by E. A. Darl
Magnum shook her head. “No. No one is answering right now. I will keep trying but you know it’s just chance when we do make contact.”
“Keep trying. It’s urgent. Broadcast twenty-four hours a day. We must reach them!”
“I will keep trying. I promise.” Magnum touched his shoulder in comfort then left the room.
“Stay with her, Cris. I need to check on something.”
Cris took his place beside Avalon as he got up and left the room. They had placed her back in the small office off of the kitchen. Two chairs had been brought in to sit beside Avalon’s bed.
Trench crossed the kitchen to a small refrigerator, the only one that still worked in the restaurant. He opened the door, checking their scavenged supplies. They were running low on the medications they had stockpiled. He frowned, knowing a mission to restock them would be fraught with danger as it would pit them against the Imbroglio gang. They had been expanding their territory lately, with the help of outsiders. Cris and Magnum’s description of their encounter left no doubt now, who those outsiders were. If they had been recruited by the Feds, then the war was about to escalate to new levels. He used the term subconsciously, for the Imbroglio gang used WAR as their symbol to define their territory. It was a turf war that encompassed the entire city. The main medical stash that they had located was in an abandoned veterinary clinic, on a hotly disputed border that the Imbroglio gang was sure to be patrolling. The takeover of the warehouse was ill news at the best of times, but now it weighed on Trench’s mind.
He searched through the contents of the fridge, sorting the supplies and counting out what remained. They had gone through a lot of supplies since Avalon’s arrival. He grimaced at the direction of his thoughts. Anyone else he would have tossed out of the gang, immediately. Everyone had to pull their own weight. It was part of the code. No one could be a drain to the others, or a burden. Maybe I should toss her out. She has lived on her own long enough and survived. She doesn’t need our protection. Yet there was something about her that attracted him, as no other female had ever done. She was feisty and independent yet beneath that louder than life exterior, he sensed a kind person, one not jaded to life, as they had become in the ghetto. That raw innocence that ran just below the surface attracted him in a way that shocked him. He knew he would not cast her out.
Trench ran a hand over his face when he realized he was standing in the fridge door opening, staring at nothing. Angry he went to close the door when a flash of movement caught his eye. Frowning, he opened the door wider and peered at the glass jar in the door tray. It was the jar that Cris and Magnum had put the squashed bee after it fell from Avalon’s clothing.
The bee was twitching. He leaned in closer and squinted at the bee. Its legs were jerking. He picked up the jar and held it up to the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The second that the jar came in contact with the warmth and light from the bulb, the bee rolled onto its feet and began moving its wings. Shocked, Mitch watched as the torn wing regrew before his eyes. His eyes widened and he hastily checked that the lid was on tight, then shoved it back in the refrigerator door and slammed it shut. That damn bee was dead! I saw it! What the hell is it doing reanimating itself? He backed away from the fridge, eyes fixed on the container that suddenly seemed inadequate protection against what was re-growing in the jar. His first instinct was to flush it down a toilet, but would that be enough to destroy it? He doubted it.
Trench wrenched his eyes away from the fridge and ran over to a metal drawer that held odd supplies. He yanked it open and pulled a roll of duct tape from the drawer and was half way back to the fridge, intent on taping the thing shut when he realized all the medical supplies were in there. His anxious steps slowed then stopped, half way back, considering the dilemma. He reversed his steps and pulled a piece of paper and a black marker of the same drawer, and wrote a warning in big, bold letters:
“Bee is alive. DO NOT OPEN DOOR UNLESS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY. Trench.”
Chapter 10
Rogue Warriors
THE PLANE LANDED WITH a bump and coasted to a stop as the pilot cut the engines. Mitch unlocked his door and pushed it open, jumping to the ground. The Gainsboroughs followed him out of the plane. They walked a short distance away, not bothering to talk until the props stilled. Mitch caught a flash of movement at the far end of the landing strip and squinted into the setting sun, trying to determine who approached. The roar of the motor bike engine gave him an inkling of who it might be, but recent events had made him leery. The Gainsboroughs didn’t hesitate, pulling twin revolvers and levelling them at the approaching rider.
“Wait! Stop!” Mitch jumped between the gun wielding couple and the oncoming bike. “It’s my sister, Pam.” He waved his hands through the air at the Gainsboroughs then turned to face the bike.
Pam’s frizzy grey hair flew in all directions as it was tossed about by the hot breeze created by the bike’s speed.
“Pam, slow down!” he hollered, knowing it to be useless.
She could not possibly hear him over the roar of the engine, but the bike slowed anyways, sliding to a halt several feet away. Pam set the bike on its kick then stood up. She pulled off her helmet as she swung a leg off the bike, and then walked over to them.
“It’s my sister, Pam,” Mitch said again, to the tense couple over his shoulder.
Pam walked up Mitch and flung her arms around his waist, hugging him. He hugged her back then turned, to present his sister.
However, the Gainsboroughs had turned around and were walking away.
“Wait!” called Mitch, but they ignored his request and climbed back into the Cessna. The engines roared to life and the plane taxied down the flat field gathering speed, then lifted into the sky.
“Well that was weird,” said Mitch, absently running along his scruffy cheek, as he watched the plane disappear from view.
“Yeah, that is the Gainsboroughs. They never stick around to talk. Always secretive, they are.”
“How did you know it was them? They were walking away before you got to me.” Mitch put his arm around Pam’s shoulders, winced, and then lowered it.
Pam frowned at him, noting the bruising on his jaw beneath the burgeoning beard. “They keep to themselves. It’s all business, cloak and dagger. I have never met them face to face. They never meet anyone face to face. You seem to be the exception to the rule. What happened, Mitch?”
Mitch’s eyes swept the perimeter of their location, anxiety returning as he remembered his delivery to this spot a day earlier. “I was taken by some of the local thugs, roughed up and deposited here for the Gainsboroughs. I got the impression that they didn’t mean for it to go this far. I think their instructions were to bring me a long quietly, and your new kin took it to mean, silence me. At least, I hope that is all it meant.” His eyes searched the lengthening shadows. “I’d really like to get somewhere safe before night fall. I assume you have a camp set up nearby?”
“Yes, just over the rise. Come on.”
Pam led Mitch back to the bike, and a short ride later, she pulled into her makeshift camp strung between two scrubby pines. A cleft of rock sheltered them from the worst of the wind. Despite the persistent drought and the heat of day, temperatures dropped at night and with it a dampness that hinted that all moisture was not completely extinct in the soil.
Mitch grabbed Pam’s flint from her pack and struck sparks into the kindling she had set within the circle of stones. The dry tinder caught almost at once, licking into flame and he added some smaller sticks. In short order, he had a cozy fire going. Pam brought her kettle and cooking grill and placed it over the fire, squeezing two cups worth of water from the water bag into the kettle and adding some leaves for tea. She tossed Mitch a package of dried foods, camp provisions that could travel everywhere; Jerky and nuts and disks of a flat, wild grain bread, all provided courtesy of the Seiko tribe. Mitch didn’t bother to ask what kind of dried meat it was, as he took hold of the end of the meat with his teet
h and pulled. Sometimes it was better to not know. He chewed the tough jerky.
“Why does everything taste like chicken when you don’t know what it is?”
Pam smiled and took a bite of her own, then poured him some tea and handed him the cup. He sipped it gratefully, staring into the fire. She shifted a bundle by her side and Mitch caught the gleam of a shotgun barrel. Seeing the interest in his eyes, she smiled. She handed him his duffel bag.
“I found that outside of the bunker. It was what had alerted me to your disappearance. You should find all your possessions intact.”
Mitch opened the pack and right on top was his handgun. He grinned back at Pam and palmed the weapon into his hand, wrapped in a towel. He laid it across his lap, dropping the gun between his crossed legs. His eyes wandered back to the fire pit.
“So, do you want to tell me about your adventure?”
Mitch pulled his eyes from the mesmerizing dance of flames then looked at Pam, then in a low voice, relayed all that had transpired. She listened intently, without interruption. At the end of his recitation, he fell silent. Pam said nothing. Eventually she sighed and shifted to lie down beside the fire.
“I think we had better get some rest, Mitch.”
“Ok. I will take first watch. You sleep. I will wake you in four hours.” Pam nodded and closed her eyes.
Mitch listened to the rustles of the night, marking the normal nocturnal sounds and listening for anything that sounded out of place. All was still, yet he couldn’t help feeling like they were being observed. Something or someone was watching them, he was sure of it. His senses attuned to his surroundings, he picked up a piece of dried wood and pulled a jack knife from his pocket. He whittled to the flickering light. The piece of wood slimmed down, the pile of shavings at his feet perfect kindling for the morning. The piece of wood took the shape of a bird. As he carved the head, he realized it wasn’t a bird, but a bat. He was focused on the eyes, carving the small orbs, when he heard a twig snap behind him.
Without thinking, he dropped to one knee and spun, throwing his knife. A blade whistled over his head and sailed harmlessly into the night, having missed its intended target, but his knife flew true and embedded itself in the chest of a young warrior. The man’s eyes widened in surprise and then he fell to the ground without a twitch.
Mitch barely spared him a glance as he yelled “Pam!” and then a warrior soaring through the air took him to the ground. He plowed Mitch into the dirt, and they rolled, just missing the fire pit, the warrior coming out on top of Mitch. Another knife blade flashed, this one descending at his throat. Mitch blocked the stab with his arm, and the knife sliced into his sleeve. Mitch swore and bucked, throwing the warrior to the side. The sound of a shotgun sliding into firing position froze them both. Pam stepped into the firelight, and held the shotgun aimed in the direction of the pair.
“I would suggest you both stop fighting, or you will both end up with britches full of bird shot. Mind you,” she said, shifting the shotgun onto the warrior, “a face full of this will blind, maim and most likely kill you as it rips your eyes and throat open. Go ahead, move one more time.” She brought the gun to aiming position. The warrior froze. “Drop the knife.” The wicked switch blade landed in the dirt at Mitch’s side. “Sit!” she commanded, indicating the log that Mitch had recently vacated.
Mitch unbuckled his belt and pulled it through his belt loops. He yanked the warrior’s hands around behind his back and wound the belt around his wrists, pulling it painfully tight and buckling it into place. He shoved the warrior down to sit on the log.
“Mitch, check to make sure these are the only two.” Pam kept her gun trained on the warrior.
Mitch grabbed his handgun and a length of rope from his pack and disappeared into the dark. He returned about twenty minutes later. “There might be three. I found their camp back by the airstrip. Two blankets but three packs.” Mitch settled beside the fire, squatting to stir the coals. He dropped a few more sticks onto the glowing pile. “We will know if there is a third, the minute he approaches the camp.” Mitch stood and walked over to still man. He checked the dead warrior on the ground. A search of the man revealed he had no pockets. There was nothing to identify him. “Who is he?” Mitch said as he straightened, addressing the man on the log. The warrior stared at him and sneered, but did not speak. “Do you know who he is, Pam?”
Pam glanced at the corpse then back at her prisoner. “Yes, he is called Saecar. That one is Dromid,” she said with a jerk of her head at the mum warrior. “If there is a third, then it is most likely Lippac. She is never found far from these two. They are trouble. Or at least they were,” she said with a grim smile.
As though summoned by her words a female voice yelled, the sound flashing through their camp. Mitch grinned and got to his feet.
“That would be Lippac. I will go release him from the snare.” Mitch pulled his handgun and disappeared into the shadows.
He did not go far, for his trap had been set on the main path in to their shelter. Curses filtered back into the camp and a thud, then the bushes shook. A few minutes later, a short, wiry woman limped into the clearing. Mitch had bound her hands and was leading her by a fist tangled in her hair and a knife pressed to her throat. A long scratch down her cheek welled with blood but she paid it no heed. Mitch pushed her down onto Pam’s log and stood over the woman.
“So, Saecar and Lippac. Why does this not surprise me? You always did resent my inclusion into the tribe.”
Lippac spat in the dirt. “You are no Seiko.”
Pam’s hard gaze was met by angry eyes. “And you shame the Seiko. What did you intend to prove, by harming my brother? He is here to help the Seiko, yet you attacked him. Why?”
Lippac’s eyes flicked to her brother, then over at her dead boyfriend. A trace of sadness flashed then was pushed away. “You bring death to us all. You carry the plague into our tribe without regard for your ‘family’. You take advantage of our people. Someone must stop you.”
“Is that what you think? That I am exposing your people? We are all people! It doesn’t matter the colour of our skin. Look at me,” Pam barked, when Lippac sneered and looked away. “Do you think the bees will stop at the border of your lands by magic? That they can read the totem markers and will be turned away? Even if the ancestors do intervene, the bees are not natural. They will not heed the ancestors any more than they heed us. We will all die, if we do not work together.”
Saecar finally spoke, breaking his stoic silence. “The bees do not harm us.” The simple sentence hung in the air, like a thunderclap. Heads turned toward him.
“What do you mean by that?” Mitch asked, jaw dropping open.
“The bees do not harm us. We work among them all the time,” Saecar spat at the ground. “We,” he jerked his head at his dead friend on the ground, “have encountered the bees at the edge of our territory, while hunting. They have a large hive located on the western branch of the Snake River, built into the bank of the dried riverbed. We are blessed by our ancestors and protected from them.”
“If that is the case, why are you trying to kill us?” asked Mitch.
“And why do you care what we do with the bees in the facility?” asked Pam.
“The bees are sacred,” said Lippac. “The bees are our ancestors.”
Pam and Mitch exchanged glances. “And this is confirmed, how? Does the chief believe this also?”
Lippac and Saecar nodded in affirmation.
“Geez Saecar, why didn’t you just tell us this?” said Pam, lowering her gun. “We are on the same side, you know. We have no wish to harm the bees or the ancestors. But we do need to understand what has happened. There is room for all of us to work together here.” She walked over to Saecar. “I apologize for any offense I have caused. It was not intentional.” She knelt in front of him, gazing into his eyes. “Can you believe me? I have no wish to harm any of you.” Pam’s eyes hardened as she stared at the young warrior. “But I cannot allow you free
if you are only going to attack us once again. There is no time for this foolishness, and innocent people may get hurt.”
Saecar’s eyes shifted to his dead friend for a moment. “Dromid died a warrior’s death. Do not dishonour him by attributing innocence to his passing. He knew what he was about.” Saecar’s eyes met Pam’s once again and he gave a terse nod.
“I will hear it from your lips,” she said. “Swear on your warrior’s heart that you will cause us no further harm.”
“I swear that we will not stand in your way in this matter, unless you bring harm to the tribe. Then our first duty is to the Seiko, not to you.”
“Agreed.” Pam glanced over her shoulder at Lippac. “Do you also swear?”
“I swear.”
Pam stood. “Untie them, Mitch.”
Mitch stood, eyes passing between the three. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am sure. A warrior’s oath is sacred. They will not go back on their word.”
Mitch shrugged, not sharing Pam’s confidence, then bent to untie the warrior.
Chapter 11
Runaway Alexa
ALEXA SLIPPED IN TO the mechanic’s garage, leaving the roll up door wide open, about four feet off the ground. She had spied her ride in the dim interior, when she had driven past the closed shop with an injured Peet in the back seat. Now, she returned to the building. It had taken some prying with her swiped hammer, but the door had finally given way, and now she stood in the dusty interior, letting her eyes adjust to the shade. The garage had the feel of a museum, or maybe the Rapture. Tools and tool chests lay open and scattered about on work benches, as though the men and women who had been working there had left for lunch and were about to return. The inch-thick coat of dust gave away the truth, however. Everyone quit on the same day and the owner had locked the doors and walked away.