by S. S. Segran
The driver of the van made the mistake of shifting his weight. A loose tile under his foot cracked as he moved. The sound was as loud as a gunshot in the enclosed space. He froze as the voices went silent. Footsteps were now approaching. Expecting a knock, he was caught by surprise when the door burst violently inward and smashed into his face, sending him stumbling backward. Dazed, he lifted his head and saw two men staring at him. The younger of the two wore a white lab coat and the other, slightly older, was clad in an expensive-looking suit.
“What are you doing here?” the man in the suit asked sharply.
The driver straightened himself and raised his hands in a non-threatening manner. “I just really needed to use the restroom.”
“You would have been told that you weren’t allowed in here,” growled the second man.
“Yes, I was. I’m sorry. It was an emergency. Look, I’m leaving. I’m gone.” He started to push his way past the pair but was held back.
“He’s heard too much,” the one in the suit muttered. “Call security.”
“Whoa, whoa, relax,” the driver said. “There’s no need for that. I’m just a delivery guy. I’m on my way out now.”
The men said nothing as the one in the lab coat moved to block the bathroom door and spoke quickly into a small radio. The driver sighed inwardly. He didn’t like where this was going.
The guards arrived within a minute. When they entered, the driver assessed them. Both were wearing black coveralls with handguns at their hips. Mean-looking batons were in their hands, and the guards didn’t appear to be the types who’d shy away from using them.
The driver quickly decided that the guards were not there to merely apprehend him. In a motion honed by years of practice, he grabbed the man in the suit and flicked out his box-cutter knife from its belt sheath. He held the blade to his captive’s throat. “Now,” he said quietly, “I’m going to leave. You try anything and he’ll be a bleeding mess on the floor.”
The guards hesitated. The fact that they did meant that the driver was using someone of importance as a shield—and that was the only advantage he had.
“Move away from the door.” When the guards glared at him, he snarled and pressed the blade harder against his captive’s neck. “I said, move away from the door!”
Seeing that the driver meant business, the guards and the man in the lab coat reluctantly stepped away toward the sinks. The driver’s eyes followed their every move. When he was satisfied with their distance from the exit, he walked backward toward the door, dragging the suited man with him. He kicked back and the door flung open. In a blink of an eye, he sheathed the knife and pushed the man toward the guards before turning and barreling out of the restroom.
He sprinted down the corridor in the direction he’d come from and threw himself at the door, pushing it open, and ran to his van.
As he jumped into the vehicle and started the engine, he caught sight of the guards racing toward him in the side mirror. Without another thought, he stomped on the gas and sped headlong for the guard post. He smashed through the boom gate, ignoring the shouts from the guards inside. As he swerved onto the road, he heard the report of gunfire. Thankfully, the rear of the van took the bullets and he fishtailed away from the site.
He turned northbound onto Interstate 5, pushing the bulky vehicle up to its limit. When he glanced at his side mirror again, he saw two pairs of near-blinding headlights following close behind. As they accelerated toward him, the driver recognized the vehicles as Dodge Chargers usually used as police interceptors.
The odds were not in his favor, not when all he had was a box van that could barely reach eighty miles per hour. He wasn’t going to lose his pursuers with speed. An idea formed in his mind but before he could act, shots rang out and he heard the back of his van take more bullets before one zinged past his window and shattered the left side mirror. Not easily fazed, he continued pushing the van as the leading Charger hastened to catch up.
He counted silently to three then slammed on the brakes. The van skidded to a stop but the guard behind the wheel of the leading Charger didn’t react quickly enough. The Charger slammed into the rear of the truck and the car’s momentum forced it up on its front wheels. The driver of the van quickly switched pedals and floored it. As the truck resumed speeding north, the Charger, in its precarious balancing act, flipped over.
The van mounted the crest of a hill bound by steep drops on either side and passed a sign that read ‘Lake Shasta’. Ahead, the driver saw the long bridge that spanned the lake. He took a quick look at his right side mirror. If he’d expected a break, he wasn’t getting one. The second Charger was hot on his tail. The lone guard inside was evidently none too happy about his colleagues being bested by a delivery man but wary of falling for any more of the van driver’s tricks. He switched into the next lane, out of sight of the only mirror the driver had to work with.
The driver wound down his side window halfway and risked a look. Craning his neck, he saw the guard use his baton to smash out the Charger’s windshield. Most of the glass broke away from the pursuing vehicle though some jagged pieces remained.
What is that nut—
The driver halted mid-thought when he saw the guard lift up his gun and point it toward him through the broken windshield. He recoiled as a bullet obliterated his window, shattering it into countless pieces. The driver bit back a cry of pain as dozens of glass pellets struck his face. Momentarily distracted, he swerved in the wrong direction. He was still trying to regain control when he heard a loud bang, and the van suddenly veered right toward the guard rail. Knowing one of his tires had been shot, the driver stomped on the brake but the vehicle continued to skid before crashing through the railing and plunging over the side.
The van tumbled down the two-hundred foot cliff at terrifying speed. Doors and parts broke away from vehicle. The van went airborne for one last time before crashing to the ground right next to the lake and rolling onto its roof.
The guard brought his car to a screeching halt and leapt out. He ran to the edge of the road and peered over. He drew his gun, took careful aim at the van’s exposed fuel tank, and fired. On the third shot, the tank exploded, engulfing the van in flames.
The guard watched for a few moments, then unclipped a radio from his belt. “It’s done,” he reported, sounding satisfied. He stared at the blazing wreckage for a moment longer before heading back to his vehicle. With a powerful roar of the engine, he drove away from the scene.
A dozen feet below the edge of the road, the battered and bruised driver of the van hung onto an exposed root that stuck out from the side of the ravine. He listened as the sound of the Charger’s engine grew distant. Then, mind racing, he looked down at his destroyed vehicle. Grateful as he was to be alive, his intuition told him that he’d stumbled upon something big in that facility; something clandestine and dark.
As he dug his fingers into the slope and clawed his way back up toward the road, dirt-stained and bleeding, he allowed himself a small, furtive smile. It seemed like a good time to do something he hadn’t done in ages: Reach out to the Council.
PART ONE
1
It was a scene of complete mayhem. Remains of destroyed buildings and vehicles were strewn across the mountaintop landscape. Shots rang out and bullets flew in the early hours of the misty morning. The heat of the battle drew cold sweat from the teenager who stood amidst it all. He watched, horrified, as a large, black-furred beast leapt and dug its massive fangs into a woman who was firing arrows from her bow. Unable to tear his eyes away from the ghastly sight, he watched as the woman’s life was taken right before his eyes.
He heard someone call out. At an agonizingly slow pace, the teenager turned to see a man running toward him. The stranger, perhaps in his mid-fifties, had flaming red hair with a matching beard, but what captured the teenager’s attention was the look of pure terror in the man’s gray eyes. Behind him, gouts of earth erupted as bullets struck the ground. The projectiles b
urst forth from the ramp of a strange, imposing aircraft that hovered above the site. The fire from the plane seemed to be specifically targeting the stranger.
The teenager found himself running toward the man. He willed himself to move as fast as he could, yet time seemed to have slowed. Everything became crystal-clear—he could see every little detail, from a minuscule piece of broken glass to broken arrowheads on the dirt—though his focus remained on the flame-haired man. He shouted to the stranger but his voice was drowned by the sounds of the aircraft’s thundering engines.
As the gap closed between them, the man let out a pained cry that rose above the noise. He lurched forward before falling to the ground and lay motionless as his blood began to stain the dirt.
The teenager screamed in terror and stumbled toward the man. Before he could reach him, everything went dark. Painful silence ensued. Then a voice spoke, rich and firm, with a touch of a peculiar accent:
The storm is gathering, Jag.
Wake up!
JAG!
Jag Sanchez bolted upright in his bed, gasping for air. As he caught his breath, he stared at the wall ahead, not realizing he was sweating but very aware that every part of him was trembling. He ran a hand over his face and shut his eyes tightly.
That voice. That voice had been haunting his dreams for the last nine months, since . . .
He looked at his phone beside his bed and yelped when he saw the time. Late for school, again. He leapt out of bed and stumbled around his room as he got ready then grabbed his bag and flew down the stairs toward the front door, not bothering to stop for breakfast. How was it that he lived only five minutes from the high school but was constantly late, even when he put his alarm on?
“Jag, you gotta quit waking up late,” his brother called from the living room where Jag could hear him playing on the Xbox.
“Easy for you to say, you’re done with school,” Jag growled. “When you decide to apply for college, Tristan, then you can talk.”
“Touché,” Tristan chuckled. “Have a good day, bro.”
“Have fun rotting your brains out playing Halo.”
“I will. And don’t act like you wouldn’t enjoy it, either.”
“Pfft!”
Jag was still jamming his feet into his shoes as he headed out the door. He hurried along the sidewalk that turned up into the school grounds. As he rounded the turn, he stopped short. A group of four guys his age were laughing and sneering at someone on the ground. To one side, a wheelchair had been overturned and the contents of a backpack were strewn over the grass.
When Jag took a closer look at the boy on the ground, his heart sank for a moment before fury overtook him and he made his way over. “What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped.
One of the boys, a stocky fellow with a gray ball cap, looked up in surprise. When he saw who the newcomer was, he smirked. “Hey, look who it is. One of the five Amnesiacs.”
Jag said nothing. He straightened the wheelchair as the undaunted black teenager who’d fallen off it sat up on the ground and glared defiantly up at his intimidators. He got a pat on the head from one of the guys.
Jag saw it and fought the powerful urge to throttle the boy. “Roderick isn’t a dog. Show some respect.”
The one who’d patted Roderick on the head laughed. “Roddy’s a tough guy, he can take a little shoving. You, on the other hand . . . heh . . . ”
“Don’t test me.”
“Jag, don’t bother,” Roderick said quietly.
“What’s up with you anyway, Jag? You don’t get into fights as much anymore.” The boy with the ball cap lowered his voice and whispered mockingly, “Was it the aliens? Did they take away your urge to fight? The same way they took away your memories of last summer?”
“Shut up.”
Roderick raised his voice. “It’s already been a freakin’ year, guys. Find some new material.”
The boy ignored him. “Did they probe you, too, Jag?” His friends guffawed.
Jag’s amber eyes were twin flames of anger as he stepped forward. “You’re garbage. You and the other rats around here have done nothing but harass my friends and me since we came back. If I hear another rotten word coming out of your filthy mouth, I’ll gladly make you eat your teeth.”
The boy in the ball cap stared at Jag for a few moments, then broke into an unkind grin. “I guess the aliens didn’t take the fight out of you after all.”
Jag struck without warning, his fist catching the other teenager squarely in the jaw. The boy fell back, stunned and in pain.
Jag snarled. “You want another? Keep talking and I’ll be more than happy to supply!”
“Oh-ho, tough guy!” The boy held his jaw, wincing. “Your hit’s harder than I remember . . . Did the aliens inject you with super strength? Were you and your friends a part of their experiments?”
Fists raised, Jag was about to throw himself at the other teenager when Roderick’s voice rang out. “Jag! Stop!”
Jag caught himself in time and slowly lowered his fists, but the flames in his eyes didn’t die. “Watch your mouth,” he muttered icily before turning his back on the group of boys and reaching down to help Roderick into his wheelchair. The teenager in the ball cap was about to utter a snarky comment but thought better and resorted to kicking Roderick’s backpack into the middle of the street. Then he and his friends left.
Their departure allowed both Jag and Roderick to breathe easier. Jag quickly went to retrieve Roderick’s bag and gathered the books that had been thrown out. As he zipped up the bag and passed it to Roderick, he asked, “What was that all about?”
Roderick waved his hand impassively. “It’s nothing.”
“Roddy . . . ”
“Don’t worry about it, man. It’s all good. Come on, we’re late.”
“It’s the second-to-last day of school—we can’t really get in trouble for not being on time anymore. We can talk for a bit.”
Roderick looked amused. “Says the guy who came running because he left home late. That may be your thinking, Jag, but I don’t like rolling into class after everyone else.” With that, he guided his wheelchair toward the school.
Jag kept pace with him. “Tell me what happened.”
Roderick sighed. “I don’t want it to bother you, Jag. Look, the school year is almost over—”
“Just tell me.”
Roderick was quiet for a moment, then said, “They were walking behind me on the way here and I heard them making fun of your . . . amnesia. All I did was turn around and tell them to back off.”
Jag flinched slightly. Amnesia. “I’m sorry.”
Roderick looked up at him with a frown. “Why?”
“Because . . . ” Because I put you in a wheelchair and now you get pushed around for being friends with the amnesiac that got you paralyzed.
Roderick seemed to understand what he was thinking and offered a small laugh. “I hope you’re not still blaming yourself for the accident two years ago. The cam was defective. You didn’t know, it wasn’t your fault. Who ever said rock climbing was a safe sport?”
“I’d promised you and the other guys that you’d be safe. That I’d look after you.”
“Jag, look at me. I’m alive! As long as I’m right here, you don’t have to be all down about me being unable to use my legs. God is good, man! Yeah, I can’t do some stuff anymore, but there’s a whole bunch more I can still experience. I can rock out at concerts, throw a football, get a date with a pretty girl—and I have!”
Roderick was confidently sitting in his wheelchair, a bright smile on his face as they made their way to the school’s main doors. Jag glanced at him and felt a surge of admiration. He didn’t know where his friend found the strength to look on the positive side of his life, but Roddy never wavered from his optimism.
They reached the main entrance and Jag held the door open for Roderick. As they parted ways to head to their classes, Jag said, “Roddy, can we talk at lunch?”
“Sure thing
, man. See you in the cafeteria.” With another bright smile and a fist bump, Roderick rolled into his classroom.
* * *
Jag was sitting by himself at a table in the school’s cafeteria, fiddling with his phone, when Roderick rolled up. “Hey.”
Jag looked up from his phone. “Oh, hey.”
“You’re not having lunch?”
“Not really hungry.”
Roderick helped himself into a chair; Jag would have offered, but he knew Roderick wasn’t always fond of being assisted, especially with things he considered easy.
Once he was settled, he pulled out a sandwich from his bag and began eating meticulously. After a few mouthfuls, he looked Jag in the eye. “You look horrible,” he said. “You sleeping okay?”
“Yeah . . . I mean, no. That’s kind of why I wanted to talk—I need to get something off my chest.” Jag paused, hesitating. He’d wanted to talk about his disturbing dream, but was unsure now whether to even mention it. The more he thought, the more silly he felt for even wanting to speak about it.
Again, Roderick seemed to read his mind. “I’m all ears. You know that. I don’t laugh at your problems—you’ve never laughed at mine.”
Jag slid his phone into his jeans’ pocket and leaned back with a sigh. “It’s just . . . I’ve been having these dreams. And they’re always the same.”
Roderick frowned as he munched on his sandwich. “Is this a nightly thing?”
“No. Happens often enough to bug me, though.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since . . . since returning home last summer.”
Roderick stopped mid-munch. “Oh.” He put his sandwich down and cleared his throat. “I know I’ve asked before, and I know other people have, too, but you really can’t remember a thing, not even in the slightest?”
Jag shook his head and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. “The only thing I remember is the crash in Kody’s dad’s little Piper Comanche over Yukon, and then finding myself in a hospital. But there’s like a three-month gap in between and no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember a thing.”