by T. M. Catron
“I won’t tell anybody about the knife,” Mina said. She cringed. Forget the knife; she was the one with the gun.
Evan nodded, his eyes following the gun that was now near her hip. Mina slowly turned and walked away, checking over her shoulder to make sure he kept his distance. He sat down on the road and stared at the ground, knife still in hand but forgotten at his side.
Mina’s shame grew as she walked back to camp. He was fifteen. She was thirty. And she’d pulled a gun. She could have put more distance between them. She could have shouted for help. She could have talked him down. She could have kept her mouth shut in the first place. But she had drawn her own weapon.
Iverson was dangerous, but Mina would bet money he’d never pointed a pistol at Evan. Mina was thankful Iverson hadn’t given him a gun too.
What would Solomon say? Mina felt like throwing up. The lodgers would never trust her now.
When she returned to the campsite at twilight, Carter sat alone on a log next to the tent. He had dramatically improved throughout the day, walking by himself to take a turn at the shower.
Mina should have been happier about his recovery. She sank down near him, staring into the fire. The smoke irritated her eyes.
“You okay?” Carter asked.
“Fine.” She rubbed her eyes. “How are you feeling?” Whatever had made Evan overreact couldn’t be good. The boy was unstable, stressed beyond what he could handle. He obviously was more embedded with the rogues than Mina had imagined.
“. . . after a shower. Good. Better than good,” Carter was saying. “The infection seems to be gone, and the wound is finally healing. It still hurts when I move around too much. Even my chest is sore. But I’m glad I'm awake to feel it.”
Mina pushed away her thoughts of Evan long enough to look at Carter. He did look good. His skin had lost its gray-white hue. It was almost rosy. “I’m so glad you’re better.”
“Do you believe in miracles?” he asked. “A guy has to wonder. I never gave them much thought before this.”
A few months ago, Mina should have died trapped in a burning airplane. Instead, she had regained consciousness behind a building with a man standing over her. She sighed. “Yes, Carter, I do.”
They all needed one now.
Day 106
“UP,” A VOICE GRUMBLED. WHEN Lincoln took too long to wake, Baker kicked him hard in the gut, causing the breath to explode out of him like air escaping a balloon.
“I’m up!” Lincoln snapped. He groaned and eased into a sitting position. Everything was pitch black. He guessed he’d been asleep for thirty minutes or so, but it could have been five. Baker insisted on waking him whenever he fell into a deep sleep. They sat silently for some minutes. Lincoln had dozed off again when he heard twigs snapping and feet tramping through the woods to his left. A man swore loudly.
“Right. Surrey,” said Halston from the trees. “Brought something for you.”
Lincoln squinted to see, but all he heard was cursing. Someone thumped against a tree and stumbled. More swearing. “Nelson?”
“Lincoln! What’s going on? Get this blindfold off me. It’s too dark anyway—that’s better.”
“Nelson, you okay?”
“Yeah, except for having the crap scared out of me when I went for a pee. Who are these people?”
“Shut up and listen,” said Baker.
“Chris, you remember your buddy Captain Baker,” said Lincoln. A sharp pain stabbed through Lincoln’s head as Baker’s fist connected with his ear. Stars crossed his vision, and his ears rang.
“You, Nelson. This is your proof of life,” Baker said.
Halston said, “Your friend’s alive, and unharmed . . . mostly. He may have got banged up a bit. But we’ll return him to you in this condition in exchange for one thing.”
Nelson was quiet. Lincoln could almost hear the gears turning in his brain. “What is it?” he finally said.
“Those drawings Alvarez has.”
“That’s it? What do you want with those?”
“Bring them to us by dawn, and we’ll cut Surrey loose.”
“How am I going to bring them to you if I don’t even know where I am?”
“I’m going to follow you back. You can drop them down to me over the side of the road. Make sure no one sees you. Don’t tell anyone. You do all of that, we’ll let Surrey go and point him in the right direction. If you don’t, well, I think you know what generally happens in these situations.”
“Don’t bother,” said Lincoln, his head still throbbing. “He won’t let me go, Nelson.”
“Don’t you think you better try to find out though, Nelson?” Halston sneered. “We could just kill you both right now.”
“Right.” Nelson exhaled forcefully as if he’d been holding his breath.
“You have till dawn,” Halston reiterated. “Better decide.”
“Right,” Nelson murmured again. “You okay, Lincoln?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
They tramped back through the woods, Nelson still making way too much noise. Halston said, “Even if you could find your way back, he won’t be here. No use trying to create some massive trail.”
Nelson swore at Halston, but Lincoln couldn’t hear everything he said—they were already too far way.
“How long until dawn?” he asked Baker.
“About five hours.”
Baker got Lincoln up and they snuck through the woods, away from Nelson and Halston. Baker gripped Lincoln by the back of his shirt to direct him while they walked.
“How can you see?” he asked, stumbling over another root.
Baker didn’t respond, only walked him faster through the trees. By the time they stopped, he was sweating. He sat on the damp ground and stretched out his legs in front of him.
The night crawled forward. Baker didn’t speak. Lincoln didn’t move. Even the trees were still. He shivered as his damp skin cooled in the night air.
These moments were likely his last. He breathed deeply and shifted his seat again, the bumpy ground becoming intolerable. Lincoln closed his eyes and leaned against the tree. His ear throbbed now and then, adding to his discomfort.
He’d heard stories, of course, true accounts from people who’d thought they were about to die. They thought of loved ones, of their fear, of their inadequacy in the situation, of their powerlessness to change their circumstances. But Lincoln had already considered those things months ago. He had been in limbo ever since the invasion. He’d long ago accepted Mina’s death, long ago numbed to his feeling of helplessness, the constant nagging idea he could have done more, and the realization that he couldn’t. He’d been dead for months, really.
Death, he had thought of—the waiting was unbearable.
He hated waiting. “Did you always want to be in the Army, Baker?” She was silent, but Lincoln could feel waves of contempt flowing his way. “I’ll take that as a no. I almost joined after my dad died. He’d wanted me to be in the Engineer Corp, but I’d already met Carter through a university prof, and he was doing some interesting stuff with robots, and well, I was already headed in a different direction.”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
“Why?”
“It’s boring.”
“Alright. You tell me something then.”
“No.”
“You and I both know I won’t live to tell a soul. Humor me.”
“Why?”
“Think of it as my last wish.”
“What’s that?”
“You know—a dying wish? Like in the movies. Like when a girl promises her dying father that she'll marry his favorite, instead of her love, or something. I doubt you’re going to feed me a last meal.”
“Why would a dying person extract a promise out of someone when they know they won’t live to see the benefit? And how do they know the wish will be honored? And what’s the point of one more meal? Your body won’t need it.”
“You’ve obviousl
y never had my grandmother’s fried chicken and corn on the cob. I used to sneak into the kitchen while she was cooking and steal cookies. She’d pretend to chase me out with a wooden spoon. May she rest in peace.”
“The corn is fried?”
“No. It’s served with the chicken.”
“How’s the corn cooked?”
“I don’t know. I was a little kid.”
“Did you like your grandmother?”
“Of course. Did you like yours?”
Baker was silent a moment. Then she said, “It’s just nostalgia, you know. You’ve probably had better food than your grandmother’s fried chicken, but the memory reminds you of her, so you think it’s your favorite.”
“Geez, Baker, way to take the magic out of it.” Lincoln’s stomach rumbled. “That’s great,” he sighed.
Then more silence.
“Lima beans,” Baker blurted after a few minutes.
“What?”
“My last meal. With butter.”
“That’s your last meal? Who the heck picks lima beans as a last meal?”
“I guess I do.”
Lincoln laughed, harder than he meant to. So hard his eyes watered. He wiped them on his shirtsleeve and then ran his shaky hands through his hair. He tried not to think about how dry his mouth was. “Will it be quick, do you know?”
“Depends on whether we get what we want. If Nelson comes through, we’ll make it easy on you.”
“Don’t hurt him. They really have no idea what any of it is about. I don’t understand much myself.” Lincoln brought his knees up to rest his long arms on them. His wrists smarted where the cord chafed his raw skin.
The air grew cooler as dawn approached. A bird whistled. Then another far off. The day dawned white and cool—a dense fog blanketed the trees at a higher elevation. Baker sat against a tree, digging a rock out of the tread of her boots when Halston entered camp. Lincoln eyed him for the drawings. They weren’t in plain sight. Maybe they were in his pocket. Lincoln licked his lips and sat up straight.
Halston and Baker made eye contact. They didn’t say anything, but again Lincoln had the feeling they could understand each other. Baker’s mouth formed a thin, hard line, and Halston was frowning when they turned toward Lincoln.
“Well, Surrey,” Halston said. “You’re out of luck. Your buddy thought more of his own skin than yours. Can’t blame him. It’s what I would’ve done.”
Relief. Nelson was out of harm’s way again. Nelson, you jerk. “You still don’t have the plans,” Lincoln said, his voice a bit higher than he liked.
“Oh, I haven’t forgotten. Believe me.” Halston drew out his knife, checking its edge. Lincoln didn’t take his eyes off it. Baker stood behind, digging for something in a brown backpack. “Now you’ll have to go get them for us.”
Lincoln scoffed. “What’ll prevent me from hiding like Nelson?” Stop shooting off at the mouth, idiot. What was wrong with him?
“Because if you don’t, we’re going to wait at the edge of your camp and pick off your team one by one. Oh, you’ll warn them and you’ll band together for a while, but eventually, they’ll forget, slip off for a minute. Want some privacy. And we’ll have them.” Halston crouched down in front of Lincoln, his tanned face opening in a straight-toothed smile. “I don’t really have that kind of time to waste, but just to show you we mean business, I’ll give you a demonstration of what’ll happen to each of your friends. Alone. In the woods.”
Lincoln wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. Baker walked over, holding a small, thin red cylinder. She took off the cap and showed him. A small needle stuck out at one end. It looked exactly like an epinephrine pen, for people who went into anaphylactic shock. Lincoln couldn’t imagine what it contained.
Baker squatted next to Lincoln and hit him with the pen in the right thigh. The needle stung a bit as it pushed through his pant leg and into his muscle. No worse than a pin prick. He gazed at the spot stupidly, then at Halston and Baker who both stood and took a step back. Lincoln’s heart raced. He hated waiting.
His leg warmed suddenly, like it was bleeding. No—no blood. It tingled though, the flesh around the puncture wound burning painfully. Lincoln rubbed it, but that only made the pain worse, his skin growing hot like it had been branded.
He gasped, gritting his teeth and squirming. He needed to get up, to find water. He just managed his good leg under him when a wave of cold washed over the area, like dousing a grease burn under cold running water.
But instead of getting relief, the burning tripled. The cold grew in intensity too, and now Lincoln’s leg was on fire from the heat and the cold. Neither pain relieved the other. He fell back down in agony, shaking on his side while the muscles of his entire leg spasmed. Lincoln choked.
“He’s a quiet one,” said Halston. He nodded to Baker who kicked Lincoln’s thigh.
Lincoln groaned and looked at it, expecting his jeans to be on fire. The torment grew, expanding through his body. Crawling up his leg, the ice and the fire together, to his groin, his side, thousands of tiny pin pricks, stabbing and biting. His chest, heart constricting. And Lincoln screamed.
***
Sweat ran down Calla’s face, refusing to evaporate in the cool, humid air. A bird fluttered to her right while another twittered somewhere farther down the mountain. The bootprints led away from the spring, disappearing when the mud changed to dust.
The dust reminded her of Africa where it swirled along a sea of dry, waist-high grass. The yellow blades roared in the wind, sounding like an ocean surf. The sun beat down on Calla standing in the middle. The African savanna stretched before her in every direction. Morse was making mistakes. He couldn't run through the grass without her seeing him.
Calla blinked, reminding herself of her current mission in Appalachia. The morning sun stretched over a ridge, trees filtering the sunbeams down to the forest floor. Below, a heavy fog bathed the valley in white. It would burn off soon.
She bent to examine damp earth beneath the foliage. A large five-toed paw had left a deep impression in the soft earth, claw-marks pointing forward, extending beyond the toes. A bear. Calla saw them all the time out here, but she never killed them. Wanting to keep ecosystems intact, the Condarri forbade unnecessary killings of local wildlife. Calla smiled. Except humans. They could kill those.
And stray hybrids. She had spotted him hunting with a large party, masking his scent among the humans. At least one. She recognized one. Calla knew all rogue names from the Nomad’s database. Their appearances were harder to recognize. The males would have beards to match the humans. Females: hats to hide their eyes.
One had broken away during the night. Rogues preferred packs. When one left, he had a reason. The trees broke across the valley in a man-made line, a winding gouge through the forest. A road. Calla aimed for it.
With a destination in mind, her thoughts drifted back to Tanzania and Morse. The yellow grass brushed her legs as she ran for the dry gorge. He had to be hiding there. The wind shifted, blowing Calla’s short-cropped hair across her forehead. Hot, dry air blew dust in her eyes, and she caught a whiff of something different from the warm smell of the grass. Something unnatural.
Morse wasn't hiding in the gorge. Calla changed direction, facing the wind. A stand of acacia trees called to her in the distance, their branches casting scant shade in the midday sun. He would be there. And he would see her coming.
She ducked down in the tall grass, blades scratching her face as she crawled through. Calla remained downwind. Every moment she escaped detection meant a better chance of surprising Morse. Then she startled a flock of guinea fowl nesting in the grass. They shrieked in alarm and cawed at her, running and taking flight, giving away her position. With her cover blown, Calla stood. The trees swayed gently in the breeze. Her prey’s scent grew stronger. She jogged the rest of the way. Finding him had been too easy.
Calla passed below the mist on the West Virginia mountain. The rock was empty. She stood on top and scann
ed the area. The surrounding forest could hide her quarry within a few feet from her and she wouldn't spot him. But she didn't think so. She had missed him. Calla kicked a small rock, sending it into the undergrowth. She sat and exhaled. Three days and nothing. She stood again and searched the ground for prints. Down in the valley, a stream gurgled over rocks, the water tempting her to stop and drink. When she finished, she headed up the opposite side, toward the road above.
Morse had lain propped against a tree, sweat pouring off his sunburned face. Dust covered his white shirt, the right sleeve torn at the elbow. He cringed when Calla stood over him, his chest rising and falling rapidly, but he made no move to get away. His voice cracked when he spoke through blistered lips. “Why?”
Why. Hybrids had no business asking that question. Yet they did. Whenever they were about to die. Calla hoped this next one just accepted his fate. She was sure she tracked a male now. He had come this way. The winding road was empty, but Calla darted across it and climbed the cut-out rock to walk above it. The scent grew stronger here. It led her over a shoulder of the mountain where the road curved around it, hugging a short cliff.
Below her stood a ramshackle three-story building with rusted railings. Springwater Creek Lodge, the sign said. Red, green, blue, and orange tents covered the gravel parking lot, oriented around various fire pits. Men, women, and children worked and played, doors opened and closed. Calla counted a few weapons, but most of the refugees were unarmed. This lodge was a perfect hiding place for rogues. Probably the humans in the hunting party lived here as well.
Calla crept back from the direction she had come. Yes, she could pick them off from here if she had to. She climbed to the top of the mountain, planning her next move, her earlier frustration subsiding.
A flock of birds burst from the fog down in the valley, their flight unorganized, chaotic. They wheeled in the air and disappeared again into the mist. Calla paused to watch, but nothing else stirred from the fog. So she listened, tuning out the surrounding noises. Far away, muffled by the fog on the mountain, a man was screaming.