by Deven Kane
Darcy paused to take a deep breath. “Or Mateo’s.”
Connor stared at him, stunned. Darcy dropped his grip and stepped back. “The savages we met last night, every single one of them, will be Implanted as weapons against the Givers. They’ll destroy the aliens and their human puppets—the collaborators—and return control of the Enclave to us.”
Darcy’s eyes blazed with the fervor of his cause. And vengeance. “It’s the perfect punishment for what they’ve done to Megan. Your sister will be avenged.”
“It’s all the savages are good for, anyway.” Connor wiped his eyes with an impatient hand, a cold hatred settling into his chest. “They’re animals, nothing more.”
He paused, eyeing his foster father. “And Mateo—what about him?”
Darcy smiled, an expression Connor found more chilling than his fits of rage. “Mateo is mine. Once the Givers are dealt with, I’ll teach that arrogant Tracker some respect. It’ll be the last lesson he learns.”
The doorbell chimed. Connor followed Darcy into the gathering room. The door opened to admit Tony, their gray-haired chauffeur and newest recruit to the cause. He halted just inside the entrance, fiddling with his cap as if unsure of his welcome.
“I waited in the parking garage.” He spread his hands in a helpless, aimless gesture. “I thought we’d agreed on a time . . .”
“No matter.” Darcy cut him off with a pre-emptive gesture. Tony was a good driver, but not the quickest thinker in their clandestine group. Connor found him more and more annoying as time went by. “Connor and I were having a father-son conversation. But now that you’re here, we should be on our way.”
Their walk down the hall, followed by the elevator descent to the garage level, was completed in absolute silence. The Enclave’s security—ever vigilant against possible incursions by the savages—had intensified in recent weeks.
Under the pretext of “security,” the Givers and their human stooges had accelerated the expansion of surveillance inside the Enclave. Darcy and his followers were too savvy to let casual words slip in an obvious place like an elevator.
Once inside their vehicle, engine running and windows closed, they dared to speak freely. Even so, they kept their voices down. Darcy leaned on the doorframe, resting his chin on his hand to shield the lower part of his face from exterior cameras.
“The clinic is prepped and ready.” Tony’s words were difficult to understand as he mumbled into his collar. “The team’s waiting for us.”
Connor edged forward in the back seat, his traditional spot. He would never presume to sit in the front. That was Darcy’s place, beside his subservient driver. “Darcy, I was wondering about the attack by those Trackers. How could they know where to find us?”
“Mateo, of course,” Darcy replied without hesitation, no hint of uncertainty in his voice. “It’s impossible to know where his loyalties lie. I’ve long suspected he was playing one side against the other. It was only after the Tracker ambush that I realized what game he’s playing.”
Darcy paused, clearly enjoying the drama of holding his listeners in spellbound thrall. Tony spoke first, his husky voice betraying his struggle between wariness and reckless curiosity. “What are you talking about?”
Darcy reward him with a freezing silence. Connor knew, without asking, Darcy was displeased by Tony’s over-eager query. Darcy would allow nothing to rob him of his moment of triumphant revelation. They cleared the exit ramp and entered the thoroughfare before he continued.
“Mateo serves the Givers,” he said with a cunning smile. “His plan was to gather everyone working against the Givers’ interests—savages and Citizens—into the same location. Then the Trackers could slaughter us easily, in one surgical strike. Outside the Enclave, where the average Citizen would never hear about it.”
Darcy leaned back in his seat, the leather creaking as he shifted position. “Mateo’s playing the Judas card, on both sides of the fence. He’s a puppet of the Givers, a collaborator in the worst sense of the word.”
He turned, catching Connor’s eye. “That’s why I’ll deal with Mateo when the time comes. I want to see the look on his smug Tracker face when he realizes he didn’t fool me. And then he’ll die.”
“And them?” Tony jerked his thumb over his shoulder, his attention still on the road. “What if they survive? Or figure out what you’re doing to them?”
Now you’ve done it. Connor smirked. Never question Darcy’s strategy. Not if you know what’s good for you.
“They won’t, on either count,” Darcy replied, his voice as icy as his expression. The ensuing silence was more threatening than anything else he might have added. Tony caught on, and concentrated on his driving.
Connor glanced into the cargo area, reaching over to peel back a corner of the tarp. The two bodies lay side-by-side, unconscious. The tranquilizers were performing at the peak of efficiency. Two of the so-called “Runners,” unaware they would soon be Implanted. For the good of the Enclave.
Connor studied their faces. The leader of the savages, the one Mateo introduced as Garr. And a young woman. He couldn’t recall her name. It didn’t matter. By night’s end, they’d simply be Implants Twenty-seven and Twenty-eight.
Animals. Connor’s lip curled with disdain. Darcy’s right—this is justice after what you did to my sister. This is the only thing savages are good for.
Four
THE TEMPERATURE DROPPED after sunset, and the coolness in the cave gave way to a chilling cold. Amos burrowed deeper into his jacket. The last time he’d sought the cave as a refuge—to hide his Implant—he’d been equally ill-prepared.
But the weather was getting warmer back then. He shifted position, seeking some semblance of comfort on the uneven stone.
You’re here to relive what ‘failure’ tastes like. His inner voice jumped at the opportunity. This cave’s a monument to everyone who died because of you and your Implant. Would Stephen be dead, if he hadn’t come looking for you? How about the shopkeeper? You helped bury her, and you didn’t even know her name.
Amos gritted his teeth, refusing to be baited into another pointless inner dialogue. I need a clear head. Wallowing in the past doesn’t help.
He rolled onto his side, pillowing his head on his arm. The forest outside the cave was silent, bathed in a silvery light by the full moon. The towering pines stood as dark sentinels, their coarse bark thrown into ghostly relief, like veins running up and down their trunks.
Here and there, stars peeked between the towering trees. The breeze had subsided, with only the occasional sigh as it stirred the branches. Everything was peaceful and calm, but he couldn’t sleep.
The cold was only a small part of his inability to relax. His dreams—or the threat of them—fought against his need for rest, as if his mind waged war with his exhausted body. The Story lurked just beneath the surface of his waking mind, eager for another chance to lash him with painful memories.
His ears picked up on every noise—the creak of a branch, the soft hoot of an owl somewhere nearby, the sighing breeze as it came and went in its own subtle way. The stream he’d crossed earlier was too distant to hear, but he could imagine the comforting symphony of rushing water without difficulty.
Would he be able to hear the sound of pursuit? Trackers were as notorious for their stealth as for their persistence. His fingers traced the scar where his Implant used to be. Without my Implant, there’s nothing for a Tracker to scan. They can’t find me.
He didn’t need to hear his inner voice to admit the cave—while preferable to the open hillside—was a meager refuge, with only one way in or out.
Amos took a deep breath, pulling his jacket tighter. He was exhausted, but he flinched from the thought of sleep and what his dreams might bring. He stared past the pines, seeing and yet not seeing the stars in the cloudless sky.
In the end, exhaustion won out, and he fell into a fitful sleep. His dreams, as always, were quick to pounce.
But not the Story. Not this
time.
Five
THE SOLITARY FIGURE moved between the trees with unswerving confidence. The brightness of the full moon was irrelevant. A non-factor. The Tracker’s visual enhancements provided more than enough clarity for it to navigate the uneven terrain.
The Givers were as wise as they were generous.
It stood by the banks of a stream, the dark and tumultuous water presenting a natural barrier to its journey. The frigid liquid was not a serious impediment. Its enhancements were designed to deal with much worse.
No, the only concern was the possibility of losing the scent of its prey. To cross the rushing stream at the wrong location would be an unforgivable miscalculation.
The Tracker balanced on one of the boulders lining the water’s edge, straining to listen above the rapids. It scanned left and right, up and down, back and forth.
Negligence would go neither unnoticed, nor unpunished. The Givers were generous but they were not to be denied.
The turbulent water failed to reflect its features, the only exception a muted red glow encircling its left eye. The burning sensation under its skin was disturbing, but its mental processors rejected the human reaction of alarm. Nothing could interfere with the Quest. Nothing could be permitted to interfere.
Fear was encapsulated, buried deep within. Fear was not a factor. A sensation it would have once named confidence buoyed it, the certainty of its Quest shoving all other emotions aside. This unit would succeed.
It caught the scent again and scrambled over a series of boulders to cross the stream. Within moments, it stood on the opposite bank, the liquid barrier now behind it, purged from active memory.
The scent was stronger here. The Harvest was at hand.
The Givers would be pleased.
Six
THE SCENE WAS ETCHED into Amos’s memory—seared, like a branding iron. His dreams summoned the emotions and chaos in stark and vivid detail. He felt helpless, as if he’d been seized in the ruthless grip of a tornado, whirling about in its vortex.
The tornado deposited him in the deserted mechanical shop, one night earlier. Twin lanterns held the darkness inside the austere shop at bay, benign spotlights illuminating the preposterous meeting between Hoarders and Runners.
The vortex spun him past the gathering, orchestrated by the enigmatic Mateo, in his attempt to forge an alliance between the wary and suspicious groups.
The images swirled, at one moment racing past in a dizzying blur, and then slowing to a crawl, as if to focus in excruciating detail on some particular element.
There was no need for his dream to fabricate additional nuances of horror. The unadorned memory was terrifying all on its own.
Amos recalled the sinking feeling in his gut when he first laid eyes on the waiting Hoarders. None of them were armed, but the menace emanating from the trio was so thick he could almost smell it.
In particular, the one in the middle. Their leader, Darcy.
Amos’s viewpoint shifted, allowing him to observe the rag-tag group of Runners flanking him. He read the loathing and revulsion on Aubrey’s face as she confronted her worst nightmare—the Hoarder who created the Implants.
His dream perspective whirled again, and he was facing the Hoarders once more, standing shoulder to shoulder with his companions. Once again, he was experiencing fury and helplessness as Darcy mocked and taunted them.
In slow motion, he saw Aubrey lunge forward. She raised the gun she’d smuggled into the meeting, intent on killing Darcy. The weapon became the focal point of his dream, the metallic gray reflecting the dancing beams of the lanterns.
He watched in fascination as Aubrey’s finger tightened on the trigger, the final sequence which would wreak vengeance on the smirking monster called Darcy.
Do it. His unvoiced plea reverberated in his thoughts, echoing Jane’s verbal challenge. In vivid detail, he watched the muscles in Aubrey’s hand shift as she prepared to fire.
Seven
THE CLICK IN ITS PROCESSORS was a signal, announcing the download of new data. The Tracker paused for the briefest of moments as it absorbed the input.
Analyze. Adapt. Enact.
Despite the steepness of the incline, the Tracker’s speed increased. The completion of its Quest was at hand. Failure was not an option. This unit would succeed.
Eight
THE MENTAL VORTEX SPUN him around, and now Amos was facing his fellow Runners again. The door behind them burst open to reveal Megan, rushing into the room to disarm Aubrey.
He heard Mateo’s amplified words, echoing in his memory. He wanted to clamp his hands over his ears to drown them out.
“This alliance must survive.”
And now he was back in his own body, observing the look of shock on the Hoarders’ faces as they recognized Megan. Darcy retreated a few steps, but the young kid moved toward her, reaching out one hand as if to touch her.
The tornado ceased without warning, leaving him feeling as if he’d fallen from a great height. Now he was re-living the chaotic finale to their catastrophic meeting.
Megan gazed dispassionately at the young Hoarder, her face expressionless when he called her by name. She cocked her head to one side in an odd imitation of Mateo, studying the Hoarder with clinical detachment.
The first explosion caught everyone off-guard—Runner and Hoarder alike. Amos heard his companions’ startled gasps, and the Hoarders froze, their eyes riveted on the door behind him.
Amos pivoted, the movement taking much too long in his tortured memory. The door hung askew on its hinges, and the masonry around the doorframe crumbled as he watched. The brickwork gave way, and the twisted door toppled into the mechanical shop, scorched and blackened.
Just beyond the shattered entrance, a Tracker advanced toward them with unmistakable menace. The smell of charred flesh assaulted their nostrils, arising from what was left of the first Tracker who’d self-detonated in the doorway.
Part of Amos’s mind wondered about that, as he flung himself to one side, away from the smoking entrance. Trackers aren’t suicide bombers. They only explode when the Givers punish them for failure.
The obvious answer followed as he rolled across the hard floor. Unless the Givers have a new strategy.
Glass shattered behind him, in the opposite corner of the mechanical shop. Still on the floor, Amos twisted around to see another Tracker pulling itself through one of the small windows at the back of the shop.
The Tracker managed to squeeze itself halfway through the meager opening when it froze, a look of shock and terror distorting its face.
Then it exploded, showering the interior of the shop with a gruesome spread of concrete, entrails, and blood. As the dust settled, Amos jumped to his feet, reaching down to grab Jane by the elbow and help her stand.
More Trackers converged on the ruined doorway, and he was dimly aware of Mateo leaping into the fray, driving the fanatical killers back into the street.
The Hoarders retreated to the far corner of the shop, Darcy shielding himself behind the blond kid. Amos felt a burst of contempt for them, even in the midst of the chaos. Poor little Hoarders. Cowering in the corner isn’t going to save you.
“Over here!” Don’s shout drew their attention to the opposite corner of the shop, where the side window was now a gaping hole.
Amos watched through the smoky haze as Don intercepted a Tracker climbing over the debris. Don found a long metal rod on the floor and, using it as a battering ram, drove it into the Tracker’s midsection.
The impact was oddly quiet, although the force of Don’s blow catapulted the Tracker into the alley behind the shop. Don followed it through the ragged gap in the wall, aiming more blows at the creature, now out of sight.
Amos understood Don’s urgency for pressing the attack. The Givers’ link to communicate with the Tracker—and detonate it—must be short-circuited without delay.
Mateo forced his way into the street, leaving the wreckage of additional Trackers scattered around the doo
rway. Megan caught Aubrey by the hand—the same hand that held a gun on Darcy minutes before—and bolted through the opening, trailing Mateo.
His ears rang from the deafening roar of the explosions in the confined space. He felt the presence of someone beside him, and then Jane shoved him toward the makeshift opening left by the second Tracker. They stumbled through the debris in a hasty exit.
Amos glanced over his shoulder as he cleared the opening. He saw Garr herding the Hoarders to safety in Mateo’s wake, a dazed-looking Sheila stumbling over to aid him.
Garr’s a better man than me. I’d have left the Hoarders behind for the Trackers.
As the thought crossed his mind, he felt a pang of guilt. Garr’s doing the right thing. This alliance must survive. That’s why he’s the Colonel, with or without the title.
He heard the clamor of combat behind him, and saw Don swinging his improvised weapon with ferocious abandon at another Tracker. Don’s arm was bloody, his shirtsleeve soaked from the wound.
Even though she was unarmed and vulnerable, Jane closed in, attempting to distract the Tracker by providing it with a second target.
Amos grabbed the only weapon he could find—a chunk of concrete dislodged by one of the explosions—and rushed forward, heaving it at the Tracker’s head. The creature’s reflexes were better than he’d assumed. It ducked to one side and the rough projectile shot harmlessly past.
The momentary distraction was all Don needed. He gripped the rod with both hands and swung at the Tracker’s head, catching his opponent off-guard as it tried to recover its balance. The creature hit the ground with a thud, and Don wasted no time in deactivating it.
“They’re still coming.” Jane’s voice sounded muffled. Amos followed her pointing finger. A familiar circle of red light betrayed the figure stalking toward them out of the dust and shadows.