by Aaron Hodges
Margaret Sanders
Beneath the picture was a description of the woman: her height, weight, license number, last known address, school and work history, her current occupation as a college teacher, and marital status. The last was listed as widowed with a single child. Her husband had succumbed to cancer almost a decade previously.
Shaking her head, Angela looked again at the woman’s eyes, wondering what could have driven her to this end. She had a house, a son, solid employment as a teacher. Why would she throw it all away, when she had so much to lose?
Idly, she wondered whether Mrs Sanders would have done things differently if given another chance. The smile lines around her eyes were those of a kind soul, and her alleged support for the resistance fighters seemed out of character. It was a shame the government did not give second chances – especially not with traitors of the state.
Now both mother and son would suffer for her actions.
Tapping the screen, Angela pulled up the son’s file. Christopher Sanders, at eighteen, was the reason she had come tonight. The assault team would handle the mother and any of her associates who might be on the property, but the son had been selected for the Praegressus project. That meant he had to be taken alive and unharmed.
His profile described him as five-foot-eleven, with a weight of 150 pounds – not large by any measure. Her only concern was the black belt listed beneath his credentials, though Angela knew such accomplishments usually meant little in reality. Particularly when the target was unarmed, unsuspecting and outnumbered.
A picture of her target popped onto the screen with another tap, and a flicker of discomfort spread through her stomach. His brunette hair showed traces of his mother’s auburn locks, while the hazel eyes must have descended from a dominant bey2 allele in his father’s chromosome. A hint of light-brown facial hair traced the edges of his jaw, mingling with the last traces of teenage acne. Despite his small size, he had the broad, muscular shoulders of an athlete, and there was little sign of fat on his youthful face.
Sucking in a breath, Angela flicked off the screen. This was not her first assignment, though she hoped it might be her last. For months now she had overseen the collection of subjects for the Praegressus project, and the task had never gotten easier. The faces of the children she had taken haunted her, staring at her when she closed her eyes. Her only consolation was that without her, those children would have suffered the same fate as their parents. At least the research facility gave them a fighting chance.
And looking into the boy’s eyes, she knew he was a fighter.
Angela closed her eyes, shoving aside her doubt, and reached out and pressed a button on the car’s console.
“Are you in position?” she spoke to the empty car.
“Ready when you are, Fallow,” a man replied.
Nodding her head, Fallow reached beneath her seat and retrieved a steel briefcase. Unclipping its restraints, she lifted out a jet injector and held it up to the light. The stainless-steel instrument appeared more like a gun than a piece of medical equipment, but it served its purpose well enough. Once her team had Chris restrained, it would be a simple matter to use the jet injector to anesthetise the young man for transport.
Removing a vial of etorphine from the case, she screwed it into place and pressed a button on the side. A short hiss confirmed it was pressurised. She eyed the clear liquid, hoping the details in the boy’s file were correct. She had prepared the dosage of etorphine earlier for Chris’s age and weight, but a miscalculation could prove fatal.
“Fallow, still waiting on your signal?” the voice came again.
Fallow bit her lip and closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she shivered in the cold of the car.
If not you, then someone else.
She opened her eyes. “Go.”
CHAPTER 3
The screen of the old CRT television flickered to black as Chris’s mother moved across and switched it off. Her face was pale when she turned towards him, and a shiver ran through her as she closed her eyes.
“Your Grandfather would be ashamed, Chris,” she said, shaking her head. “He went to war against the United States because he believed in our freedom. He fought to keep us free, not to spend decades haunted by the ghosts of the past.”
Chris shivered. He’d never met his grandfather, but his mother and grandmother talked of him enough that Chris felt he knew him. When the United States had refused to accept the independence of the Western Allied States, his grandfather had accepted the call to defend their young nation. He had enlisted in the WAS Marines and had shipped off to war. The conflict had quickly expanded to engulf the whole of North America. Only the aid of Canada and Mexico had given the WAS the strength to survive, and eventually prevail against the aggression of the United States.
Unfortunately, his grandfather had not survived to see the world change. He had learned of Chris’s birth while stationed in New Mexico, but had never returned to see his grandson grow. So Chris knew him only from photos, and the stories of his mother and grandmother.
“Things will change soon.” Chris shook his head. “Surely?”
His mother crinkled her nose. “I’ve been saying that for ten years,” she said as she moved towards the kitchen, ruffling Chris’s hair as she passed him, “but things only ever seem to get worse.”
Chris moved after her and pulled out a chair at the wooden table. The kitchen was small, barely big enough for the two of them, but it was all they needed. His mother was already standing at the stove, stirring a pot of stew he recognised as leftovers from the beef shanks of the night before.
“Most don’t seem to care, as long as the attacks are confined to the countryside,” Chris commented.
“Exactly.” His mother turned, emphatically waving the wooden spoon. “They think it doesn’t matter, that our wealth will protect us. Well, it won’t stay that way forever.”
“No.” Chris shook his head. “That one in Seattle…” he shuddered. Over fifty people had been killed by a single Chead in a shopping mall. Police had arrived within ten minutes, but that was all the time it had needed.
Impulsively, he reached up and felt the pocket watch he wore around his neck. His mother had given it to him ten years ago, at his father’s funeral. It held a picture of his parents, smiling on the shore of Lake Washington in Seattle, where they had met. His heart gave a painful throb as he thought of the terror engulfing the city.
Noticing the gesture, his mother abandoned the pot and pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay, Chris. We’ll survive this. We’re a strong people. They’ll come up with a solution, even if we have to march up to parliament’s gates and demand it.”
Chris nodded and was about to speak when a crash came from somewhere in the house. They pushed apart and spun towards the kitchen doorway. Though they lived in the city, when Chris’s father had passed away they had been forced to move closer to the city’s edge. It was not the safest neighbourhood, and it was well past the seven o’clock curfew now. Whoever, or whatever, had made the noise was not likely to be friendly.
Sucking in a breath, Chris moved into the doorway and risked a glance into the lounge. The single incandescent bulb cast shadows across the room, leaving dark patches behind the couch and television. He stared hard into the darkness, searching for signs of movement, and then retreated to the kitchen.
Silently, his mother handed him a kitchen knife. He took it after only a second’s hesitation. She held a second blade in a practiced grip. Looking at her face, Chris swallowed hard. Her eyes were hard, her brow creased in a scowl, but he did not miss the fear there. Together they faced the door, and waited.
The squeak of the loose floorboard in the hall sounded as loud as a gunshot in the silent house. Chris glanced at his mother, and she nodded back. There was no doubt now.
A crash came from the lounge, then the thud of heavy boots as the intruder gave up all pretence of stealth. Chris tensed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the knife handle. He
spread his feet into a forward stance, readying himself.
The crack of breaking glass came from their right as the kitchen window exploded inwards, and a black-suited figure tumbled into the room. The man bowled into his mother, sending her tumbling to the ground before she could swing the knife. Chris sprang to the side as another man charged through the doorway to the lounge, then drew back and hurled the knife.
Without pausing to see whether the knife struck home, Chris twisted and leapt, driving his shoulder into the midriff of the intruder standing over his mother. But the man was ready for him, and with his greater bulk brushed Chris off with little effort. Stumbling sideways, Chris clenched his fists and charged again.
The man grinned, raising his arms to catch him. With his attention diverted, Chris’s mother rose up behind him, knife still in hand, and drove the blade deep into the attacker’s hamstring.
Their black-garbed attacker barely had time to scream before Chris’s fist slammed into his windpipe His face paled and his hands went to his neck. He staggered backwards, strangled noises gurgling from his throat, and toppled over the kitchen table.
Chris offered his mother a hand, but before she could take it a creak came from the floorboards behind him. The man from the lounge loomed up, grabbing Chris by the shoulder before he could leap to safety. Still on the ground, his mother rolled away as Chris twisted around, fighting to break the man’s hold. Cursing, he aimed an elbow at the man’s gut, but his arm struck solid body armour and bounced off.
That explains the knife, the thought raced through his mind, before another crash from the window chased it away.
Beside him, his mother surged to her feet as a third man came through the window. Still holding the bloodied knife, she screamed and charged the man. Straining his arms, Chris bucked against his captor’s grip, but there was no breaking the man’s iron hold. Stomach clenched, he watched his mother attack the heavily-armed assailant.
The fresh intruder carried a long steel baton in one hand, and as she swung her knife it flashed out and caught her wrist. His mother screamed and dropped the knife, then retreated across the room cradling her arm. A fourth man appeared through the door to the lounge. Before Chris could shout a warning, he grabbed her from behind.
His mother shrieked and threw back her head, trying to catch the man in the chin, but her blows bounced off his body armour. Her eyes widened as his arm went around her neck, cutting off her breath. Heart hammering in his chest, Chris twisted and kicked at his opponent’s shins, desperate to aid his mother, but the man showed no sign of relenting.
“Mum!” He screamed as her eyes drooped closed.
“Fallow, situation under control. You’re up.” The man from the window spoke into his cuff. He moved across to his fallen comrade, whose face was turning purple. “Hold on, soldier. Medical’s on its way.”
“Who are you?” Chris gasped.
The man ignored him. Instead, he went to work on the fallen man. Removing his belt, he bound it around the man’s leg. The injured man groaned as the speaker worked, his eyes closed and his teeth clenched. A pang of guilt touched Chris, but he crushed it down.
“What the hell happened?” Chris looked up as a woman appeared in the doorway.
The woman was dark-skinned, but the colour rapidly fled her face as her gaze swept over the kitchen. She raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes lingering on the blood, then flicking between the men and their captives. Shock showed in their amber depths, but already it was fading as she reasserted control. Lowering her hand to her side, she pursed her red lips. Her gaze settled on Chris.
A chill went through Chris as he noticed the red emblazoned bear on the front of her black jacket. The symbol marked her as a government employee. These were not random thugs in the night – they were police, and they were here for Chris and his mother.
Taking a breath, the woman nodded to herself, then reached inside her jacket and drew something into the light. The breath went from Chris’s chest as he glimpsed the steel contraption in her hand. For a second he thought it was a pistol, but as she drew closer he realised his mistake. It was some sort of hypodermic gun, some medical contraption he had seen in movies, though in real life it looked far more threatening, more deadly.
“Who are you?” Chris croaked as she paused in front of him.
Her eyes drifted to Chris’s face, but she only shook her head and looked away. She studied the liquid in the vial attached to the gun’s barrel, then at Chris, as though weighing him up.
“Hold him,” she said at last.
“What?” Chris gasped as his captor’s hands pulled his arms behind his back. “What are you doing? Please, you’re making some mistake, we haven’t done anything wrong!”
The woman did not answer as she raised the gun to his neck. Chris struggled to move, but the man only pulled his arms harder, sending a bolt of pain through his shoulders. Biting back a scream, Chris looked up at the woman. Their eyes met, and he thought he saw a flicker of regret in the woman’s eyes.
Then the cold steel of the hypodermic gun touched his neck, followed by a hiss of gas as she pressed the trigger. Metal pinched at Chris’s neck for a second, before the woman stepped back. Holding his breath, Chris stared at the woman, his eyes never leaving hers.
Within seconds the first touch of weariness began to seep through Chris’s body. He blinked as shadows spread around the edges of his vision. Idly, he struggled to free his arms, so he might chase the shadows away. But the man still held him fast. Sucking in a mouthful of air, Chris fought against the exhaustion. Blinking hard, he stared at the woman, willing himself to resist the pull of sleep.
But there was no stopping the warmth spreading through his limbs. His head bobbed and his arms went limp, until the only thing keeping him upright was the strength of his captor.
The woman’s face was the last thing Chris saw as he slipped into the darkness.
CHAPTER 4
Liz shivered as the air conditioner whirred, sending a blast of icy air in her direction. Wrapping her arms around herself, she closed her eyes and waited for it to pass. The scent of chlorine drifted on the air, its chemical reek setting her head to pounding. Her teeth chattered and she shuddered as the whir of fans died away. Groaning, Liz opened her eyes and returned to studying her surroundings.
Ten minutes ago, she had woke in this thirty-foot room, enclosed by the plain, unadorned concrete walls and floor. A door stood on the opposite wall, a small glass panel revealing a bright hallway beyond. It offered the only escape from the little room, but it might as well have been half a world away. Between Liz and the door stood the wire mesh of her little steel cage.
Shaking, she gripped the wire tight in her fingers and placed her head against it. Silently, she searched the vaults of her memories, struggling to find a cause for her current predicament. But she had no memory of how she had come to be there, lying shivering on the concrete floor of a cage.
She cursed as the blast of the air conditioner returned. Her thin clothes were little better than rags, fine in the warm Californian climate, but completely inadequate for the freezing temperatures the central heating system had apparently been set too. To make matters worse, her boots were gone, along with the blade she kept tucked inside them. Without it she felt naked, exposed inside the tiny cage.
At least I’m not alone, she thought wryly, looking through the wire into the cage beside her.
A young man somewhere around her own eighteen years lay there, still dozing on the concrete floor. His clothes were better kept than her own, though there was a bloodstain on one sleeve. From the quality of the shirt he wore, she guessed he was from the city. His short-cropped brown hair and white skin only served to confirm her suspicions.
With a low groan, the boy began to stir. Idly, she wondered what he would make of the nightmare he was about to awake too.
Liz shivered, not from the cold now, but dread. She cast her eyes around the room one last time, desperate for something, anything, tha
t might offer escape. As a child, her parents had often warned her of what happened to those who drew the government’s ire. Though they were never reported, disappearances had been common in her village. Adults, children, even entire families were known to simply disappear overnight. Though few were brave enough to voice their suspicions out loud, everyone knew who had taken them.
It seemed that after two years on the run, those same people had finally caught up with Liz.
The clang of the door as it opened tore Liz from her musings. Looking up, she saw two men push their way past the heavy steel door. They wore matching uniforms of black pants and green shirts, along with the gold-and-red embossed badges of bears that marked them as soldiers. Both carried a rifle slung over one shoulder, and moved with the casual ease of professional killers.
Liz straightened as the men’s eyes drifted over to her cage, refusing to show her fear. Even so, she had to suppress a shudder as wide grins split their faces. Scowling, she crossed her arms and stared them down.
“Feisty one, ain’t she?” the first said in a strong Californian accent. Shaking his head, he moved past the cages to a panel in the wall.
“Looks like the boy’s still asleep,” the other commented as he joined the first. “Gonna be a nasty wake-up call.”
Together, they pulled open the panel and retrieved a hose. Thick nylon strings encased the outer layer of the hose, and a large steel nozzle was fitted to its end. Dragging it across the room, they pointed it at the sleeping boy and flipped a lever on the nozzle.
Water gushed from the hose and through the wire of the cage to engulf the unconscious young man. A blood-curdling scream echoed off the walls as he seemed to levitate off the floor, and began to thrash against the torrent of water.
Liz bit back laughter as another scream came, half gurgled by the water. The men with the hose showed no such restraint, and their laughter rang through the room. They ignored the young man’s strangled cries, holding the water steady until it seemed he could not help but drown in the torrent.