by B. C. Tweedt
“Then we welcome you to our family.”
Emory raised his pistol.
Cael jerked as the shots rang out.
The men erupted in cheers, shooting their guns in the air along with Emory.
After the last shot, Emory lowered his weapon and strode to Cael, speaking to the men. “This is a true hero here!” He put his hand on Cael’s shoulder. “He struck the enemy, fought valiantly, and escaped with his life to fight again another day. Brave, smart, and loyal.”
Cael eyed the men surrounding him, staring holes through his bangs. There were little similarities between them. He saw men of all races, some wearing turbans and others shorts. Some were in shape, others were overweight. But none were smiling.
“Though he has sinned against us today, we’ll give him a chance for redemption through initiation. But first things first. Buzz.” Emory motioned to the man, or maybe he was a teenager, with the bloodied nose and profusely scarred face and then looked down at Cael. “Eye for an eye.”
Buzz strutted toward him, pulled back his fist, and planted it in Cael’s face.
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The shrill whine of metal wheels drew their attention to the door. Nurse Rachael rushed to it, whispering back to Sydney. “He’ll be coming in a little loopy from the anesthesia. And he’ll need sleep.”
“Loopy?”
“Groggy and a little goofy – no filter.”
Sydney stayed back as Rachael guided the gurney inside while another nurse pushed. Greyson was lying on top of it, covered with a white sheet up to his neck and IVs curling up to the bags of liquids hanging from another wheeled mechanism.
Seeing him sent a shiver up her spine.
Together the two nurses hefted Greyson to his bed, tucked him in, and checked all his vitals. At the time Greyson seemed to be sleeping, but his lips were moving, the first part of his body to wake up.
After the nurses had talked Sydney through some emergency procedures and what to expect from him, Rachael said, “I’ll be back in a few. You’ll be okay with him.”
“Yeah,” she responded, even though it hadn’t sounded like a question.
Rachael gave her a nod, and left.
As soon as the door shut, Sydney sighed, still a little overwhelmed with all the instructions, being left alone. Trying to remain calm, she turned to Greyson and blew a stray hair from her eyes.
“I’m sorry…” came an odd voice from Greyson’s mouth.
Sydney rushed to his side. His face was pale, his lips chapped, and his eyelids struggling to open. “Hey,” she whispered in reply. “What’d you say?”
“I’m sorry,” he whined again.
She cocked her head. “Sorry for what?”
“I forgot…forgot to take out…the trash.”
She grinned. He was a little loopy.
“That’s okay. I’ll get it,” she said.
His eyelids fluttered, like he was really bothered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You’re fine. How are you feeling?”
“Good…” His voice was soft and wispy. “Where…am I?”
“You’re safe,” she assured, grabbing his unbandaged hand. “We’re in kind of a hospital. It’s a camp. I think we’ll like it here.”
“Camp? Like one with sports…?” he asked with slurred speech. Then his eyes darted back and forth beneath his fluttering eyelids. “And terrorists?”
She laughed. “No. Well…I don’t think so. But you’ll be in here for a few days at least.”
“I will? Don’t leave.”
The way he said it nearly choked her up. She squeezed his hand. “No, no, I won’t leave – I promise. I’ll be here – right here. Nick and Jarryd are here, too. And Avery…” She looked to the door, ready to drop his hand in case they walked in on her. “But hey, I got a question for you.”
His demeanor brightened. “Shoot…”
Sydney laughed as she sensed his smirk. She only hoped he would stay awake long enough for her to get unfiltered answers. “Do you really like creamed corn?”
“No. So-oooo gross.”
Smiling, she thought about what else she’d been dying to know about him. “Why don’t you like to dance?”
“It’s…weird,” he huffed, his brow squinched. “And I suck at it, you know? For real…”
She stifled a laugh but suddenly grew serious. “Do you like Avery?”
“She’s okay, you know?” he started, eyes still shut, speaking to the ceiling. “I don’t know her too well, but she is like super hot…like wow…”
“Who’s prettier?” Sydney jumped in. “Me or her?”
“That’s an easy one…”
“Never mind,” she interrupted. “I don’t want to know.” It was time for more important questions. She squirmed. The guilt from taking advantage of his current state nagged at her. “Do you blame me for Des Moines?”
“No…no…that was…why’d it be your fault?”
A weight lifted that she hadn’t known had existed. Ever since he had jumped off the moving truck into the river to rescue her, leaving behind the bomb that would kill over 8,000 people on the outskirts of Des Moines, she had felt a burden of guilt. And so had he, apparently. He had even told her so on the battleship – that he blamed himself – but she hadn’t believed him, until now.
“Why’d you save me…instead of Liam?”
She was looking at his hand, but when he didn’t reply her gaze snapped to his face. His closed eyes had stopped fluttering. His cheek now rested against the pillow and his mouth hung open. He’d finally fallen asleep.
She squeezed his hand one last time, and to her surprise he squeezed back. His smile returned and his head shifted to the other side of the pillow. What he said next struck her heart.
“I love you…”
For a moment she was breathless, unable to respond. A million choices rushed to her mouth, but none escaped.
And then the door opened.
She dropped his hand and stood up, frozen, trying not to be as suspicious as she was actually being. Nick, Jarryd, and Avery came in, giving her looks.
Finally, Sydney put a finger to her lips. “He’s almost asleep.”
“Well, it’s hard to fall asleep when you’re making out,” Jarryd quipped with a chin pump.
“Unless your imaginary girlfriend is a pillow…” Nick retorted, elbowing his brother.
Sydney glared at them both as Rachael came from behind the group.
“Sydney, I’d like you to meet the doctor before he returns to Salt Lake. He’s on his way out.”
“Sure.”
Sydney smiled at the group, glanced at Greyson one more time, and left.
Chapter 5
Greyson’s days blended with the nights. When he’d awaken, he’d turn to see Sydney sitting in the corner armchair, sometimes awake, sometimes trying to sleep at an awkward angle, sometimes reading. But she’d always sense his movement and look up with her ocean blue eyes and smile. She’d put down her book or pillow, grab his hand and ask him how he’d slept.
It had come to the point where she always had a fresh cup of water ready for him, because he was often parched when he woke.
“You can leave. Really,” he’d said early on, to which she’d replied, “Where else would I go?”
She had been given a room in the dormitories, but she still didn’t leave. He woke to her adjusting his pillow. “You can sleep in your room. I’ll be alright.”
“Oh, I know,” she said with a smile. “But your snoring puts me to sleep.”
“I don’t snore,” he’d retorted. “Do I?”
“Like a sasquatch on a treadmill.”
They laughed together, as they often did. They read together – newspapers and books from the library; they invented new games to play in the room, and reflected on life.
Every day Greyson made progress, healing to the point he could walk laps in the Me
d Center and visit the bathroom. He would spend hours watching the people outside. Each new day brought more campers. Busloads of them. But none of them looked happy, because they weren’t really campers. They were refugees. They reminded Greyson of when he had taken a bus into Illinois, escaping from FBI surveillance with nothing but a backpack of belongings. Now that backpack was in some mulleted kid’s rundown house in Camden, Georgia, along with the last picture he’d had of his father.
“It’s getting worse out there,” Greyson whispered, as if he didn’t want it to be true. He watched the kids stepping off the bus, young eyes bouncing around the camp and the mountains surrounding.
Sydney had been deep in thought, seemingly knowing where Greyson’s thoughts were taking him. “The best way to help is to get better.”
He watched the kids stop at the registration table. Watched them receive identification lanyards. “I’m just taking up space here.” He eyed the peaks jutting into the clouds.
“So am I,” Sydney had replied.
Visitors would come and go, Jarryd, Nick, and Avery included, but they were quickly absorbed in what the camp had to offer. Dan, the pilot who had taken him to the Bahamas, had visited but was only able to stay long enough to give him an update on Kit. “He’s recovering well with our friend, SmokeStack. He’ll bring him back the next time business takes them close.”
Greyson had missed the German Shepherd who had accompanied him across the United States, saving him a few times before being captured and injured by the American soldiers who had tried to kill them – for some unknown reason. “Business? What business?” Greyson asked. He sat up straight. “Who are you guys? Like some secret army or something? You can tell me; I won’t tell. I promise.”
Dan checked over his shoulder for some unseen enemy and turned back with a grim tone. “If I tell you, it stays with us. And I only tell you because I know I can trust you more than anyone.”
Greyson blinked hard. “You do? Why?”
“Because our enemies are trying to kill you. And those same enemies would kill everyone in this camp if they found out we were here. Why would you talk?”
Sydney looked at him, and together they gulped.
“We call ourselves Rubicon,” Dan whispered.
“Rue-bih-con?” Greyson mouthed the word Rubicon. Then, his brow rose. “You said they’d kill everyone in this camp? Who? Who would?”
Dan turned toward the window as if dreading the thought. “Someone’s hired StoneWater to hunt us down. StoneWater’s a private security firm that has been involved in every war in the past three decades; it has a larger military than Australia, and it’s at the disposal of anyone with deep enough pockets. They’re the real mercs – and they’re really good at what they do.”
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Roman Dresvynin’s instincts told him to avoid the tunnel, but he shoved them away as he had everything else that had reminded him of his time in the Seals. There had been a time when he would have prepped his sidearm, swung the car around, and chosen a smarter route, but the part of him that had cared for his own survival was gone. His life wasn’t worth anything anymore. Not after what they’d done to him.
The tunnel walls washed over him, its lights punctuating the darkness all the way to the moonlit exit. His car was the only one out this late. Many would be afraid of a deserted tunnel in this part of the city, but they hadn’t lived through what Roman had.
A blur.
CLANK!
An object struck his car hood and stuck with a flash of blue sparks. In the same instant, the whole car died in spasms of electric death. The tunnel lights, his headlights, and dash lights blinked out as he slammed his brakes in complete darkness.
The car was still skidding to a stop when he shoved his hand under his seat, removing the pistol. But when the car had stopped, he didn’t make any more sudden movements. There was only darkness, but he knew what it hid. It had been an ambush. Whoever had such sophisticated technology would have planned for his every move.
Rubicon…?
Was it them? Could he have gotten so lucky?
Suddenly eyes appeared in the dark. Orange, round eyes in sets of four. Six to the left. Six more to the right. Then more.
Laser sights gleamed toward him, the tiny dots speckling his chest.
He was surrounded. And he knew who they were.
A distorted voice spoke from the dark. “Get out. The pistol stays in the car.”
He knew to obey. They’d put him down with a barrage of bullets before he could raise the weapon past his knee.
Opening the door, he left the pistol behind and raised his tattooed arms in the air. “I have no business with StoneWater.”
The laser beams didn’t waver from his heart.
His words echoed in the empty tunnel. There was nothing but the buzzing of the EMP spike in his car’s hood. The sparks it emitted were just enough to light the silhouettes of the soldiers surrounding him. But they didn’t move.
Nothing moved until a tiny drone, the size of his fist, whirred down from the ceiling, just feet from his face. It scanned his face with lasers of its own.
“State your name,” it said.
“Roman Dresvynin,” he replied, still with arms raised.
The beep it emitted served as a signal for the soldiers to lower their weapons, and a stout soldier pulled his four-eyed goggles to the top of his head, strutting to Roman. “We have a message for you,” he said.
“Postage too expensive?”
The stout soldier smirked, “Nothing’s too expensive for us. If you’re one of us, you can get anything you want. Cars, mansions, women…revenge…”
Revenge? They’d done their research. They knew what he wanted. And now he knew what they wanted.
“You want me to join StoneWater?”
The soldier’s nod might as well have said “we aren’t here to kill you.”
Taking the invitation, Roman slapped the drone from the air, spinning it into the stout soldier’s face. The other soldiers jerked their guns up too late. In a flash, Roman had rolled forward and struck the soldier three times. The soldier replied with a salvo of thrusts and jabs, but Roman had a plan for each one. With a duck and a twist, Roman already held the stout soldier’s own knife to his throat, retreating toward the car.
“Roman!” the soldier begged. “Don’t be stupid…”
He backed closer to the hood, glancing at the sets of eyes around him. “I have a message for you, too.”
Dropping the knife, he spun the soldier, head-butted him, and slammed the EMP spike through one of the goggles’ eyes on top of his head. He then held the soldier’s collar in one hand, letting his limp body hang.
He gazed about the tunnel, challenging the soldiers to act. Though their goggle eyes didn’t reveal their emotion, he knew what they were gawking at: the gaping hole in his face where his nose used to be. It was now hanging by his cheek, knocked loose by the head-butt. The lousy prosthetic was a nuisance. But it covered his snake-like nostril pits and prevented infection. With his free hand, he shifted it over the red and pink hole, pushing it into place like a plunger.
“Give your boss this message,” he began. “Roman can’t be bought. And Rubicon is mine and mine alone.”
He dropped the stout soldier’s body, stepped over it to his car, and added, “On those conditions, I accept your invitation. I’ll be coming to you.”
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Cael had fallen asleep at the wrong time. He woke to a faint din of applause echoing off the tunnel walls. Packing his sweater-pillow into the red backpack Greyson had left behind and snatching the shotgun he’d placed under the pillow, he made sure to leave nothing behind to tempt the immoral characters that inhabited this unholy lair that he now called home.
While he hadn’t joined many – any – organizations before, he hadn’t expected the welcome he’d received. First, they’d given him a baptism by fire.
Dunked his head in a flaming barrel. Singed his eyebrows. Next they had injected him with some sort of flesh-eating virus followed by the antidote. Said he’d need the antidote every week, and they were the only ones who had it. They called it leverage. Turns out they kept every member accountable in some way or the other. Blackmail was their bread and butter – making people look bad, even if they weren’t. Their failsafe method to get the things they wanted. ‘Do this or I’ll ruin you,’ they said. In his case it was ‘do this or we’ll let you rot’.
Welcome to Pluribus.
Scrambling through the tunnel, he tried to follow the sound of the meeting that he knew they’d make him regret if he missed. He was already on thin ice in their initiation mess they called “Training”. For some reason, the old, fat men didn’t like his comments about their oldness or their fatness. Or maybe they were just jealous he was finding their Training too easy.
He knew he’d taken a wrong turn when he heard a familiar hum of a drone. They mostly patrolled above the center of the quarry, the Crater, so it was odd to hear one inside. He hated the things. Whenever he went exploring, they were there to turn him back.
A corridor led to a wooden door straight ahead, but the sound was coming from another path to the right. Cael approached the tunnel intersection cautiously and was about to peek around the corner when the drone swooped in front of him, blocking his path. He put up his hands, one with the shotgun in it. “Cool it, bot. I’m lost.”
The quad-rotored drone was military; at least it used to be. Each of its four rotors could spin 360 degrees, giving it superior maneuverability. At the hub of the four rotors was its processing center with multiple cameras and sensors. One of them peered at him, its red dot seeming to examine him. And beneath its hub, its gun was pointed at his heart. But Cael knew from experience that Quads like this wouldn’t shoot if he just took a little peek.
He leaned his torso forward and looked down the hall just in time to see Orion, Emory’s son, disappear behind a black steel door. The kid was infamous in the Crater – mostly for the creepy device on his neck, but also for his cruelty.