by Russ Linton
We follow, Mom wrapped in a shawl and me insisting on lugging up Eric's gear. He retrieves his keys and checks the lock twice, the horn blasting each time and Hound's scowl deepens. Eric pauses several times while climbing the steps and Hound bites off his normal commands. Once we're all crowded inside, Hound shuts the door, flips the deadbolt, slides the chain, and checks through the curtain.
"Relax," says Ember. "Nobody around and if there are, they won't be the type to make any of this their business."
"How'd you get the digs?" I ask Hound.
"I know a guy. Been a while, but I spent some time here after the war. Place went to hell though. Young Boys, they called 'em. Kids gave up paper routes, started sellin' dope. Auto plants went overseas. Gotta' be careful." He tugs the curtain closed. "We don't exactly fit in."
"We've got the entire place for two days," says Dad. "A little recon tonight and tomorrow. Then we'll move."
Ember opens an interior door to reveal the next room. They're identical down to the fuchsia and teal color schemes—two twin beds, a particle board dresser, and a tube television with rabbit ears.
"No cable?"
"People don't come here to watch TV, son," grumbles Hound.
"Oh. Black light special," I say.
"We stick to these two rooms," Dad says. "I don't want anyone too far away in case we have to respond to a threat."
"I get the old timer or the boys?" asks Ember.
"Neither. You'll be with us. Hound, you and the tech team share the next room."
"Threesome it is," she says. "Who's out first on recon?"
"I need you to stay put, Ember. You've got the fastest response time to support the team. Eric, set up whatever you need to monitor the theater's transmissions from here." No 'yes, sir' or enthusiastic agreement in Klingon, Eric simply drags his equipment into the next room against my protests. Hound wags a finger at my fussing, seeing as though he's from the "walk it off" generation. I keep a worried eye on Eric as Dad continues.
"The rest of us will run physical surveillance on the target. We need to verify this is the place and see what we're dealing with."
"I'll head out first. Take the kid with me," says Hound.
I've got half a mind to disagree because Eric needs more than the distraction of another assignment. "No problem, Hound. Let me drop off my stuff."
My duffel bag. One bag, that's my entire existence. Nothing else, and I don't care. Mom gives a smile and Dad a regulation nod as I duck into the adjoining room and close the door. Eric's already setting up.
"Man, get some sleep. You've been crammed in that economy class backseat for days."
"Plenty of room in my car, Spencer," he replies in a dull monotone, no sign of a comeback or even complaint. I grab the laptop power cable he's unwinding and bend down to plug it in the wall for him.
"Seriously. Sleep. You need for us to get some more pain meds?"
"Go do your job, Spence. I got mine."
He strings the nest of wires and equipment across a small table by the window, then eases into the chair and sinks inside whatever magic he's going to be performing. Probably compromise the nearest cell tower and keep an eye on all calls and data use within ten blocks. Track down the pipe feeding the theater's hard-wired access. In any normal city, he might borrow a few traffic cameras, but something tells me, at least in this area of town, he won't find much.
"If you need anything." A nod, that's all I rate today.
In the next room, I lean close to Mom and keep my voice low. "Make sure he gets sleep."
She smooths my hair and mirrors my look of concern. "I will. Make sure you stay out of trouble."
"I'll keep 'em safe, ma'am. Always do." Hound's reassurance does little for that wrinkle between her brows.
Ember plops down on the groaning bed and clicks a brick-sized remote. A snowy picture crackles to life. She flops backward to stare at the ceiling amid the chorus of springs. "Get in trouble. Please."
"Son," says Dad. He claps my shoulder, and I think something pops. He wasn't kidding about feeling better. He almost looks surprised himself.
"Whoa-kay," I sputter. A quick hug, and Hound and I slip outside.
"He'll be just fine," Hound says, a few steps down the concrete stairs.
"Eric?"
"I know you gotta get tired of hearin' it but I seen worse. Connie'll make sure he hits the rack, and a little work later will keep his mind off things."
"Eric isn't that way," I say, stepping off into the parking lot. "He tends to fixate. Sure, work will distract him, but he's probably already googled nearby hospitals and funeral homes."
"Men are men. 'Least they become them at some point whether they want to or not."
I stop at the SUV, but Hound keeps walking. "Where are you going?"
"We can't be discreet in that thing." Hound gestures down the weed-crowded street. "There's an old car wash about half a click east of the theater. We'll keep an eye from there until nightfall then move to the empty lot across the way."
I hustle after him. "I thought you said you hadn't been here in a while."
"You boys aren't the only ones with the Google, ya know?" He smirks, his eyes on the street ahead and nose twitching. "Gotta do yer research before any mission."
We follow the street as the sun dips lower. This could be a wilderness retreat save for the intermittent crooked houses. Freeway noise gets louder and the homes, more frequent, though bald gaps of empty foundations poke through like grave markers. A few of the houses left standing are covered in new siding and fresh paint, but can't hide the aging architecture.
Past a gated, crumbling pedestrian bridge, we cross the freeway on an overpass and from there, follow a back street behind more of the same desolation and former parking lots which resemble the surface of the moon. An occasional car glides by on the distant access road, but otherwise, we're alone.
Hound leads us right to the car wash. The bays are choked with weeds and saplings. What used to be a mechanical room resembles a bunker out of an old war film. Windows and door gone, a dark void rests behind an incomplete jigsaw of cinder blocks. We set up inside there. Hound points down the street.
The Eastown Theater is a large building outlined by the setting sun. It dwarfs the single-story shops and homes. The street-facing portion looks more at home in Sirte than Michigan. A full quarter lies in rubble, and the rest is a peeling, glass-shattered mess. Behind the box office, the rear of the structure spots new brick work and none of the ubiquitous graffiti.
I can just make out a guy standing where the ruined and whole sections meet. Sun low, burning on the far side, shadow drapes him. But the way he's standing against the wall, twirling something in his hand... Something small. It's the familiar way he focuses on it before the unfamiliar flicker and a burnt circle of orange.
"I'm going to get a closer look," I say, not waiting for the okay from Hound who's wandered deeper into our hideout, sniffing around. I'm at the curb before he's in pursuit.
"Where ya goin'?"
I've got an idea. It's a dumb one, and I'd rather not say. I time it and hustle through the trickle of traffic.
"Dammit, kid!" Hound's right on me. "Okay, when we get to the other side, we turn and walk east, got it? To your right."
I nod, take the far curb, and turn left.
"Son of a bitch, soldier!" he growls. "Halt your fucking march right now!"
Growing up, shaking off the commands of a guy who could pulp me into a pizza sauce hasn't exactly prepared me to listen to my superiors. Normally I would, I really would. Hound's a decent guy. A man I'd follow into whatever fight he picked.
But that's Danger over there. And I've got a few words for that motherfucker.
Chapter 39
DANGER WATCHES US APPROACH the entire block, dragging on his lit cigarette. We must have been upwind because Hound doesn't seem to catch on to who it is until we're too close to turn away. Or maybe he's got even more to say than I do. In either case, he's given up trying t
o turn this train around.
"'Sup," I say.
He releases a cloud of smoke and eyes first me then Hound. Nostrils flinching, ears perked up, whatever beef Hound has with his former Army buddy, he's put it aside and is concentrating on making sure we won't have more company.
"'Sup."
"You left us to rot in the mountains out in Bum Fuck China, that's what's up."
"You come all this way to tell me that?" Danger checks over his shoulder. It's clear he's way outside his normal comfort zone. Nervous. Shifty. Another long drag off the cigarette and the ash creeps toward his mouth.
"I came to tell you it wears off."
"What?"
"Whatever Cyrus did, it wears off. His powers either can't fully repair the damage done by the Augment program or you guys' healing factors kick in. Something. But it does wear off."
He pinches the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and inspects it as though searching for an answer. Another long drag and he closes his eyes.
"Ain't yet."
"Well, it will," I say, defiant, but suddenly unsure where I'm going with this. He doesn't appear thrown off any more than his already edgy self. "You better not have hurt Aurora."
He runs his tongue under his lip and glances nervously to the darkening side of the building. "She's fine. Sergei keeps her dampened tho'. Not goin' anywhere. Now get the fuck outta here."
"Okay," I say menacingly—and failing. "Don't tell them we were here."
"Why you think I won't jus' do that?"
"If you wanted to be their early warning system, you wouldn't have had Cyrus snip your nuts so soon."
Cigarette in his mouth flaring into an orange disc, I'm certain he didn't have any plans to respond. He and Hound exchange glances before we walk away.
"You watch yourself. Keep your friends close," Danger calls.
Adrenaline pumping, I step off the curb and a car whizzes by, changing to the inner lane just in time. Hound drags me back and guides us through the next opening. My trajectory toward the car wash is hazy, lightheaded. Hound roughly steers me toward a different street. We walk in silence until the theater is out of sight. Red and white tracers flare on the interstate just over the horizon.
"What in the hell was that?" Hound demands, stopping me cold.
"I wanted to talk to him." Now that it's happened, I'm not sure what I hoped to gain. I'd thought we had some kind of friendship or at least a common trust. Answers, that's what I expected, but they never came.
"You don't go OFP under my command! You burned up our position and nearly got us killed!"
"Shouldn't we continue our surveillance or whatever?"
"Jus' shut up," he growls. At the highway, we take a different turn which runs along an overgrown sidewalk and cuts through the ruins of a store. Rusted and twisted metal forces us to slow down.
"Where are we?" I ask.
"Gonna fly this one solo. First, I gotta get you back in one piece."
An overabundance of caution goes into the remaining route. We double back. Stop. Wait while Hound sniffs the air. We walk down the middle of some streets and slink down shadowy alleyways. He does his best to avoid people, but we're seeing more out on their porches or feeling their way through the shadows exactly like us.
I have no clue where we are. Finally, the motel leaps out of yet another overgrown field. We've approached from a completely different angle. Head low, mouth shut, I trudge up the stairs behind Hound until he opens the room door.
Mom is the first one to greet us. Relief washes over her, and she can't resist swooping in for a hug. Twenty years old and I can't even go spying on weaponized humans without her worrying. Dad appears confused.
"You're back early."
"He is," grumbles Hound. He taps the radio in the pocket of his cargo pants. "I'll call if I need any more 'help.' " With that, he's gone.
"Spencer?" asks Dad, and Mom steps away.
"Danger was right there. I wanted to talk to him." I wait for the interruption. Having them in side by side parental grilling formation makes me feel there's been zero growing up accomplished. "He's a good guy. I'm sure of it."
Mom's look of sympathy balances out Dad's typical knitted brow. She keeps her distance though as he opens up the lecture.
"These aren't games with your friends. Good guys, bad guys. We aren't playing cops and robbers. These situations are highly fluid, and we have to maintain tactical integrity or else people die."
That last word sends a visible shiver through Mom, and she steps closer. "What your father is trying to say is people are complicated. It's good you care for Danger, but we need to stay safe."
"We care about the mission, Spence," Dad says, flashing an annoyed glare at Mom, their tag team mojo working in slightly different directions. "You've got to put your personal feelings aside and commit."
A sigh escapes Mom's lips. "I'm glad you're okay," she says and adds another hug which only drives home the, "I'm too old for this shit" feeling.
We'll need to move up the timetable," Dad grumbles. He marches into the adjoining room, and I follow.
Ember slouches in the armchair cycling through a single digit lineup of TV channels at a steady, uncompromising pace. In our room at least, the TV works. Mostly every station is covering the chaos, and none of it apparently interests her. Eric's passed out on the far bed, face first. I don't know which of them is more conscious until Ember speaks.
"Boss. Mini boss," she says without pulling away from the flicker of political pundits, self-righteous doomsayers, and explosions sweeping much of the world.
Dad surveys the room with one quiet sweep. His eyes close, and he massages his temples between forefinger and thumb while sucking in a deep breath. Despite his tights saying "yoga," he isn't the spiritually cleansing type. I'm expecting a drill sergeant style explosion. Then again, I've been expecting one of those since Aurora blinked me into his vicinity.
"Spencer, check out Eric's work and see what he's dug up on the theater. We'll need floor plans, access points." The sexy operational talk finally wrenches Ember out of her cathode ray trance. "I want to move before dawn."
No lecture. No dressing down. He's a soldier. He's got certain standards and expectations of us, of this situation. From the tension returning to his jaw, I can see how damn difficult it must have been balancing those expectations against a base once teeming with the world's most powerful, most unpredictable people. An impossible task maybe. Reduced to sitting in a roach motel with two basement-dwelling geeks, a pyromaniac, and a wife trapped in the body of a psychic experiment about the same age as his son, I'm fully on board the sympathy train.
"Got it." I slip into the chair behind the laptop.
A smile crawls across Ember's face at the mention of action. "Booyah." The choking odor of burnt plastic diffuses through the room. She tosses the melted remote toward the TV stand where it strikes, folds, then slumps to the carpet. "I'm ready now."
"Sit tight in case Hound calls for support," says Dad. "When he gets back, we'll brief next door."
He ignores the groan from the most powerful weapon at our disposal. One final status check directed my way, and I pretend to already be soaking up the data even though the screen has yet to warm up.
No sooner has the door closed than Ember leans in, close enough a trickle of heat fans my ear. "What'd ya do out there?"
Fuck. Is it that obvious? "Nothing. Aren't you staying in the other room?"
"TV in there doesn't work," she blithely says.
Before the remote got flambéed, the channel surfing had settled on a show which I think is all about how big some girl's ass is. Funny, the world coming apart at the seams, and people still want to know how this lady is coping, holed up in her mansion and freshly hired armed security. This is precisely why I only leave the safety of the internet to watch ballgames. Not that you can't find online streams with the same bullshit content, but nobody makes a big deal about it there. You're either watching the giant ass, or you aren
't.
"Turn it off at least and spare me."
More acrid odors. A few sparks near the outlet. The cord falls limp, melted and blackened along two halves.
"Was that necessary?"
She shrugs. "I get bored cooped up. We talked about that. Don't know why I told you." She hovers over my shoulder like a personal space heater. Too comfortable and uncomfortable all at once.
"Could you go be bored in the other room?"
"Thought I'd give the happy couple their privacy. You know." She smiles.
"Then definitely go be bored in there. Please, for my sake."
"Fine," she says and saunters toward the door in a way which begs for attention I only just manage to not provide.
"Leave the door open," I say. Chances of anyone getting busy next door are slim to none. But I will rise up and put a stop to that shit.
Screen lit, session loaded, I'm surprised Eric hasn't bothered to change the login password since Whispering Pines. Usually meticulous in his security precautions, I expect to have to wake him and tease out whatever twenty-digit stream of random numbers and characters he'd memorized for the day.
You're blushing.
A chat window's open and the text scrolls across the screen. Chroma. A quick piece of paper from the notepad beside me tented over the built-in webcam solves one problem. Exiting the chat window will solve the other.
:( Been so long since I've seen you, Spencer.
I close the chat window. It quickly re-opens.
*Chroma has joined the channel*
:)
From happy, to mildly annoying, to straight up chilling, the smiley covers the entire emoji spectrum. Maneuvering the pointer once more toward Eric's custom OS control panel, it stops mid screen as though it's hit an invisible bounding box.
Why won't you chat with me? Eric chats with me.
A) hasn't been long enough B) I'm busy C) You killed my mom D) All of the above. The simple solution is to pull the plug, the battery, then call in our incinerator. Yet she's out there. Living a virtual life connected into every little strand of the web. A lot like... You knew about Shortwave's plan, didn't you?