by David Wood
There was no threat in his words, just a warning, and Peter understood. If he left the house, armed for battle, he’d be a threat, and they would respond.
“Understood,” Peter said, as the man exited the kitchen.
The last of them, the man named Mackenzie, paused. “I was a Marine, sir. Looked up to the CSOs. We all did. You guys gave us something to aspire to.”
“Get to the point,” Peter said.
The man nodded. “You have incoming, sir. Rattletails.”
“Rattletails?”
“Kenyon’s lady...Ella... She calls them Stalkers. Not sure how many, but one is too many in my opinion. If you have a way to leave this place fast, you better go.”
Peter began strategizing their escape, even as he said, “Thanks for the heads up.”
The man snapped a quick but sloppy salute, the kind that would have gotten him fifty push-ups during Boot Camp, and exited, leaving Peter and Jakob alone in the kitchen.
“Find the girls,” Peter said. “I’ll gather what I can. We’re leaving the second they’re out of sight.”
Chapter 43
Peter didn’t watch the helicopters leave. He could hear them well enough. Looking meant stopping, and he didn’t think they had time for even a moment’s pause. When Jakob returned to the kitchen with Anne, who looked dejected and lost, and with Alia, who was in a far worse state, he set them to work.
“Alia,” he said, “I know you’re hurting, and confused, and scared, but for the next ten minutes, I need you to be strong, okay?”
She nodded despite her quivering lip.
“I need backpacks. Bags. Pillow cases. Anything you have that can carry this.” He motioned to the weapons he’d gathered and laid out on the kitchen table.
Alia hurried from the room without a word or any indication that she was agreeing to the task.
He turned to Anne. “You’re on hall cabinet duty.” Alia returned faster than Peter expected. She held two pink backpacks, which had clearly once been hers, a long duffle bag and a crushed handful of grocery store plastic bags.
“Take the backpacks,” he told Anne, “and get everything you can from the hall cabinet.”
“I know what to look for,” she said, her resilience springing her back to her old self, past the knowledge that she had a computer chip in her head, and that she’d never really been born.
“Jakob. Two bags. Hit the green house. Everything you can carry, but try to get the denser foods that take longer to spoil. Root vegetables.”
“Right,” Jakob said. “No corn. No leafy stuff.”
When he ran to the back of the kitchen and opened the decontamination room door, Alia looked after him.
“Go ahead,” Peter said, taking the duffle bag. “As much as you both can carry.”
As the kitchen emptied, Peter set himself to the task of filling the duffle bag with rifles, shotguns and handguns, careful to select only those in the best conditions. Packing the bag so full that it was impossible to carry, or the handles ripped off, wouldn’t do.
The pitch of the helicopters’ rotors was building and growing more distant. The choppers were moving away, to the west as they rose higher. They’re bugging out fast, Peter thought, and it’s not because of me. While they’d had success against the Stalkers in the past, that was on his home turf, or in the truck with a fully loaded machine gun. They still had the big gun on the truck in the garage, but without ammunition the weapon was just for show. Intimidating to a person perhaps, but nothing to a Stalker.
The weight of the bag felt borderline too heavy as Peter lifted it up. He placed it back down, removed the M16 he’d been using, slung it over his shoulder and zipped up the bag. Good enough, he thought.
The sound of the choppers faded quickly. They would be out of sight in a few seconds, but he thought it would probably be safe to leave now. “Wrap it up!”
He shouted as loud as he could, but only Anne replied. “Five seconds!” Her small voice was tight and controlled. Peter felt a pang of emotion he couldn’t quite place. Pride mixed with sorrow. The girl in the hallway was, genetically, his daughter. His DNA had been used without consent, which was an offense to which only Ella could answer. But would the end justify the means? Could Ella really start making amends for the genetic catastrophe she’d helped begin, by further mucking with the human genome—his human genome? The problem, he knew, was that given the chance, he’d forgive Ella. And she knew it.
I’m weak, he thought, but then he crushed the emotion down and headed for the rear kitchen door. He pushed through it. The decontamination room fans didn’t kick on, and he was able to open the second door without pause. He banged on it twice with his fist. “Wheels up. We’re leaving. Now.”
He heard Alia ask, “Wheels up?” but he knew his son understood the message and left before they replied.
Anne waited in the kitchen holding two very heavy looking pink backpacks. He could see she was near some kind of emotional breaking point. They all were, but she had just lost her mother, who had kept her alive in the wild. He crouched down in front of her, put his hands on her shoulders and said, “I am your father. Doesn’t matter if you were grown or born. You’ve got my genes, and that means you can kick ass and take names.” She didn’t look convinced. “It also means that I will protect you. And fight for you. And love you.”
A tear fell, but she quickly rubbed it away. The fighter in her knew this was no time for crying. Peter didn’t fare much better. Blinking away tears, he kissed her forehead. “Now, let’s kick some ass.”
A slight smile flickered across her face. The biodome door swung open as Jakob and Alia returned. They each held four plastic grocery bags laden with fresh, soil covered vegetables. Peter strode to the table and hefted the duffle bag over his shoulder. He stepped toward the open kitchen wall and listened. The helicopters were barely audible. “Straight to the garage. Eyes open.” He looked at Alia. “I’m going to be depending on you for the fastest route out of here.”
“Which way?” she asked.
“East,” he said, and when she looked unsure, he pointed to the back of the kitchen and said, “That way.”
“’Kay,” Alia said.
“Move,” Peter said, and he led the way out through the hole, stepping carefully over what was left of the front porch while keeping his eyes on the distant woods. On the plus side, the carrot field was still empty. On the downside, he couldn’t see anything beyond the treeline, and the wheat filling every available space was the perfect hunting ground for Stalkers.
Four sets of feet crunched over the pavement as they headed around the front of the house toward the detached garage, which was undamaged by the battle. Peter glanced at his fallen wife as he passed, saying a silent goodbye and an apology for leaving her body to the scavengers. He glanced back at Jakob, but the boy hadn’t given his mother a second look.
Peter grasped the handle of the door on the side of the garage. He gave it a quick jiggle to confirm that it had been locked, stepped back and then kicked hard, planting his boot just beneath the doorknob. The wooden door was solid, but the rotted frame gave out. The door slammed inward and Peter followed. Dust swirled in the sunlight that cut through the two windows, revealing an old pickup truck, and Peter’s armored Dodge Ram beside it. Looking at the big truck with fresh eyes, he saw the beating it had taken. The front and sides were caked with chunky gray mud and dark brown gore. Stalks of vegetation were wedged between every crevice. The paint job was scratched in several places, revealing long claw marks, some of which dug into the metal beyond the black enamel.
It had only been days since the big truck had started carrying them to safety, but it already looked like it had served a tour of duty in Afghanistan. But, like all good soldiers, it wouldn’t waver before heading into danger’s path once more.
“Keep everything with you,” Peter said as he opened the back door. He didn’t trust that their new found supplies would stay in the truck bed if things got bumpy. He opened the d
river’s side door, confirmed that the keys were still in the ignition and turned to Jakob. “Start her up while I get the door.”
“Am I driving?” Jakob asked.
“Not this time.” Peter bent down to lift the large door. “Just get her ready.”
Peter winced as the door shrieked, the old metal wheels grinding through their slots. Then the truck roared to life. If there was anything within earshot, they just became targets. The door banged into place. Sunlight blazed into the garage, lighting up the kids in the truck.
Peter looked at them through the windshield. He now had a seventeen year old son, the boy’s sixteen year old girlfriend—or whatever she was—and a twelve year old, but not really, daughter. Had he been living comfortably at home, this arrangement would have frightened him. Now it terrified him, not because he didn’t know how to act around teenagers, but because he was responsible for keeping all three of them alive in a world that wanted to eat them whole.
I’m going to have to train them, he thought, and he headed for the open driver’s door. I’m going to have to make them killers. The real trick would be transforming them into predators while keeping their souls intact. He’d seen strong men break from training before ever seeing combat. But the kids’ survival depended on them being strong.
He slipped behind the wheel and put the truck in drive, but kept his foot on the brake. He looked at the three kids, meeting each of their eyes, glad to see determination. “No matter what happens, we’re not going to stop. Everyone pick a weapon you can handle. If we’re engaged, put down the windows before firing. Ready?”
“Let’s move,” Jakob said.
“Sure,” Alia said, though she didn’t sound sure.
“Fuckin’ A,” Anne said.
All eyes turned on her. “What?” she said. “I thought we agreed that a non-existent society couldn’t—”
“Yeah,” Peter said, his fatherly adoration for the girl growing a bit. “Fuckin’ A.” He hit the gas, launching out of the garage and peeling down the driveway. He barely slowed when he reached the road and made a sharp right. The truck sped away from the farm, heading east at 60 mph, unscathed by whatever hunted in the woods, but headed into uncharted territory, where ungodly predators lurked and an uncertain future awaited.
Chapter 44
Ella looked down as the chopper rose in the sky. The ruined farm shrank beneath them and then disappeared as the helicopter turned west, speeding away even as they climbed. She turned to Kenyon, who was seated beside her in the blue Black Hawk. He smiled at her and squeezed her hand, which was now sweating, as he hadn’t let go of her since they had left the kitchen.
“What are we running from?” she asked.
“Just want to put a little distance between us and your G.I. Joe friend.” Kenyon turned away from her, feigning interest in the shifting view. “Seemed like a loose cannon to me.”
She knew it was bullshit. Kenyon was a horrible liar. She’d seen him lose at poker enough to know his whole face was a tell. He knew it, too. It was why he looked away, which in itself was a tell.
Kenyon wasn’t about to give her any answers, so she turned back to the window, looking down. She had to stifle a gasp when she saw a clearing below. Several large bodies dashed out of the woods and into the clearing, tromping through the short, leafy crop and making a beeline for the trees on the opposite side, and beyond them the carrot field and Brant’s farm.
She counted seven Stalkers, including one that looked to be the size of a T-Rex. That’s her, she thought, the queen of them that has been driving the rest, spurring their ruthless pursuit. The creatures looked different now, their chests doubled in size. They’ve adapted. Grown massive lungs for long distance running. The plates on their backs were also bigger, like those of a stegosaurus, a creature that was not part of the human race’s DNA history. The larger surface area is cooling them off, she thought, like an elephant’s ears. But were they adapting in new ways not available in their unlocked junk DNA, or were they accessing creatures unknown to paleontology?
The scientist in her, visually dissecting the creatures’ adaptations, was squelched when the pack of predators stopped and looked up at the helicopters.
I’m right here, she thought at the pack leader. Follow us.
The Stalkers seemed to be squawking and snapping at each other. Then the big one thrashed about for a moment and turned back to the forest.
No! Follow me! I’m right here, you bitch!
The pack leader glanced up one last time. With a wide-mouthed screech that Ella thought she might have actually heard over the loud rotors and through the headphones covering her ears, the alpha continued on its previous path toward the farm. The pack followed. When they disappeared into the trees, it took all of Ella’s strength to not throw herself in the cockpit and force the Black Hawk back to the ground.
Before she could decide on any course of action, whether it be attack or resigned silence, she heard Kenyon talking. He was speaking—shouting really—into a satellite phone. She slipped the headphones off her ears and heard the crackling reply of a man’s voice through the speaker phone.
“Say again. Is this Viper Squad?”
Ella rolled her eyes. Only Kenyon could have come up with that name.
“Affirmative,” Kenyon said.
“We thought you all were dead,” the man said.
“Some of us are,” Kenyon replied. “Now put Lawrence on the line.”
“I’m not sure he’s—”
“Put him on, or I will personally come to say hello when we get back.”
“Get back?” The man sounded mildly nervous.
“We’re on our way to you now.” Kenyon glanced at Ella and noticed she was listening. He offered her a half smile that disappeared when he spoke again. “We’ll be home in a week, give or take a few days.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, “Hold on.”
A few clicks later, a familiar voice came over the line. “Kenyon?”
“Lawrence,” Kenyon said. “Good to hear you again.”
“My god. You’re alive!”
“Very.”
“And the package?”
“Ella is sitting next to me.”
There was a moment’s pause, during which the tension inside the chopper doubled. Hutchins, who was seated across from Kenyon, shifted in his seat. “And the girl?”
Ella knew in that moment, that while Kenyon had been there for her, she wasn’t really the mission. Anne was. And that meant that they had discovered what she really was, and the threat she posed to their plans.
“Deceased,” Kenyon said, his eyes flicking toward Ella for just a moment.
“You have the body?”
Kenyon’s forehead wrinkled. The gears of his mind slowly turning, grinding, understanding. “No, sir.” He turned to Ella. “Where is she?”
“I—I don’t know,” Ella said.
Kenyon’s wrinkled brow shifted direction, burrowing down between his eyes. “I know what she meant to you. I know how much you loved her. If she were dead, you’d know exactly where it happened. Now, where is she?”
“Ed, I don’t—”
He slapped her so hard and fast that she was thrown against the Black Hawk’s door. When she turned to face him, all of the forced affection she’d been putting into her loving gaze was missing. “If you hit me again, I’ll kill you.”
He squinted at her. “Anne’s alive, isn’t she?”
“Kenyon,” Lawrence said from the phone. “If you return without the girl, I will not open these doors to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, glaring at Ella. He hung up the phone and repositioned his headset. “All units, back to the farm. Double time.” The chopper began a wide turn, tilting to the side. “Target is female. Age twelve. Dark hair. She is to be taken alive. Anyone who harms her will receive the same treatment.” He paused a moment, then spoke while holding Ella’s gaze. “Everyone else? Shoot to kill.”
Cha
pter 45
While ‘the calm before the storm,’ had become a cliché, fewer people talked about the calm after the storm. But people who had seen active duty in war zones understood it. There was a moment in every battle, whether it be when the enemy was dead, or you were being carried home on a Black Hawk, when reality snapped back in place. Some men wept. Some told jokes. Peter usually fell asleep, whether he was in a foxhole or riding in a chopper. Once safe, his body forced a recharge. Sometimes he fought it. Stayed awake because danger could rear up again. But he always felt the Sandman tugging him toward slumber.
But now, twenty minutes after leaving a second farmhouse in shambles, he was still on high alert. There had been no sign of pursuit and no danger on the road ahead, that he could see. He wasn’t sure if it was just the nature of what they’d just faced, or that he’d killed his wife, or that Ella had been taken from him, but his nerves weren’t settling.
And neither were the kids’. He glanced over at Jakob, whose wide eyes scanned back and forth. The boy gripped a shotgun the way little kids do their teddy bears. An M16 sat between the seats and two spare magazines lay in the center console. The girls in the back both had handguns and spare magazines, all of it resting on the seat between them. Anne hadn’t spoken a word since leaving, and Alia only offered the occasional direction, keeping them off the main roads.
Peter felt a strange parental need to start up a conversation, to help the kids normalize after seeing their parents killed or kidnapped. But the only words that came to mind were things like, ‘Give me a sitrep,’ or, ‘Everyone report in.’ He was in full military mode, his mind reverted back to his CSO training—except the three people sharing the homemade technical with him were children, not warriors.
Calm down, he told himself, realizing that what he was feeling might be his old PTSD rearing back up. But the danger he felt was real. It was constant. The ‘P’ no longer stood for ‘Post.’ The danger was Present. And the stress was necessary.