by Alex Bratton
Doyle continued, “I don’t have to know you. You are easy enough to figure out. You’ve spent your life consumed by other people’s ideas without experiencing anything for yourself. No one could blame you for not looking for someone who is probably dead anyway, but don’t try to justify it, and stop blaming me for your cowardice. If you lack purpose, that’s your fault. We all do what we want to do, even now. No one is stopping you but yourself.”
He had struck a nerve, assuming she hadn’t done all she could, as if she didn’t really care about her brother. Lincoln wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. Mina refused to believe it.
Angry, she reached up and slapped Doyle across the face as hard as she could, her hand stinging from the blow. When he didn’t react, she turned and grabbed her water bottle before sliding down the slope, heading for the stream at the foot of the mountain.
Angry with herself as much as Doyle, Mina slid through the trees as quickly as she dared. Why had he said that? Why now, after weeks of almost complete silence, was he arguing with her about her life choices?
She reached the bottom before she’d had time to cool off, kneeling down to splash the cold water on her hot face. Now what? Was this the end? Should she leave?
She sat down by the stream. The day grew warmer and then cooled as the light faded. Mina had no desire to climb back up the mountain and find Doyle, but she had little choice. Even if she went off on her own, she needed her gear.
A twig snapped behind her. She turned, opening her mouth to tell Doyle to get lost, but the person standing in the shadow of the trees didn’t look like him. This man was short and stooped.
Panicking, Mina stood and took two steps back, then stumbled into the shallow stream. Cold mountain water soaked her shoes and stung her ankles. She halted, facing the man staggering toward her.
His clothes were torn and burnt, the skin underneath red and raw. Mina thought he looked middle-aged or older, but as he stepped out of the shadows, she gasped. The right side of his face was charred and blackened from fire. Where his right eye should have been, yellow pus oozed from an empty socket.
“Help me,” he said, wheezing.
Mina froze in shock. She didn’t see Doyle approach until he was directly behind the stranger.
Doyle pointed his pistol at the man’s head. He had attached a suppressor. Why does he have a silencer?
“Don’t move. Hands on your head,” Doyle said calmly.
Mina scrambled to Doyle’s side. “Doyle! Look at him!”
“What of it?”
“Look at him!”
Doyle moved around to see at the man’s face. His eyes widened in shock.
“Please,” the man said. He struggled to keep his hands up as Doyle had demanded. His good eye screwed up in pain as he sank to his knees. “Please help me.”
“What happened to you?” Doyle asked.
“Glyphs?” Mina asked.
The man’s lungs rattled with every breath. “They attacked our camp.”
“Which camp?” Doyle asked.
“Over the ridge… a day ago… two days. I don’t know.” The man addressed Doyle now. “Help me.”
Doyle nodded.
And pulled the trigger.
Mina jumped at the mechanical click of the firing pin, the vibration of the muffled shot thumping in her chest. The stranger collapsed beside the stream, his blood mixing with the cold current.
“What did you do?” Mina whispered, horrified. Her eyes fixed on the stranger’s body.
Doyle turned to her, frowning. “He didn’t have a chance. Death was a kindness.”
“But you didn’t have to… We didn’t…” She couldn’t utter the words. All of her shock and revulsion coalesced in her brain, overwhelming her to the point of shutdown. Doyle shot a man. Just like that.
“Would you rather have left him here to die alone or taken him back to camp and watched him die there?”
“He needed help!”
Doyle glared at her.
“It’s not right,” Mina whispered.
“No.”
“You helped me. What’s the difference?”
“You will die if you can’t learn to make hard choices.”
With that, Doyle hiked up the mountain. Mina wanted to run in the opposite direction but again remembered her gear. She followed him, picking her way carefully in the dusky light. When they reached the camp, Doyle grabbed his backpack and walked away. For one wild second, Mina’s heart leapt into her throat, but he settled himself back down by a tree apart from her, keeping his eyes on the fire.
Mina resisted the urge to kick something, to kick him. Confused, scared, and revolted, she questioned everything she had seen up until now. She had thought Doyle was a good person, that he was safe. Why should she stay with this man she barely knew? What kind of person was so complacent about killing another?
Mina found a place not too far from the fire and sat down against a tree. She faced away from Doyle, who was brooding at the corner of her vision.
Evening settled in, and the campfire warmed her, but the image of the man down by the stream burned hot in her thoughts. Mina stood again and tossed another large log onto the fire. The act did not satisfy her. She felt foolish for believing life had improved, that she could forget the outside world.
After a while, she got sick, retching behind a tree until her abdomen ached and her throat burned.
Later, she lay with her back to the fire and her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, hoping to find solace in sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Doyle’s stern, unwavering face and the gun as he raised it to the stranger’s head. She turned over and glimpsed Doyle on the other side of the campfire. He stared at the flames, too, reaching under his jacket to rub his chest as if his t-shirt as if guilt were eating away at him... if he could even feel guilt. Mina caught his eye, and he returned her look for a moment. She broke contact to gaze back at the fire. She would have to make a decision in the morning.
Doyle woke Mina at first light. She peered groggily up at him, feeling as if she had just gone to sleep. The fire had died.
“Are you coming with me?”
Mina sat up, rubbing her eyes to stall for time. She was more confident in her own ability to fend for herself now, and last night had shaken her confidence in Doyle and shattered the illusion of security she’d been harboring. But in the fresh light of morning, Doyle seemed less menacing. He had kept her alive these last few weeks. She would be an idiot to let him leave without her now. She also wanted to believe Doyle’s actions last night were more out of pity than malice.
“We need to bury the body,” she said.
“We didn’t even know him.”
“I don’t know you!”
“I’m not going to waste time convincing you now. Either you travel with me or you don’t. You shouldn’t—”
“Skip the lecture,” she interrupted. “I’m going with you. It just doesn’t seem right to leave him there.”
Doyle paused for a moment. “Okay. You have the morning. I’m going hunting.” He put her gun in her hand. She had left it on the ground after she slapped him. “Wear it. Keep it with you at all times.”
Doyle stood and began hiking away up the mountain, leaving Mina to her unpleasant task.
Mina stared at the gun, still amazed that something so small could weigh so heavily in her hands. She had forgotten about it yesterday afternoon when she stormed down to the creek. When the stranger appeared out of the woods, she hadn’t even thought of drawing a weapon. Maybe she had passed a test of some sort. Possessing a gun certainly didn’t make her any more willing to use one.
Doyle, on the other hand, had no problem with using a weapon. He handled his gun like he was born with it attached to his arm, and what about that silencer? She sighed and clipped her own gun to her waist. Better to not to overthink it if she was going to stay with him.
Down at the stream, buzzards wheeled above the treetops, and flies buzzed above the body. Mina stared at
the stranger, struggling not to puke again. They hadn’t even asked his name, but did she even want to know it?
Mina grabbed the frail body by the ankles and tried to pull it away from the stream. It wouldn’t budge. She leaned back, putting all her weight into the task. Her feet slipped in the soft earth, and she almost fell back. Recovering, she dug in her heels and pulled again. The body moved slowly. Mina mentally kicked herself for her idea. She had never even considered the work it would take to bury the body. When she reached the tree line, she looked around. Without a shovel, she could only hunt for rocks to build a mound.
Finding stones she could actually use proved difficult. Mina walked back and forth along the stream all morning, muscling rocks out of the water to place over the body. Before long, a buzzard tried to claim it, and Mina had to shoo the thing away with a large tree branch, wielding it like a baseball bat. The buzzard came back every time Mina left. Every time she returned, she dropped the rock she was carrying to pick up the stick and swing at the scavenger. The bird only gave up when she had the body completely covered. By then, the sun was directly overhead, and sweat ran down Mina’s back, soaking her shirt.
As she finished placing the last stone, a man cleared his throat behind her.
Mina jumped and turned. Doyle. “How long were you standing there?”
“Good thing it was me. You weren’t paying attention,” he said as he walked over to the grave, carrying her bag as well as his own.
“You’re so quiet.”
“Are you ready?”
She nodded toward the mound of rocks. “Shouldn’t we say something?”
“Do you have anything to say?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Then let’s go,” he said, already walking.
Mina sighed, shouldered her bag, and followed him.
Chapter Five
Calla sat on her bunk in the dark cabin of her ship, hands resting on the edge of the thin mattress. A trail of Appalachian mud led from the open door and stopped at the boots still on her feet. She watched the mud dry on the dark stone floor, a rare moment of stillness. The med bay door next to her room hissed open, and one of the other three hybrids entered. She heard him opening drawers and cabinets, searching for something. The soft slide of the drawers irritated her. Everything irritated her.
Dar Ceylin had reported Halston’s trail going cold almost immediately. Disturbing, considering Dar Ceylin’s tracking abilities. The rogue had managed to evade the Nomad as well, which Calla thought impossible. Weeks later, and Calla and her new subordinates could find no trace of Halston. He had just vanished. She racked her brain for answers, anger rising with every day they failed to find him. Where was he?
She had other rogues to find, but Halston’s disappearance disturbed her the most. If Halston could do it, others could, too. If more turned rogue, the situation would quickly grow beyond her control.
Calla’s pressed her lips together in a grim line. She commanded a hologram of the Earth to appear, its glow illuminating the entire cabin. The planet rotated in front of her. Manipulating the map with her hand, she zoomed toward the eastern United States. Tiny yellow dots peppered the map from Florida to Maine with a tally of living hybrids over it. Of course, the tally could not tell her who had turned rogue and who remained loyal, but it could help her guess. So far, only Halston remained unaccounted for.
As part of Calla’s mission, the Condarri had granted her access to every current mission. She looked up Halston’s last known location—West Virginia, significantly farther north than where she had spotted him with Williams. What had he been doing there?
Calla silently read the brief. During the invasion, Halston had protected one of the Condarri bunkers, reporting substantial military activity immediately before going dark.
She zoomed in on the site. The Condarri had not listed this bunker with the others. Odd, but she didn’t question the secrecy. The connection to Halston should be her only concern.
Another yellow dot shone in the location. He’d had a partner, someone Calla could question. Good.
First, though, she had unfinished business with Williams. She had left him alone long enough, and he had failed to report in today. She would find him first. With any luck, he already had Halston. Once she found Halston, she could still turn this little rebellion around. And she would do it all without Dar Ceylin’s help.
Alvarez tried to persuade Nelson to stay, but he was adamant about moving on. He now spent most of his time with friends he’d made among the refugees. Lincoln knew Carter and Alvarez had discussed leaving as well, but they would stick it out a while longer. Carter claimed to be interested in the symbols, which was true, but Lincoln figured he was staying because he wanted the team to stick together as long as possible. Alvarez stayed because she loved a puzzle as much as Lincoln, maybe even more so.
Lincoln walked by the communication tent to pick up his ration, hurrying through the rain with his jacket over his head. Not that the jacket helped much. He’d rarely been dry this week. The radio crackled, and the operator grasped the mic. Lincoln paused at the entrance, stepping out of the rain to listen.
“…calling from Absaroka.”
“We hear you, Sasquatch. Go ahead,” the operator said.
Even after frequent transmissions, the man had refused to give his real name. Lincoln doubted Sasquatch even lived in Montana.
“Glad to hear your voice,” Sasquatch said. “I’ve had trouble raising people. A few of us seem to have dropped off the map.”
“We’ve had the same trouble. Over.”
“I saw a ship overhead three days ago. Big black thing, the length of a football field. First sighting since I arrived here. You seen anything?”
“Negative. It’s quiet around here. What direction was the ship moving?”
“North. We think they’re targeting these broadcasts to wipe out remaining communications. Is that possible?”
“You know as much as we do, Sasquatch. I bet they’re just scouting.”
“All the same, we’re going dark for a while until we’re sure they’ve moved on. Call us again in a few weeks.”
“And if we don’t hear from you?”
Sasquatch paused. “Can’t say but I don’t want to take any chances. We might move.”
Lincoln didn't want to hear more. If the invaders were targeting small communications operations, they might show up here, and it was no good thinking about that. Still, he should form some sort of plan in case the invaders did arrive. Nash obviously had plans to fight them, but where did that leave Lincoln and his team?
At the end of the day, Lincoln spread out the drawings beside his tent, enjoying a break in the rain with Alvarez. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds before sinking behind a mountain. Nelson walked past, clearly deep in thought. He’d spent his days brooding and looking for food. Apparently, his new friends had taught him which roots to eat. Neither he nor Lincoln had spoken about their scuffle. They had barely spoken at all.
“Ask him to stay, Lincoln,” Alvarez said for the tenth time.
“He can make his own decisions.”
Alvarez pulled over a set of drawings that, when put together, made up one archway. The papers exceeded the length of the tent. They had pilfered and begged for every last scrap in the camp. Most people didn’t see the need to write anything these days, but they were unwilling to give up anything without a trade.
Lincoln paused to look at Alvarez as she studied the door. She still wore the spring coat—not because of the cold but because of the recent crime spree in the camp. Nothing was safe unattended. Despite her attempts to wash it, the once cream coat was now stained and tattered beyond recognition, and a large bloodstain covered the inside of her left sleeve. When did that happen?
Three rapid shots echoed from somewhere near the center of the Army tents. Both of them jumped. A small woman sprinted through camp, car
rying something in her arms. Shouts broke out behind her. Lincoln pulled Alvarez out of the way as three uniforms ran after the woman, guns ready.
Carter and Nelson jogged up from behind.
“What happened?” Alvarez asked.
“A man and woman were caught stealing from the food stores,” Carter said. “The man’s dead, I think.”
A pop-pop-pop rang out again, this time from under the trees. Shouting replaced the gunfire, and Carter and Nelson followed it while Lincoln and Alvarez hurriedly gathered their papers. By the time they’d caught up, twenty refugees were crowded around the three soldiers, taunting and jeering. At their feet, the woman was splayed on the ground, her face buried in the dirt with three circles of blood staining the back of her shirt. A can of beans had splattered everywhere.
Nelson joined the shouting. “What have you accomplished? You’re lucky you didn’t kill anyone else!”
Several men grabbed one of the soldiers—Schmidt—and wrenched his gun away. He went down inside the mob. Empowered by their success, the crowd pushed back. Tempers rose, and the other soldiers leveled their weapons at the refugees.
Anger flew through Lincoln, and without thinking, he pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed Schmidt’s gun from the man who’d stolen it. Apparently, the man didn’t know how to use it. Surprised, the man turned to look up at Lincoln towering over him. Lincoln shoved him out of the way as the crowd pressed in, and hands pulled at Lincoln’s shirt. He was jostled inside the circle with Schmidt, and more people grabbed for the gun in his hands. Just when Lincoln was questioning his rash decision, shots went into the air, and the people let him go.
Nash huffed in, muscling his way to the center. More soldiers crowded around the rioters, who started to break up when they saw they were outnumbered. Lincoln grabbed Schmidt’s arm and helped him up.
“Get back!” Nash yelled. “She was warned! Stealing will not be tolerated! Back! Or I’ll arrest all of you!” He turned to a sergeant and muttered, “Get her out of here.”
Most likely attracted by the noise, more people came out of the trees as Schmidt and three other soldiers carried the body away. Another corporal scraped the precious bean can off the ground, hoping to salvage its contents. Lincoln felt sick. What were they doing? A woman had just died.