by T. C. Edge
As we go, I catch Zander stopping in my periphery. I stop too, a pace after him, and turn to find his eyes looking upon the muddy ground with a curious slant set upon his brow.
“What’s up?” I ask casually.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Then I see what he’s looking at.
Prints. Footprints in the mud.
“They’re ours, aren’t they?” I ask, hopefully.
His eyes flick up, but not to me. They look straight at the rocks ahead, and he bursts forward and right past me. I barely have time to see what he’s doing before he’s clambering towards the cave and disappearing. I follow, running to catch up, working my way towards the little cavern…
I’m stopped by the reappearance of my brother, coming out the other way. His eyes are sharp and jaw clenched tight. I know immediately what’s going on.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” I ask.
He steps out and through the rocks, nodding and looking again at the tracks. They seem to be heading off to the west, disappearing into the scorched forest.
“Yes,” he says. “Cromwell’s gone. Or…he’s been taken.”
He turns to me, eyes gliding across my face and then in the direction of the city. Then they go the other way, back to the tracks. The intimation is clear.
“We’re not heading back to the city yet, are we?” I ask.
He shakes his head, but doesn’t speak.
And in my head, all I can think is that the attack on the camp was a little too easy. Or, that it went a little too well.
In my life, nothing is ever that easy. Nothing ever goes quite that well.
And the fates have played us again.
We have to go after our grandfather.
THE END
The Enhanced will CONCLUDE in the FINAL book, Nemesis.
Part X
NEMESIS
260
The climbing sun bathes the outerlands in a warm orange glow, lighting up the devastated world that lies beyond the city of Haven’s borders. All is blackened and burnt. All is dead and still. The dawn contrasts with death, the world I know ever changing, ever dying.
Off in the city, the rumbling of war won’t cease for some time. Yet here it’s muted by distance and the rushing of the water that spills down the falls, plunging loudly into the lake beside us. The backdrop of the waterfall and the sunrise might, on another day, in another time, be pleasant.
But not this day. Not this time.
Beside me, Zander inspects the footprints set in the mud on the bank of the lake. His eyes turn quickly from print to print, getting an idea of just how many sets there are, and in which direction they travelled. The latter is easy enough for even a amateur like me to see. They all head straight towards the west, disappearing into the scorched remains of the woods.
His inspection doesn’t last long. It can’t. Not right now. As has been the case all night and through the previous few days, we’re very much on the clock here. Decisions needs to be made, and made quick. And though exhausted, we have little time to stop and rest.
He stands, and turns his eyes to me. Strikes of red venture across the white spaces like crimson lightning, shot with blood and telling of his fatigue. They tell, too, of his intensity. He continues to appear alert.
Adrenaline will do that, of course. Barely ten or twenty minutes ago, we were both in a fight for our lives over in the Cure’s mini-camp just to the east. Two Elementals were killed. Their sonic machine was disabled. And returning here, we found our grandfather gone.
Now, our minds are set to him, and him alone.
“Any ideas?” I ask quickly as those bloodshot eyes hunt me down.
“Can’t be sure,” he tells me, eyes switching to the shoreline. “The mud’s too pliable to give a good indication of bootprints. Could be soldiers of the Cure. Could be our own people.”
“The former, surely?” I question. “All the Stalkers are fighting in the city, right? How would they find him out here?”
“Same goes for the Cure, though. How would anyone find him in the cave?”
“Maybe they knew about the underwater river?” I suggest. “Maybe they knew it came out here, and sent soldiers to check the area. They found Cromwell, and took him. I don’t see any other explanation…”
My brother is nodding as I speak. My conclusion seems reasonable, yet he suggests another possibility.
“He could have a tracker on him,” he says. “Something to ensure his location is always known by the Stalkers. If that were the case, they’d have immediately come out here to fetch him, even if it meant going straight through enemy territory.”
Yeah, don’t I know it. Those damn Stalkers will do anything to protect their ‘master’.
“OK sure,” I admit. “So what does your gut tell you? I’m thinking the Cure took him, Zander. They might have followed, or been alerted to the fighting over at the camp. Maybe they got lucky and stumbled across him. I don’t know, to be honest. But I do know that following him into their main camp is probably just going to get us killed…”
He breathes out loudly, as if to cut me off.
“We have no choice. We’re following.”
He turns and begins moving off. No debate, then.
“Hey, hey, hang on!” I say fiercely. “Let’s just think about this for a second.”
He swivels. I’m met by increasingly red eyes.
“Brie, there’s no time to think. We’ll just go in circles. We’re out here, and Cromwell’s been taken. We need to confirm who took him, and where. It doesn’t mean we’re going to engage. I know full well my limits, OK. I’m flagging. So are you. But we’re here now. We have to follow. We have no choice.”
He doesn’t turn immediately this time. Doing so will only raise my ire. Instead, he waits for me to comply, which I’m forced to do. After all, I know he’s right.
And, well, he’s my commanding officer. I’m a soldier now, and soldiers obey.
I draw a breath and step towards him.
“OK,” I say. “You know best.”
He keeps his eyes on me for a moment, then turns back to the blackened woods. They remain mostly stumps of trees and charred rock, far more easy to navigate than they once were, and quicker to traverse too.
Anyone travelling through them will likely be more conspicuous as well, and thus easy to spot. When it comes to tracking whoever took Cromwell, that’s both good and bad. It’ll make finding and following them easier. But, it’ll give us less cover too.
The smoke is another factor. The death of that woman Elemental, that wind manipulator, is already having an impact. The skies are clearing, the mist fading. And if Colonel Hatcher managed to take out another to the north of the city, as he clearly did the other sonic machine, then the blanket of smog over Haven will soon clear out completely.
It’ll aid us significantly in the battle there. And here, the early impact of the Elemental’s death is being seen. Before too long, I know, the smoky veil will be drawn off by the rising winds, and these parts will breathe fresh air once more.
For now, though, we could probably use the lingering cover. If we are chasing down some special unit of the Cure who snatched away our grandfather, then I’d rather the mist stuck about for a little while longer…
The thought helps me to cast away my doubts and set a spring to my step. Zander is clearly aware of my state of thinking, his own mind having already analysed the situation and taken several more steps to boot.
Stepping for the woods, he quickly notes the direction of travel of the prints and sets his eyes forward.
“When do you think they took him?” I whisper, thinking it right to keep my voice low.
“Not long ago,” he says. “But look here.” He points to the prints, less visible within the charred woods but available to my eyes when pointed out. “You see how spaced out they are?”
I take a closer took.
“Um…”
He steps to my side and guides my sight with his index finger. H
e points to one print, then another a fair distance away. A good few metres.
“Their strides have lengthened,” he informs me. “Dashers. They’re clearly carrying Cromwell, and going fast. They could well be a fair distance away already.”
I’m nodding.
“Right. Stride length. I see it now. So, we use our powers too?”
“No. Too risky. We’d make too much noise and might run into some patrol.”
“Good,” I grin weakly. “I’m more up for a casual stroll, to be honest. Surely most of the Cure’s army are in the city by now, though? And, if they’ve got a main camp, it’ll be way outside the western gate. You know, the direction they came from.”
“I’d say that’s about right. But they may have patrols around still. If it was the Cure who took Cromwell, it’ll be to their main camp that they’ve taken him…”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll torture him,” I growl.
“Brie…”
“Not kill him,” I say. “Just, you know, put him through some good old fashioned pain.”
Zander’s lips crack into a weary smile.
“Yeah…that would be quite nice,” he says in an almost dreamy manner.
Then he snaps straight out of it, and remembers that Cromwell remains untouchable and in need of our protection. His ability to compartmentalise things is quite staggering to me. In my weaker moments, I’d cut our grandaddy right down and wouldn’t spare a thought for the potentially devastating consequences.
Zander clearly has more Savant in him. Logical. Rational. He invariably considers all ends before making a decision.
And, unlike me, he acts with his head more than his heart. I guess we’re just products of our upbringing.
Thoughts about Cromwell’s fate will, however, have to wait. Right now we have to find out where he is and who’s taken him. And, if we can, stage some sort of rescue.
Risk our lives for his. Again.
I conduct a quick internal shake of the head, grimace at the thought, and then cast it away into the depths. And then, with a low, crouching and very quiet walk, we begin working our way into the barren, black woods.
261
The woods cling to the mist as the morning rises, refusing to let go as their grip weakens. Visibility remains poor, though less so than before. As the light continues to grow, and the wind picks up, the true state of these vast forests will be revealed. Nothing lives here any longer. All beasts and birds have sought new pastures.
Only we remain, hunting our grandfather, tracing the steps of his captors. Zander’s gifts for such things are put to the test once again, the prints sometimes clear within the ash-blanketed woods, and sometimes disappearing altogether. To my eyes at least.
Mercifully, my brother has a nose for following prey, be it beast or man, in a variety of conditions. These conditions may be new to him, yet his proficiency is undiminished. He leads us on, pressing through swathes of woodland completely eaten away, and others somehow left almost untouched by the blaze and relentless inferno that so recently passed this way.
It makes me muse on the precariousness of life. On luck, and how it can play such a pivotal role for both individuals and collectives at times like this. Out there, in the city, with the battle raging, a stroke of misfortune can lead to a soldier catching a stray bullet. His death would be terrible luck, not just for him, but for his family, his unit, those he may have saved had he stayed alive.
Here, I look upon little thickets and collections of trees that have, somehow, avoided the terrible fate that consumed all those around them. Within the blackened woods, some greenery remains, untouched, untroubled, able to continue on as normal, and rebuild the woods anew.
It is the same for us all. Many will die in this war, not by a lack of skill as a soldier, but purely by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Many others will survive, that one bullet missing them entirely, or hitting them where it won’t be fatal. They will bear the burden of rebuilding our world, burying the dead, moving on and setting their eyes forward.
And just as these woods will grow back, and the trees that remain draw up new brothers and sisters from the earth, we will do the same in Haven. Luck, after all, doesn’t choose. It picks at random, acting indiscriminately, pointing a finger at this tree or that man and saying, ‘your turn to burn…your turn to die’. It is a natural force of entropy, of destruction.
But from the ashes, we will rebuild and regrow.
Just like these trees.
Just like these woods.
Brie!
My brother’s voice draws me from my mental wanderings, and my eyes skip straight for him. His lips remain sealed, his voice calling in my head. I see him crouching quickly behind a collection of tree stumps, and set myself down beside him. His eyes switch and gaze out into the swirling mist, lit by the early morning light.
Shadows appear within. Moving. Like spectres in the fog, shapes with no form.
They move as a mass, undecipherable in their numbers. And then, within mere moments, they’re gone.
My brother and I lock eyes.
“Patrol,” he whispers. “They’re moving to the camp in the east. The one we came from.”
“They must know we killed the Elementals. And destroyed the sonic machine.”
He nods.
“But then…”
I don’t voice my concern. Something isn’t quite adding up.
We press on, the going slower now as we appear to venture further to the west, curving a little northwards several miles from the perimeter of the city. Still, the endless chatter of war goes on, and through the occasional gap in the fog, I catch some sight of the walls in the distance as we work our way over a portion of higher ground.
I yearn to return. I need to know what’s happening there.
But not yet.
My sense of direction isn’t as developed as Zander’s. His time out here has given him an almost preternatural ability to know just where he is. Blindfold him, or set a deep mist to the air, and he’ll quickly determine where he might be with a quick glance at his surroundings. I can do that easy enough within the city. But not here.
Instead, I merely go with my gut, and continue to seek out glimpses of the city any time the lands rise. Without the forest blocking our view, and with the smoke still dissipating, those glimpses come more regularly. They’re the only thing that gives me some inkling of the direction in which we’re going.
And the direction is clear. We’re heading west from the southern portion of the outerlands, away from the marshes and swamps, and towards the larger forested areas that the Fangs call home. Or, called home, I should say…
It appears that Cromwell’s captors must have taken him far to the west, beyond the western perimeter gate. The leaders of the Cure will be in camp there. That’s where they’re going. It must be.
My mind wanders again with reckless thoughts. Maybe we could fight? Maybe we could sneak in and destroy the heart of the enemy right there and then? Maybe all of this will work in our favour. Perhaps all they’ve done by taking our grandfather is set a trail right to their gates.
I wish we had some more men with us. I’d even take a host of Stalkers right now, as unpalatable as I find their company most of the time. A sneak attack, smash and grab. Take out the top brass, disable their high command, and get Cromwell out alive at the same time. Wishful thinking, sure.
But, despite my natural inclination towards pessimism, I find myself oddly optimistic sometimes. Perhaps Zander’s got something to do with that. When I’m around him, I feel like we can accomplish anything.
Once again, however, I’m drawn back to the harsh reality of the setting as I hear my brother’s voice in my head once more.
Stop. Stay silent and still.
His words catch me offguard. For a moment I just stand there, before he slips to my side and draws me to the earth. We huddle once again into the mud, hidden within a grouping of charred bushes that were lucky enough to avoid the ful
l force of the inferno.
“What is it? What’s going on?” I whisper.
His finger hunts down my lips and draws them shut. I don’t need to ask, and should know that even a whisper here can be heard by a pair of keen, Enhanced ears.
We wait a moment, and I hear movement once more. I peer through a thatch of leaves and see more shapes moving.
There’s a large force, much bigger than before. They’re moving eastwards by the looks of things, heading straight for the city. Reinforcements perhaps? Is this a sign that the Cure are worried? Are they sending in their final soldiers to try to shift the battle back into their favour?
The thought gives me promise.
Then from the mass, a figure breaks off, followed by a few others. They begin moving from the main force, heading in our direction. They stop a way off, their figures growing in clarity. I notice one sniffing the air in a fashion that might once have appeared peculiar. Now, I merely know he’s a Sniffer.
He’s caught our scent…
Zander’s words filter into my mind. He acts immediately and without hesitation. Staying hidden, he grabs a lump of soft mud from the earth and starts rubbing it on his neck. I hear him urging me to do the same. I follow his lead and start applying the earth, the toxicity within the soil stinging and burning; the brown dirt stinking.
We lather it onto us as quickly and quietly as we go, masking the odours that our bodies are giving off. All the while, I keep my eyes on the Sniffer, still turning his nose this way and that, his nostrils flaring to suggest he’s struggling to draw in sufficient evidence that there’s a foreign entity nearby.
He seems to consider venturing further as his allies move up beside him. I feel a burst of wind, its direction changing and swirling, pulling our lingering scents in all sorts of directions. The man was downwind of us, the breeze carrying our scent right for him. Now it’s changed, sweeping off elsewhere, confusing him along with the coating of mud added to our bare skin.