “You don’t think you’re needed here?”
Him: “I wasn’t saying that. But, you know, you don’t need me around the farm.”
Dad: “Well, now, I’m not getting any younger.”
Him: “Dad, we’ve talked about this.”
Dad: “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with honest work.”
Him: “But I don’t want to be a farmer.”
Dad: “It’d be a job, though, wouldn’t it? Last I checked, you don’t have one.”
Him: “Just because you tied yourself to the farm because of your dad doesn’t mean that’s right for me.”
Dad: “Look to you like I’ve suffered any?”
Him: “Dad, that’s not...”
Dad: “Like I haven’t done an honest day’s work my whole life?”
Him:
Dad: “Does it?”
Him:
Mother: “Your father’s speaking to you.”
Dad: “Nothing wrong with the boy’s hearing, Jean.”
Him:
Mother, chipper as a chipmunk: “What about going back to school? You’ve got the GI bill. What about that?”
Him: “I don’t know what I’d want to study.”
Mother: “Well, of course not, You just got back. Give yourself time.”
Him: “Time? Mom, I got back a year ago. All I can get is part-time work.”
Mother: “So? Something will turn up.”
Him: “I don’t think so. I think maybe the Guard...”
Dad: “Which National Guard post? Where?”
Him: “I’m thinking Washington.”
Mother: “D.C.?”
Him: “State.”
Dad: “State.”
Mother: “State?”
Him: “Yeah. State.”
Joshua: “Cool. Like Seattle?”
Him: “Kent.”
Joshua: “Where’s that?”
Him: “Not Seattle.”
Joshua: “Well, that’s stupid. They probably don’t even have Starbucks.”
Him: “Sure they do. It’s Washington State. They put Starbucks in the water. They got Starbucks in Afghanistan, there’s got to be one in Kent.”
Joshua: “No shit.”
Dad: “Watch that mouth.”
Mother: “So, you’d go clear across the country?”
Him: “Last time I looked, that’s where Washington is.”
Dad: “What’s wrong with Utica?”
Joshua: “Everything?”
Him: “It’s New York.”
Dad: “And? So?”
Him: “I want to try something new.”
Joshua: “Well, I think it’s cool. Wish I was going.”
Dad: “Just what is that supposed to mean?”
Joshua: “Dad, I’ve never even been out of the state.”
Mother: “So? What do you think you’d find anywhere that you can’t find in New York? Well, all right, there’s the city—they’ve all lost their minds down there—but upstate, where the real people live...”
Joshua: “Nothing’s wrong, but... Mom... I mean, it’s cows.”
Dad: “Not you, too. What’s wrong with cows?”
Joshua: “That they’re cows?”
Dad: “I’ll have you know those milkers put food on this table and clothes on your back.”
Mother: “Gabriel, is it something we’re doing?”
Him: “No, Mom, nothing, it’s just...”
Mother: “Do you want to get away from home?”
Him, thinking: You have no fucking idea. Do you guys ever listen to yourselves?
Mother: “Well?”
Him:
Joshua: “Hey, why not go for the Secret Service?”
Dad, firing off a finger: “You know, Josh, that’s not a bad idea. Enough of this Army crap. How about trading up for a job with some real prestige? What do you think, Gabriel?”
Of the Secret Service? Nothing. That was what he thought. Nothing then—and nothing now.
All that mattered now—out here, in the mountains, away from people, his life, that place—was walking until he couldn’t walk anymore.
Warriors did that. Vision quests, they called it. Cleanse the body, clear the mind, and a spirit animal would come to show you the right path.
Or it’s all just bullshit. He was probably the wrong religion or something, if not believing in anything even counted.
So, he trudged, his mouth slick with the taste of oil and old fish, his stomach shriveled to a knot the size of a walnut. Every now and again, his middle cramped up against a scraping, beaky sensation. Felt like there was an animal trapped in there, digging in with claws and teeth, his body like to eat itself up. He once knew a boy...this was way back...who had a pet bunny. The family went away on vacation, an
d the kid forgot all about the rabbit, didn’t remember until maybe a day or two before they came back. Too scared to tell his folks, he raced up to his room, but the smell was so strong he had to put his arm across his mouth and nose. That poor rabbit had gone so wild with thirst and hunger, it had started in on itself: chewed a paw clean off and dug at its belly.
People did that. Trapped miners choked back coal. There were all kinds of stories of folks wandering the woods, chewing on bark and moss and dirt before cutting strips of their own flesh.
Maybe that’s how I’ll end up. The few rations he’d carried in—packets of jerky and honey sticks—were long gone. Fillet me off a steak from my butt, a nice rump roast. A grim thought that provoked a hopeless chuckle because he did not have to do this. He was still on-trail. Conserve his strength, he could get himself out. Before he’d started this long, lonely walk, he’d downloaded and printed maps and so knew, roughly, where he was. Make my way back to civilization, like coming home from the war, and then he laughed again through a throat full of broken glass. Like civilization and coming home had just worked out so well. Face it. He was a dead man heading to Dead Man.
At least, he’d thought ahead enough to bring a collapsible rod and a bow. Since wandering into the higher elevations, game had become scarce. The last animal he’d brought down was a snowshoe hare, four days ago A day before that, when he’d stopped at a fast-running stream, he’d landed three trout. He’d been so hungry, he didn’t bother to clean or gut them or anything. Just poked a sharpened stick through the mouth of one all the way out its butt-end then stuck the stick in a fire. Even then, he couldn’t wait but tore into that fish when it was still half-raw and the guts so slimy and full of fish shit he’d puked out everything he managed to bolt down.
You failure. Head hanging, ropy drool pouring out of his mouth, he’d stared at that steaming mess. If he was any kind of man, any sort of real warrior, he’d damned well shovel that crap back into his mouth and swallow it down. Shit, Indians ate raw livers, raw hearts, even brains.
But he couldn’t do it. Some fucking warrior.
Instead, he kicked dirt over the mess then gutted what was left, cleaned off the scales. Roast it right, got maybe four or five mouthfuls that he chewed slowly, thoroughly, carefully. His stomach tried to rebel again—throwing up a little into his mouth—but this time, he muscled it back down, his throat convulsing all the while.