by Deven Kane
“Doesn’t it prove you used to be a Citizen?” Jane persisted, still suspicious. “You saved Darcy’s life once already. How do we know you won’t do it again?”
Megan gave her a curious look, cocking her head to one side in an eerie parody of Mateo. “When did Darcy become our target? The Givers are the enemy. That’s the whole point of this alliance.”
Alliance. You sound like Mateo. Amos didn’t find her answer at all reassuring. I’m still trying to get used to you speaking.
Megan turned to the rest of the group. “This much I can tell you. I became a Tracker against my will, and I have no memory of anything before that. For five years, I served as a bodyguard for the Givers, after which I was sent on my first Quest.”
She smiled ruefully, tracing the edge of her eye patch with her fingertips, the gesture more human than Tracker. “You already know how that ended.”
There was an awkward pause after her candid remarks. Garr cleared his throat. “Why did the Givers change your assignment? They must have had a good reason to take a seasoned bodyguard and give her new orders.”
Megan laughed bitterly. “They never gave reasons. Only orders. Reasons were irrelevant. Trackers are obsessed by one thing: the Givers’ approval. Once we’re sent on a Quest, all that matters is the Harvest.”
Amos took an involuntary step backward, remembering the murdered Runners they’d seen, gutted for their Implants. The Givers had devised a brutal and efficient counter-attack to Darcy’s strategy.
“I guess knowing they’ll blow you up for failure is a good incentive, too,” Don said dryly.
Megan didn’t answer at once. “Fear is all we have. That, and the Quest.”
She stared off into the distance, not meeting anyone’s gaze. The Runners observed an awkward silence, sensing her inner turmoil.
Megan focused on Garr, a haunted look in her eyes. “I have something else to tell you. Trackers don’t compete against each other. It makes no difference how many are sent on the same Quest. Only the Harvest matters.”
She swallowed hard, looking away before continuing. “Yet I . . . eliminated another Tracker that night. I was determined to be the one who completed the Quest, and the other unit was in my way. Trackers don’t act like that, not under normal operating conditions.”
“You mean you were malfunctioning?” Jane’s question was sharp, her barbed skepticism unmistakable. “After five years as a bodyguard, your tech was starting to break down? And the Givers didn’t notice?”
Megan glanced at her, but there was no animosity in her reply. “I don’t know. I’m just pointing out I wasn’t functioning like a typical Tracker.”
“How does that help us?” Don’s question was directed to Garr. “I’m not being flippant. I’m curious.”
Garr rubbed his jaw, studying Megan through narrowed eyes. “At minimum, it could mean the Givers don’t control every Tracker in exactly the same way. I can’t think of a way we could turn that to our advantage, but every bit of intel helps. Even if we can’t see it right away.”
Sheila and Aubrey entered the mess hall, each with their rucksack packed and ready to go
“We’ve said our goodbyes to Doc Simon,” Sheila said, all business. “When do we head out?”
“Now,” Garr replied with gusto, clapping his palms together. “Darcy said he’d have a vehicle waiting, and the rendezvous is tomorrow morning. I want to arrive before the Hoarders. No sense giving away our plans too early.”
“Now you’re talking.” Don grinned, getting to his feet and hefting his rucksack in one meaty fist. “They don’t need to know we have Mateo’s truck. Let them think we’re on foot. As far as they’re concerned, we’re mindless savages. It might be to our advantage if they underestimate us.”
“I’m not sure the Hoarders would even notice how we got there,” Sheila replied with a wry smile. “Amos and Garr, I hope you remembered those Hoarder outfits Darcy gave you. We’ll need the camouflage soon enough.”
Amos patted his rucksack. “Right here.”
Garr paused at the door, turning to face the group. The air was charged with tension and adrenaline as they prepared for another foray into the heart of Hoarder territory. Amos felt it. He was certain everyone else did, too.
“Amos, you’ll take Aubrey and Megan with you.” Garr fell into the familiar role of leadership. “Once you’ve dropped us off at the rendezvous, I want you long gone before Tony arrives. The rest of you are with me.”
He gestured to the battered table behind them. “If we succeed, there won’t be any need for this Hub. If we fail, none of us will be coming back anyway. I made a promise to Doc—that I’d bring you all back safe and sound.”
His gaze wandered around the circle. “But let’s be realistic. I’ve got no control over that. All I can promise is I’ve got your back. You need to have each other’s back. No exceptions.”
There were nods around the room. Amos took a deep breath. He had no real reaction to the idea they might never sit in this mess hall again. It was too far-off, too imaginary at this point. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the towering wall of the Enclave, and Darcy’s arrogant smirk.
“There’s more than one way to skin a Hoarder.” Don broke the tension with his favorite one-liner, clapping Garr on the shoulder. He made a grand gesture toward the open door. “After you, Colonel.”
Garr hitched his fingers into his shoulder straps, and led the way through the unassuming portal. The others followed one by one.
Amos and Sheila, out of force of habit, went to opposite sides of the room, extinguishing the lanterns. The mess hall was plunged into a gloomy twilight.
I hope there’s nothing symbolic about dousing the lights. Amos felt an odd twinge and couldn’t put his finger on which emotion he was feeling. Nervous jitters, that’s all.
Sheila was waiting for him by the door, and they jogged to catch up to the others.
Forty-Seven
“I’M GETTING TOO OLD for this,” Doctor Simon said as they took a brief rest break. She bent over, hands on her knees, catching her breath. “Running through the tunnels is a game for the younger generation.”
Enrico grinned, leaning against the nearest wall. “We’ve kept a decent pace, Doc, but I wouldn’t call this running. Look on the bright side: at least we’re following the old subway tracks, instead of the sewer route. Aside from the smell, there’s a rather challenging climb up a ladder into the ceiling ducts. I doubt either of us would enjoy it.”
Doc straightened with a groan, pressing her hands against the small of her back. “So I’ve heard. Aubrey told me during one of our physiotherapy sessions.”
She shrugged her shoulders, searching for a comfortable position for her pack. There was none.
Enrico watched her with sad eyes, but Doc pretended not to notice. He opened one of the sagging doors in the tunnel wall with a determined shove.
“It’s not much farther, Doctor Simon,” he said, gesturing to the nondescript door. “There’s two flights of stairs above us, I’m sorry to say, but I have a vehicle waiting.”
“Two flights—is that all? For a second, I thought this was going to be difficult.” Doc took a deep breath, flashed him a tired smile, and nodded at the open door. “And I’m not that old, just for the record. After you, good sir.”
Enrico nodded, leading the way up a winding staircase. Doc felt the aching in her knees as they climbed, accented by the insistent pain in the small of her back from the weight of the rucksack.
Almost there, she told herself with each step.
The stairwell grew brighter as they ascended, daylight leaking in around the edges of a rusty metal door. Enrico threw his weight against it, and the hinges whined as the door swung grudgingly open.
The filtered light was a welcome relief as they exited the stairwell and stepped into a dilapidated warehouse. Enrico’s treasured truck sat waiting in the middle of the empty space, and Doc felt her spirits lift at the sight of it.
The mec
hanic halted abruptly, throwing out an arm to block her. His sharp intake of breath was all the warning she needed to hear.
A young man, not much older than Amos, stood beside the truck, one arm resting lazily on the hood. There was a glint of red around one eye, visible even in the sun-lit room.
“Ah, the mechanic,” he said, as if his guests were expected. His gaze shifted to Doctor Simon, and he nodded, pleased. “And the physician.”
Enrico found his voice. “You left the fake note at the drop-box.” He sidled in front of Doc as he spoke, shielding her. She chose not to point out the futility of his gesture.
The Tracker didn’t deny Enrico’s accusation. He appeared indifferent to the question. His casual posture did not change as he scanned them from head to foot.
Satisfied, he took three long strides to stand opposite them, his body a barrier between them and Enrico’s truck. The red circle faded, and he was indistinguishable from the average person on the street.
Doc pushed past Enrico to confront the Tracker. “You used to be one of us—a free man, until the Hoarders kidnapped you and turned you over to the Givers.”
“You’re wasting your time, Doc,” Enrico interrupted, his words twisted and bitter. “It’s a killing machine. It only thinks what the Givers want it to think. You can’t reason with it.”
“Is that true?” Doc’s mouth felt like it was full of cotton as she faced the inevitability of her own death. “The Givers sent you to kill us?”
The Tracker cocked his head to one side, his expression neutral. He spoke in an odd monotone.
“Your deaths would serve no purpose. Mateo has another use for you.”
Forty-Eight
“YOU’RE SURE THIS IS the right spot?” Connor couldn’t resist the jibe.
Tony shot him a dirty look. “I know where I dropped them off. If the savages aren’t here, don’t blame me.”
Connor shrugged and resumed his surveillance of the intersection. The front windshield was filthy, thanks to their precipitous journey through the muddy shantytown.
They parked in the middle of a deserted intersection. The empty streets and abandoned buildings, all falling into disrepair and decay, provided a stunning counterpoint to the Enclave’s thriving economy and vitality.
Connor was troubled by the savages’ unexpected delay. The Council Chamber bombing, followed by the Peace Wardens’ heavy-handed tactics at the protest, put his nerves on edge. The Infomedia’s propaganda wasn’t helping, either.
He’d anticipated a smooth rendezvous with the savages, followed by a hasty retreat into the Enclave. Their new “allies” seemed to have other ideas.
We’re sitting ducks out here. He cursed the savages under his breath. If we didn’t need you as Implants, I’d leave you behind. Where are you?
Darcy had elected to remain behind, formulating a new strategy to deal with the unexpected complications from the past few days. Connor knew his foster father was engaged in covert consultations with multiple allies around the Enclave, probing for useful information.
We’ll play the role of shocked and grieving Citizens. Darcy was insistent, pointing out that any other public reaction could attract unwanted scrutiny. Keep a low profile until I can learn who’s behind these attacks.
Tony suggested the identity of the culprits was obvious—the Givers. Connor smirked at the memory of a livid Darcy putting their over-eager chauffeur into his place. Of course, it was the Givers. But which of the collaborators were acting on their orders?
Beside him, Tony mumbled something under his breath. Connor glanced at him, annoyed, and noticed his restless and jittery mannerisms.
The strain was affecting them all, but Tony in particular seemed to be caving in. He drummed on the steering wheel, but without much rhythm.
This was an improvement from him whistling tunelessly between his teeth, but Connor felt a renewed stab of irritation.
As if being stuck here—waiting for the savages—isn’t bad enough. I’m trapped in the cab of our truck next to Darcy’s pet killer. Connor’s mood darkened even further. He would never forgive Tony for Madison’s murder.
“Maybe they’re not coming.” Tony shifted in the driver’s seat. He sounded hopeful. “Maybe they figured out Darcy plans to Implant them.”
Connor rolled his eyes. “You give the savages too much credit. None of them has the brains to figure that out. They’re animals, Tony, nothing more.”
Tony had the nerve to laugh in his face. “Try listening to yourself sometime, Connor. Do you have any idea how silly you sound when you just repeat Darcy’s talking points? You’re worse than a trained parrot.”
He laughed again, louder this time, amused by the shocked look on Connor’s face.
“I can’t believe how gullible you are, even for a kid.” Tony was obviously enjoying the reaction he’d provoked. “You’re half-right about the savages. They’re primitive, filthy, and only fit for jobs on the maintenance level.”
He leaned across the console, eyes narrowed in contempt. “But don’t be an idiot. These savages are dangerous. They might be animals, but they’re cunning little beasts. When you underestimate them, you put us all at risk.”
Connor stared at him, stunned by his erratic mood swings. Their eyes met, and Connor noticed something at odds with Tony’s cocky bravado. The bleak look around his eyes, the fine sheen of perspiration on his cheeks and forehead, the slight quaver in his voice—the combination betrayed Tony’s true state of mind.
Fear. Tony was consumed by it. He was in way over his head, and the cracks were beginning to show.
Connor felt no pity. Tony was Madison’s executioner, a shameless lackey who’d do Darcy’s bidding without question or remorse.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Connor lanced the strained silence, refusing to break eye contact. “I know what the savages are capable of. I saw what they did to my sister.”
He turned away, glaring through the muddy windshield, alert for any sign of the savages’ approach. “But they’re still animals. Cannon fodder—nothing more.”
His hand pressed against his sternum, feeling the hard lump of the locket under his shirt. It helped center him, gave him focus. “Once the Givers are gone, the savages will answer for what they did to Megan.”
Tony resumed his arrhythmic drumming. For several long minutes, neither of them spoke.
Forty-Nine
“HOW MUCH CHAOS DO YOU think is happening in there?” Don gestured beyond their temporary hiding spot, indicating the Enclave.
They’d chosen the flat rooftop of a nondescript apartment a few blocks from the agreed-upon rendezvous. The view was not expansive. The building was a mere three stories high, small enough that it didn’t have an elevator. The Enclave’s imposing walls were still clearly visible.
“It’s been five days,” Sheila replied, keeping an eye on the Hoarder truck in the intersection below. “I wonder how many Citizens have lined up for their nodes by this point?”
“Like mindless lemmings.” Jane snickered, chewing on field rations as they waited. “It’s too bad we can’t reprogram Trackers to go after the nodes instead.”
Garr knelt by the parapet, binoculars sweeping the streets below. His position gave him a clear view of the intersection without betraying their presence to the waiting Hoarders. He sensed his companions’ tension. He heard in their voices, despite their off-handed banter.
“I doubt the Givers would share their programming tech with us,” he replied to Jane’s half-suggestion. His lenses swept the scene in a slow arc. “But I wouldn’t put it past them to use Trackers to deal with any hold-outs among the Citizens.”
“How much longer do we keep the Hoarders waiting?” Sheila asked with a mischievous smile. “The suspense must be driving them out of their minds.”
“That’s fine by me.” Jane’s opinion was scathing. “Let the Hoarders sweat.”
Garr lowered the binoculars, rubbing his eyes. “We need to give Amos’s team plenty of time to get
into position.”
He gestured at the Enclave, wreathed in the low clouds of an impending storm. “There’s a lot of unknown variables—as Sheila said, it’s been five days. We have no idea what’s been happening in there.”
Don uttered an evil chuckle, wringing his hands together in a parody of the proverbial mad scientist. “And if it happens to fray the nerves of our waiting Hoarders, so much the better.”
Jane held out her hand, and Garr handed the binoculars to her. She knelt beside him, poking her head up just enough to get a clear look at the vehicle and its impatient occupants. “It’s just the kid, Connor, and the old guy. No sign of everyone’s favorite psycho.”
Garr knew better than to take her bravado at face value. Jane was as anxious about the prospect of confronting Darcy as anyone.
Like dancing with a scorpion, he’d told Doc the previous evening. It felt like a long time ago.
He and Sheila wore the Hoarder outfits Darcy gave them during their first foray into the Enclave. Don and Jane removed their jackets, stuffing them into their rucksacks. Their outfits weren’t up to Hoarder standards, but were less conspicuous than their jackets. Jane shivered every now and then in the autumn air. Don didn’t seem to notice the chill.
“We won’t all fit into the seats,” Jane said, studying the truck through Garr’s binoculars. “One of us will have to ride in the back, like a piece of luggage.”
“I nominate Don,” Garr said, without any trace of humor. “The Enclave guards will focus on the driver. The less suspicion we arouse, the better. Keep your head down, Don, and try to look non-threatening.”
“Like a daisy in the summer sun, Colonel,” Don drawled.
“We’ve given Amos’s team enough time.” Garr held his hand out to Jane. She returned the binoculars, and he stowed them in his rucksack. “Let’s join our new allies.”
Jane got to her feet, shivering again. Garr knew better than to ask. Sheila brushed dust from her hands, not looking at the Hoarder truck waiting below.