by Summer Lane
The observatory is surrounded by twenty to thirty men and women. They are dressed in dark clothing. Their hair has been shaved to the scalp, and they are loaded with weaponry. Several of the burlier Ku fighters have RPGs on their backs, while others are carrying heavy guns, like AK-47s or thick-barreled shotguns. Their one distinguishing factor is the mark that is seared across their foreheads: a red claw that recedes into their hairline. It looks like blood dripping onto their face.
“Lovely,” Elle mutters.
Chris takes a position next to Haku, automatically gauging the situation and making immediate assessments about what move to make next. Uriah lies prone beside me, his steady gaze fixed on the scene below us.
I see the prisoners.
They are Hawaiian militiamen. Their wrists are duct-taped together, and they are standing with their backs pressed against the white wall of the observatory. They all wear blindfolds, and in the center of the group of Ku fighters, one man is speaking.
“That’s him,” I whisper. “That’s the prophet Hanale was talking about.”
I don’t know how I know this. I just do. He is a tall, muscular man wearing combat fatigues, wrapped in brightly colored robes. The smear of red is streaked across his entire face, marring his features. He is speaking in a language I do not understand, but I’m guessing it’s Hawaiian.
His tone is intense and feverish. He raises his fist into the air and the Ku fighters do the same, shouting their agreement with whatever he’s saying. He points to the militiamen blindfolded against the wall, and the words that come out of his mouth next are low and acidic.
They come out in a rush, almost garbled.
I clench my jaw, reminded of the human sacrifices Omega was making in Red Grove. This is no different. Something about this turns my insides to rage. It’s one thing to fight a war against soldiers—man against man, gun against gun. But the outright slaughter of unarmed men in the name of a warped religion is just too much.
I press my cheek against the stock of my rifle and set my sights on the back of the prophet’s head. My finger rests on the trigger, and it is all I can do to restrain myself from taking the kill shot.
Wait for the signal, wait for the signal, wait for the signal.
I tell myself this over and over again. Uriah whispers, “Hang in there, Cassidy.”
He says this because he knows me—he knows how badly I want to squeeze the trigger and end the prophet’s life.
Sometimes, nobody knows me like Uriah.
From the outermost edge of the observatory, there is a tiny flash of light—sunlight reflected off a mirror. The signal. The prophet suddenly stops moving, moving his fists to his side, turning his back on the Ku gathered at his feet. He moves his gaze to the ridgeline, and in that moment, I feel as if he’s staring right at me.
He screams a warning.
I take the shot. He’s moving, though, and my bullet hits his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Ku fighters literally throw themselves on top of the prophet’s body to protect him, and as I squeeze the trigger again and again, I am only succeeding in killing his cover men.
The explosion of sniper fire around the observatory is thunderous. No matter how many times I find myself in the middle of a firefight, the overpowering din of gunfire is still incredible. Yet I do not move. I am tight and controlled, my finger relaxed on the trigger as I fire, my breathing even and steady. I move from target to target.
One, two … five … seven … eleven …
The Ku fall. Shot by shot, I realize that I am taking them down faster than anybody else here—faster than even Uriah. My concentration is solid. For the first time in perhaps the entire war, I am wholly unaffected by killing the Ku.
This is cut and dried business, that’s all.
Right?
The militiamen who are bound and blindfolded can only kneel down against the wall and pray that they’re not the ones being shot at. I do my best to protect them from my position. Some of the Ku have turned around, realizing that they are surrounded, and begun shooting the militiamen as a last-ditch effort to inflict damage on our rescue mission.
Two militiamen fall to the ground dead.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I whisper, angry.
I put a clean shot through the back of one of the shooter’s heads, and Uriah does the same for the other shooter.
“Yeah, baby!” Uriah crows. “That’s what I call some damn good shooting, Commander Hart.”
I smile, not because of our good shots … but because this is a flash of the old Uriah. The Uriah who is comfortable with me and can make even the bleakest situation into a victory.
“Hold your fire!” Chris commands.
His authority trumps Lieutenant Haku’s for me in this scenario, so I look up at him. He is kneeling on the ground studying the observatory. His eyes move from body to body. He is counting—I know he is.
“We good?” I ask.
Lieutenant Haku rests his arm on his knee. “I think so,” he answers.
My ears are still ringing from the gunfire, and their voices are barely whispers to me.
An eerie silence falls over the summit of Mauna Kea. The fight is over, and the Ku are dead. Haku gives the signal and his men move down to the observatory so that they can begin untying the prisoners.
I roll into a sitting position and exhale, wiping sweat from my brow.
“Well, that was a cakewalk,” I remark, smiling slightly.
Uriah rests his rifle in his lap and grins up at me.
“Child’s play,” he replies.
Chris stands up and offers me his hand. I take it and he pulls me up.
“You took out more than half of the Ku,” he tells me, searching my face. “Every time we fight, you get better—faster.”
I don’t know what to say. Practice makes perfect?
“It’s easier for me to relax now,” I tell him. “When I relax, my shots are better.”
“That’s always been the key.”
Of course, relaxing in a combat situation is not about kicking back and getting into a “Zen zone.” It’s about controlling your breathing and heartbeat while your adrenaline is burning through your veins and the rest of your brain is terrified—absolutely, stone-cold terrified—that you are going to die out here.
So, yeah … being relaxed as a sniper is a relative term all the way, baby.
We join the rest of the men at the observatory. I stand in the middle of the bodies, rivers of blood staining the pure white snow.
This is me, I think. Cassidy Hart. Professional killer.
I walk through the bodies, looking at each and every face. All of them are fairly young, and not all of them are Hawaiian Polynesians. The assortment of people is diverse—I can almost picture who they were before all of this.
“I don’t see the Prophet,” I say, heartbeat quickening. “Chris.”
He turns to glance at me.
“Neither do I,” Chris answers. “I’d say three or four got away. They headed east, toward Hilo.”
“Let’s go get them,” Uriah suggests, gripping his rifle.
“It’s not worth the risk,” General Hanale interjects. “Let them return—let them tell the others how we cut down their fighters. It will be good for them to feel a little fear.”
He sounds sure about this, but I’m not so sure about his strategy. Something about the way the Prophet spoke and carried himself makes me think that our victory here will only make the Ku angrier. If they are sacrificing people to a goddess in a volcano, logic is obviously not a factor here.
But I’m guessing vengeance will be.
I look east, toward Hilo, down the mountain. I don’t see the Prophet or his men, but they can’t have gone far.
“I think it would be better if you killed that guy,” I tell General Hanale. “Without him, I think the Ku would be lost. He seems like a great rabble-rouser, if you know what I mean.”
“We’ve put enough on the line here already,” Hanale replies. “If we go after them, we r
un the risk of entangling ourselves with Ku scouts in enemy territory. I told you before, and I will tell you again: I will not risk the safety of my men on their turf.”
His voice rises in pitch, obviously irritated with me. Behind him, Lieutenant Lani offers a smirk and flips around, continuing to help untie prisoners.
I don’t press the issue, but I find it annoying that the Prophet—an obvious leader of the enemy camp—is so close and I can’t do anything about it. I’m not sure that I want to deliberately disobey Hanale’s order. True, I don’t actually answer to his authority, but it would create unneeded tension in a place where most of the islanders already don’t like us being here.
I mutter a frustrated curse and walk around the edge of the observatory building—there are three of them here, the largest in the center. I fold my arms across my chest, looking over the island. From here, it’s easy to believe that life below is the same as it always was …
From behind, someone claps their hands on my shoulders. I turn around, ready to shove Chris away with a playful grin, but it is not Chris. It is a Ku fighter, white rage in his eyes as his hands close around my neck. I can’t scream. His thumbs jam against my throat and my oxygen is cut off.
I bring my arms up, wedging them between his hands, pushing with all my might. My brain is pulsing with red light: Hurry, hurry, bring him down! You’re running out of air!
The Ku fighter is a tall, thin young man with a slender face. He is strong, pumped with rage and adrenaline. He bends me backward, choking me as he lays me flat on the ground. My lungs burn and the edges of my vision go black.
No, no! Not like this!
I smash the heel of my boot into his groin with all the strength left in my body. He inhales, flushed red with pain. His grip loosens and he cries out. I use his pain to my advantage. I arch backward and lock my legs around his neck, a chokehold that threatens to snap his spine while slowly depleting his oxygen intake.
He at last summons enough strength to break the chokehold, pulling away in a burst of desperate strength. I jab my fist into his Adam’s apple in a sharp punch. He chokes and falls sideways, releasing his grip on my neck. I roll to the side, coughing and hacking, fighting to regain oxygen.
“We will kill you ALL,” he hisses, getting to his feet.
He charges at me, driving his shoulder into my arm. He knocks me over, but I am prepared this time. I use the momentum of his charge to roll him onto his back. I slam my knee against his chest and tear my knife from its sheath on my belt. I hold the knife against his throat, piercing the skin just enough to draw blood.
“Go ahead and kill me,” he growls. “I am not afraid.”
I look into his eyes. I see his hatred for me and for the militias. I also see that he is little more than a young man who has been warped by a corrupted, idealistic belief system.
“The Ku will come for you and kill everyone you love.” He spits on my face. “You will all pay.”
I flip the knife in my hands and drive the tip of the blade into the soft flesh below the chin, feeling the crush of bone and the gush of blood on my skin. He stares at me, mouth open in a silent scream, paralyzed, hot blood pouring from his neck, warming my hands. I watch the light leave his eyes, feel his heartbeat slow and his chest cease to move with the rhythm of his breathing.
I watch him for a long moment before I finally pull my knife from his throat. I wipe the blood on the snow and slowly stand, sheathing the weapon. I turn slowly and take a step backward.
Chris is standing there, still as a statue, staring at me as the blood drips from my hands.
Chapter Nine
I can’t get the blood off my hands.
Back at Pohokuloa, I stand with my palms pressed flat against the tile of the shower, hot water streaming down around me. I stare at my fingertips—the nails are crusted with blood, and I can’t get it out. I turn the water off and stand there for a moment, silent.
I dry off. I pull on clean fatigues, a black tank top, socks, boots … I fasten my hair into a high, messy bun, stray curls falling everywhere. I sometimes wonder what I look like to everyone else. Do I show my emotions? Do I show my anger?
I look at my hands again, at the blood.
Yes, I think. Everyone sees it. They see it all.
I leave the bathroom, and the barracks is empty. Well, mostly empty. Chris is sitting on the bottom bunk of his bed, hands folded together, leaning forward. He looks at me as I enter the room, and something in my gut tightens.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he replies.
“You’re lying.” I shake my head. “I know you. I can see it on your face.”
“Right.” He laughs hollowly. “I forget you can read me better than the rest.”
Silence. The quiet is making me uneasy. I play with the ring on my finger.
“Tell me something,” Chris says. “If I asked you to walk away from this fight, to wait to marry me until the war was over, what would you say?”
“I’d say you’re talking crazy and pretend I never heard it,” I reply.
“I figured that’s what you’d say.”
“You’re not serious?”
“Not really. But sort of.” He shrugs. “I don’t like seeing you covered in blood all the time, you know. It’s not exactly my highlight of the day.”
“He was going to kill me, Chris.” I sigh, exasperated. “You would have done the same thing!”
“You could have yelled for help. You could have shot him.” He stands up. “But you didn’t want to. It’s like you wanted him to suffer. Why?”
“It’s not like that,” I reply. And really. It’s not. I don’t like to think about how the light slowly went out of the boy’s eyes and how his blood was hot on my hands. How it’s still stuck to my skin. “We’ve killed a lot of people between the two of us,” I say. “What’s the problem? What’s really bothering you?”
“I’m afraid you’re going to be ruined by the time this war is over,” Chris says suddenly.
His words echo in the barracks.
So, there it is. There’s the truth.
“Ruined?” I repeat. “You mean mentally ruined? Emotionally? Or physically? Come on, Chris. Be specific, now.”
Sarcasm sneaks its way into my voice. I can’t help it.
This is who I am now. Chris knows this.
“I just worry about you,” he answers. “That’s all I’m saying. And I’m also saying that there would be no shame in you getting on a plane and going back to Yukon City and laying low until we can get this nuclear firefight under control.”
“You know that’s not who I am,” I say. “I’m here to fight. I’m here to stay.”
As I speak, I can see the fear rising up in Chris. The fear of loving someone and losing them. Losing me like he lost his first wife, Jane. Like his brother, Jeff. Like his father, John.
“We have an agreement,” I continue firmly. “We fight together. We die together. Always, together.”
“I’m not backing out of the agreement, Cassie,” Chris replies, smiling. “I just want you to know that if all of this ever becomes too much … you can leave.”
I place my hands on his cheeks and make a face.
“It’s not an option and you know it,” I say. “Why even bring it up?”
“It was worth a try,” he replies, sighing. “My whole world revolves around two things: winning this war and keeping you safe.”
“You can’t protect me from everything,” I tell him. “Not anymore. I can take care of myself.”
He nods.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I know you can.”
I kiss him, pressing my nose against his nose, grinning.
“Love you,” I whisper. “Silly boy.”
Chris replies, “Little girl.”
He presses a kiss against my hand.
“So, tomorrow,” he says. “Hilo? Ready to find those weapons?”
“Ready as ever.”
“Let’s hope
the Ku stays out of our way.”
“The Ku are stupid,” I reply. “They’re overly passionate and untrained. I don’t think they’re going to be a problem.”
“Not in small numbers,” Chris agrees. “But in a big group, they could do some damage. I’m surprised General Hanale and his men haven’t been able to contain the problem.”
“They don’t know how to fight,” I remark. “Hanale isn’t doing any real leading. They’re mostly hiding from the Ku and surviving. If you ask me, they’ve had it easy. If the Ku are the only thing they have to worry about, they’ve got it made.”
Chris says nothing, which is usually his way of agreeing with me.
“And after we find Randall and the weapons – if they exist?” I ask. “We can’t exactly hide it from Hanale and his men.”
“We’ll tell them. After we find it. Not before.”
Yeah, that’s true. We don’t want word getting out.
“And then?” I ask.
“Then maybe we’ll get married.” Chris winks. “Might as well, right?”
The small remaining spark of girlish whimsy rises up inside me and I beam a smile.
“Might as well,” I say, giving him a thumbs up. “I’m ready.”
“I know.” Chris playfully nudges my shoulder. “You’re always ready.”
Always.
***
I am walking back from the chow hall alone when Lieutenant Lani approaches me. Her expression is stony. She stops directly in front me, arms folded. I come to a halt.
“Can I do something for you?” I ask.
“I want to know why you’re really here,” she says curtly, point-blank. “The militia doesn’t just send their best team to the middle of the Pacific Ocean to battle island people or go on nonsense recon in the middle of World War Three. There’s something bigger going on here.”
“Well, good for you,” I reply. “You’re a conspiracy theorist.”
“Don’t be smart with me,” she hisses, desperation in her tone. “I’ve been on this island for thirteen years. The Collapse has only made things worse—there’s no chance of leaving, ever. But I want to help you, and then I want you to take me back to California with you.”
“Because we’re such good friends, right?” I remark.