Heart of Annihilation

by C. R. Asay

  My brief peek into the plane’s interior showed mostly the beefy back end of the Deuce, but I also took in a portion of the faces and their locations. The majority of the people lined the walls far to the front, and they were busily settling into the pull-down mesh seats. Major Kuntz stood toward the front of the plane, listening to an airman.

  My eyes went to the thin line of tiny, duplicating, silver beads around the commander’s neck. With a single glance behind me, I abandoned any more thoughts of an alternate action.

  The ramp pressed against my belly button. The toes of one boot scuffed across the tarmac. Then I was on the ramp. My knee hit the rough traction. I rolled once, putting the bulk of the Deuce between the people and me. I stalked forward in a very low crouch to reach the Deuce, dropped to my belly, and crawled under it.

  A pair of combat boots and the olive drab pants of an airman thumped past the front tires. I drew my feet to my body, trying not to think.

  The deafening noise of the aircraft muffled slightly. The gears to the ramp groaned in tune with the plane’s rumbling as the hatch raised in preparation for takeoff. The plane moved.

  The finality of the ramp rising, my irrevocable permanence aboard the aircraft, was almost more than my nerves could stand. I pressed my hand to my mouth, and a tiny thread of blue light stung my cheek. I jerked my hand away from my face. Electricity snaked between my fingers. The hypnotic glow shivered an exquisite ache through my hand and down my arm.

  I had only a moment to consider that stowing away right under the noses of my enemies might be considered a derailment from rational thought before acceleration punched me in the side. The plane raced forward. I slid backward.

  I scrabbled my fingers across the wheel of the Deuce. The nails of one hand dug into the tread while my other hand gripped a grime-covered pipe above my head. With an abrupt lift that left my stomach on the ground, the plane cast off the demands of gravity.

  We banked. My hand ripped away from the wheel. I smashed into the opposite wheel, my face and shoulder taking the impact, before being thrown out from under the Deuce against the rear hatch. I scrambled for cover.

  I considered making my way to the front and turning myself in, in exchange for a seat with a seatbelt, some earplugs, aspirin, and possibly a barf bag or two. We had to reach cruising altitude at some point though. I could hold on until then. I hoped.

  I was dragging my battered body back under the tailgate of the Deuce for the fourth time when something heavy struck me atop my back, flattening me onto my belly. A duffle bag rolled off to the side and slid with a shushing sound against the hatch.

  A flash of movement. The dim lights in the plane flickered and went out. At least I didn’t feel the need to check the faces at the front of the plane every few seconds for fear I’d been seen.

  I pulled myself into the Deuce, gripping the splintery wood to keep my feet as the plane dropped and then rose. The scent of mildew brought to mind every military vehicle I’d ever ridden in. I stumbled across other duffle bags and equipment—it was amazing that I hadn’t been bludgeoned to death by the entire load.

  A sudden drop. I smashed my head into the canvas ceiling and then fell onto something warm, soft, and moving.

  My chest lay across a muscled shoulder, my forearm pressing against a nose and mouth. A knee ground into my thigh. I pulled myself off the body I could only assume belonged to Thurmond. A profound feeling of relief washed out a hollow pit in my stomach.

  I swallowed back the greeting I really wanted to give, which would include a non-awkward hug and something that didn’t sound sappy in my mind but would certainly come out that way. Instead I kept one hand on his arm, afraid if I stopped touching him for even a second that he’d somehow vanish. I felt around with the other until I found the warm, coarse skin of his face. Blocky plastic indicated tape across his mouth. I caught a sticky edge with a fingernail and pulled gingerly. He jerked his head, leaving the piece of tape in my hand. The lights flickered back on with an additional hum.

  The dim light filtering through the canvas gave Thurmond’s face a sickly green tinge. He lay on his side, hands taped behind his back and feet strapped together with more duct tape. The skin around his mouth looked darker from where the tape tore away a layer of skin cells. His eyebrows furrowed angrily at me.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Rose?” Thurmond’s voice sounded loud even against the plane’s roar.

  “I came to . . .”

  I’d come to save him, that’s what I was doing here. The tape finally came away, curling into a thin, tight roll with Thurmond’s assistance. He pushed himself into a sitting position, and I sat back on my heels so he could free his own legs. Thurmond had finished removing the last of the tape when the lights flickered out again.

  Except that you’re not actually here for your soldier friend.

  The voice was loud between my ears. My head throbbed. I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around my legs, and rested my head on my knees.

  Something that belongs to me.

  The whisper drew me out of my slouch. Like a compass finding north, my eyes searched through the darkness for the commander. Was the pendant warm against her skin as it always was against mine? Was she sitting quietly in her seat, earplugs protecting her from noise and approaching intruders? Was she dozing at this late hour, blissfully unaware that I would be pleased as punch to remove her head to retrieve the tags?

  A hand gripped my arm. I jerked away. Red spots blotted against the vision of blood and reclamation.

  “Rose?” Thurmond’s hand squeezed my shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

  I didn’t say anything. My mind continued to roll over the image of the commander’s decapitation. A combination of delight and horror duked it out for my attention. The confliction wasn’t helping my already woozy stomach. I closed my eyes, trying to help the picture find an exit from my brain before it settled in for good.

  Thurmond spoke in my ear again. His lips brushed my skin. A shiver ran up my arms. The red spots faded, along with the ache above my ear.

  “I’m not mad, just worried. Okay?” His fingers tightened on my shoulder. “Did you bring help?”

  “I’m the help, Corporal. Sorry.” I almost hoped the blunt sarcasm would be lost in the roar. Almost.

  Oppressive darkness pressed on all sides. I bounced into Thurmond. He threw an arm across my shoulder to steady himself, then left it there as we leveled again. After a moment he pulled me tight to his side. I stayed there, too anxious to be alone.

  CHAPTER 10

  Cold, green light appeared as the first hints of morning brightened our little, canvas prison. I rubbed my eyes and found Thurmond wide-awake. His stubbled jaw was tense, the side of his face bruised. One hand clutched his side.

  “You hurt?”

  “A bit.” Thurmond shrugged. “Bashed my ribs up pretty good in the crash, and Sanderford wasn’t exactly subtle about his interrogation. What about you?”

  “No, I’m fine. I think.” I wasn’t. The memory of Sanderford’s boot striking my ribcage made my side ache, among other things. I waved toward the hatch. “I’m a bit concerned they’re going to throw us from plane when they find us.”

  I wasn’t trying to be funny, but Thurmond’s face relaxed into a grin. “We could probably use some parachutes, then.”

  I blanched. “There aren’t any—”

  “Actually there are.” He poked my shoulder. “I saw them bring in a whole pile of them.”

  “Oh.”

  It was nice to know there was an alternative to a chute-less free fall from twenty thousand feet, even if it meant trusting my life to a bit of fabric and some shroud lines.

  “Come on.” Thurmond groaned, getting to his feet. “We’re going to get a couple.”

  He made his way carefully across the scattered gear and dropped out of the back of the truck. I pushed myself up as well. A nervous hammering pained my gut. It was too easy, sitting quietly in the dark
, to believe that things weren’t as grim as they truly were.

  I lowered myself out of the Deuce to where Thurmond crouched. His hands were balled into fists as he watched for movement from the front of the plane. When he saw me next to him, he dropped onto his belly and crawled under the Deuce. I followed. My belly jarred against the floor. Thurmond glanced back once and then pulled himself out the other side.

  I was about to follow when I felt a touch of air from my right. I jerked my arm next to my ribs and sucked my body into a solid, rug-like statue. A second pair of boots marched past. The leather brushed my sleeve. The hatch ground open. Light and a fresh, cold wind poured into the plane. I’d flown a C-130 enough times to know they were either disposing of several dozen full barf bags or taking a gander at the scenery. Maybe doing reconnaissance.

  I made to follow Thurmond, feeling oddly incomplete without him, when I felt a double-nudge against my leg. My stomach leapt and I bashed my head on the underside of the Deuce. Eyes watering, I faced the pair of combat boots standing next to the vehicle.

  Fear turned a hard fist in my stomach. Maybe someone accidently kicked me while moving past. Maybe they were trying to get something out of the Deuce. Maybe—

  The boot nudged my leg again, more insistent this time. I heaved out the air in my lungs and, with great reluctance, pulled myself partially out from under the vehicle.

  My eyes traveled up the camouflage-covered legs, thick hands clenching next to the pockets, past the torso and chest, pausing on the staff sergeant rank and nametape before landing on the face. My eyebrows hit my hairline.

  The usually friendly face of Sergeant Wichman stared back. He pressed his lips together under his bristling, salt and pepper mustache.

  I thought about pulling myself back under the vehicle, hoping our friendship spanned from alien-hunter to stowaway. Then another figure slithered up next to him. The ruddy skin of the second man paled when he saw me. The girlish lips made a round, red O.

  Wichman glanced over at Justet and then grabbed the collar of my uniform. He dragged me from under the truck. I gripped the barrel of the rifle slung across my back and scrambled my way to my feet.

  “Rose?” Justet shouted. “How the hell did you get here?”

  I wanted to think up a really good response, the kind that would shock them to their boots. Something really remarkable that implied I had a different army, a better army, like F-16s and Chinooks bearing down on their lumbering sky bus, prepared to do them in.

  My fantasy made me feel like a cockroach—annoyingly hard to kill and not even worth their time.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Sergeant Wichman’s very presence scuttled my last remaining confidence in my military leadership.

  “What was I thinking? What were you thinking?” I yelled. “You . . . you—!”

  Stray strands of hair flicked around my head, and I heard as much as felt the cool emptiness to my right. I pressed myself into the side of the Deuce, attempting to pry Sergeant Wichman’s fingers from my collar. The pistol grip of the weapon pushed a reminder into my spine. My fingers tightened around the rifle.

  The commander appeared a few paces behind Justet. Her expression went from curious to blank.

  “Very good, Lieutenant.” Her small eyes bore into me. “Take her into custody.”

  “Remove that weapon from her, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Justet ordered, gesturing to Sergeant Wichman.

  Wichman hesitated, his eyes locked on me. Justet turned toward the commander, possibly to plead for her support, as a large package flew past my head.

  Justet and I both wrenched to the side. The parachute plowed into Sergeant Wichman’s face, throwing him against the stack of ammo cans behind him. The band securing the cans came loose, and the olive drab canisters tumbled across the floor.

  I used the truck to find my balance and yanked the rifle up under my arm, my hand clenched on the pistol grip and my finger on the trigger. The shoulder strap pulled tightly across my back, but at least the muzzle was aimed at the commander’s face.

  Justet’s hands were the first to rise. The commander’s smile disappeared, but it took her another full minute before her hands went up. The gesture was so unperturbed that I could have been holding a super-soaker instead of an M-16. Sergeant Wichman got to his feet, cursing under his breath. One hand touched his nose. Blood flowed across his mustache.

  I flicked the barrel of the rifle at him, encouraging him to join Justet and the commander. Most of the other passengers were on their feet now, staring in unabashed surprise. Where was Sanderford? He had to be there. I needed to keep him in sight.

  “Don’t anyone move!” I yelled. My finger trembled on the trigger. My thumb froze over the safety.

  “Everyone relax,” Justet hollered. “There’s no way she has any ammo in that rifle.”

  He didn’t lower his arms, and I knew what he was thinking. How much ammo did I really have? One shot. But I wasn’t sure they believed even that.

  Thurmond inched his way between the two vehicles. Multiple straps and buckles crisscrossed his chest and around his legs, his uniform bunching here and there. He held the straps of a second chute. I could see myself simply backing into the thing before fighting our way to the hatch. A few eyes turned on him but then went back to me. Without a weapon he must not have appeared much of a threat.

  I tried to keep everyone in sight, analyzing each movement and micro-expression. They were all beyond hostile. I don’t think I ever felt so much hatred directed at me in my life.

  In your life maybe, said the voice. My head pounded. My eyes locked onto the commander.

  Her pulse beat a rhythm under the chain around her neck, the little beads popping hypnotically toward me. I pictured the chain descending down her boney chest, the tags resting under her breasts, the pendant hooking across the bridge of her bra.

  Flaming rage burned up my throat. I flipped off the safety.

  “Give me my tags,” I said, the words a guttural snarl. “Now!”

  The commander reached slowly into her shirt. Her thumb drew the chain out with cool precision.

  “Private Luginbeel.” Justet’s voice worked its way into my consciousness. “Get that nine mil. Quickly!”

  My intense focus evaporated. My finger eased off the trigger. Private Luginbeel sat in the seat closest to us, a duffle bag between his knees, pulling a 9mm handgun from the bag.

  Attikin’s ass! He’s going to kill us!

  Tension turned my muscles into hard knots. A raging ache pounded above my left ear. In one rapid movement, I swung my fist, releasing the tension in an agonizing, knuckle-crushing wallop across Justet’s jaw.

  He collapsed, a heap of camouflage and carroty hair, his legs in an unattractive sprawl. Time to go. My eyes went back to the commander, zeroing in on the tags hanging against her uniform. My head split with pain. Lights popped into my vision.

  Get the key . . . get the key . . . get the key . . . The chant in my mind surged energy into my limbs. I couldn’t look away from the pendant. I’d never wanted anything more.

  I stepped across Justet’s body to reach the commander. My fingers closed on the tags and snapped the chain from her neck. I felt the welcome, warm curve of the pendant, a blissful moment of contentment.

  The commander’s hand clamped onto my wrist. Our eyes locked. I pressed the muzzle of the rifle against her abdomen. My finger depressed the trigger just a hair.

  I wanted to kill her. Pull the trigger and feel her blood spill across my hands. The desire was so strong it burned my mouth. I couldn’t breathe.

  Kill her, kill her, kill her.

  No I didn’t. I didn’t! I didn’t want to kill her. Except that I did.

  With superhuman effort, I took a step back. The plane lifted and then dropped. My balance shifted. The ache in my head retreated.

  A single gunshot echoed through the plane.

  I jerked backward and slammed into the side of the Deuce. Agonizing heat burned down my arm. A spot n
ear my shoulder pounded for attention. My upper body collapsed over in an effort to protect itself. Only the support of the Deuce kept me on my feet. I watched in a daze as my left hand reached over to staunch the flow of an astonishing amount of blood. The thick crimson fluid dribbled over the chain entwined in my fingers.

  I staggered, the left side of my body scraping against the Deuce. Every harsh line of the plane’s interior became surprisingly sharp. Scars of sunlight moved across the walls of the aircraft as it banked.

  I clutched the rifle, my hands forgetting how to let go. My gaze traveled from the blood . . . so much blood . . . to Luginbeel and the pistol he was pointing at me. Wind whipped away a delicate trail of smoke. The commander kicked Lieutenant Justet’s leg out of her way and took a step in my direction.

  An arm circled my waist. Thurmond yelled near my ear. I was dragged back several paces. My legs refused to work. In fact, my whole body was going numb. Wichman lunged at me.

  A shout. Pressure at my back. Then emptiness, accompanied by the sensation of falling.

  CHAPTER 11

  Caz

  5 years pre-RAGE

  Caz tapped the tiny, red-hot shard of metal with her hammer, curving it around the stone anvil. It had been smelted down from the promise ring Vin had given her, not because she no longer needed or wanted it, but because it was the only metal she’d had on her when she descended into the lab two days ago.

  Ash flecked her lap. It dirtied her dark, formal dress and glowed white in the darkness. She continued her methodical tap, tap, tap with the hammer, turned the shard by microns and tap, tap, tapped some more.

  She was more than late. In fact, she had most likely missed it. Tap, tap, tap, turn. It was better this way. Who wanted to attend the interment of Retha’s most infamous munitioners? Who wanted to hear Xander’s sad words echoing in the vacant chamber?