Eli’s attitude toward Mevia’s graffiti wasn’t even comparable. He was looking out for her protection. He wanted to whisk her out of the gutters and into high society where she belonged. It’s what she deserved. And if she viewed that as being “held back” then that was her problem. She and Drew could spend their lives huffing paint and drinking from potholes if that’s what she wanted.
She didn’t know what she wanted.
He disappeared into the shadows of an alley, the street lights casting an orange glow, foamy from the steam bending the beams. The sound of his footsteps bounced off the brick walls, echoing against the line of empty steel dumpsters framing the pockmarked street. All alone and tired, he walked home.
Chapter 41
The following work week started off mostly as Eli had expected. For the first several days he encountered his share of ribbing from co-workers over the visit from Skeet, all of which, to his relief, were good natured. He laughed off the jokes, shrugged off the rags, but secretly, he was scared stiff of the idea of getting drug tested, so much so that he practically drowned his kidneys with gallons of water trying to flush out his system. He even went so far as to buy a D-tox Kit from The Oppium Empporium, but after reading the product warnings about the side effects (including but not limited to: nausea, vomiting, violent cramps, cold sweats) he decided to stick with water.
After three days, of peeing his eyeballs out, he had pretty well decided he wasn’t going to be tested, but that still left the problem of Villus. The weasel was too quiet. He had to be plotting something behind those closed office doors, and whatever it was, Eli was eventually going to hear about it.
And he did, on a Friday afternoon when a messenger came by his desk and informed him he was being summoned to Villus’ office.
“Time to face the firing squad,” he mumbled as he hovered outside of Villus door. Just before entering, he repositioned himself into his usual, “Villus appropriate” stance: shoulders at attention, but not too stiff; chin square, but eyes disinterested; walk steady, yet relaxed. He entered the office.
Villus was behind his desk, his face hidden by the holi-screen. Upon the door opening he poked his head out. “Come in Sergeant Jackson. Sit down.”
Eli hesitated. Villus had already made a move that Eli had not anticipated: he sounded pleasant, but he told himself that it could be a bad sign. He may be in a good mood because you’re about to get discharged.
“Thank you sir.” Eli shut the door and then went over to one of the chairs and sat.
Villus continued typing. “Just finishing up an e-message.”
“Oh,” Eli replied, not sure what to say next. “Take your time.”
After a minute, Villus pressed a button and the screen disappeared, leaving nothing between them. Eli shifted in his seat.
Villus stared for a moment. His face could not have been more neutral if he were a mannequin. Finally, he spoke, “I think I understand now what the problem is, Jackson.”
“Sir?”
Villus stood up and went around his desk. Leaning against the edge, he sat in front of Eli and crossed his arms. “With Shield.”
“Uh,” Eli said, trying to gather his head. “I’m sorry?” If Villus was doing this to gain an advantage, then he had to hand it to the man, it was working.
The corner of Villus’ mouth curled. “As a senior officer, I understand how sometimes ones moral—hesitations, shall we say?—can herd their ambitions as well as hinder them.” His eyes were frighteningly relaxed, almost warm, as if he just walked inside from the sunshine and they were adjusting. He uncrossed his arms and perched his hands on the desk. “Listen, Sergeant Jackson I know we’ve had our differences, but I like to think you and I have the same goal.”
Eli hesitated. “To win the war?” He hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question.
“Exactly. To win. The. War. And that brings me to my point: the Colonel and I have been studying your progress on Shield and we have to say,” he revealed a snarly smile, “we are even more eager for its completion than ever before.”
Villus held his eyes and that’s when Eli understood he was supposed to say something. He cleared his throat. “I’m happy to hear that. Sir.”
Villus went back around his desk, sat down, and opened a drawer, removing a small stack of papers. “We understand how unique your position is with the Demonstrations, considering your involvement in the past, and we understand how you might be hesitant to see your work in action. Therefore, we drew up a proposal that we think might aid in lifting any mental barriers plaguing your progress.”
Eli frowned. “Proposal? Involving the Demos?”
As though Eli had correctly answered a trivia question, Villus nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “We discussed the idea of Shield, upon completion, being expedited and sent directly into battle.” Upon the word, directly he made a slicing motion with his hand. “Therefore your drones would be excluded from the Demos. What do you think?”
Eli, again, shifted in his seat, feeling microwaved under Villus’ radioactive gaze. He rubbed his two fingers over his lips and frowned.
Villus’ expression changed, his eyebrows lifting. “What? I thought you’d be relieved. Weren’t you mentally battling with some sort of hang up over your program being used in the Demos?”
“Well,” Eli found his voice. “I suppose so.” He wanted to get off the subject of the Demos, but it seemed that it was the only thing Villus wanted to talk about, but that was better than the alternative.
Villus blinked, and gave him a confused look which didn’t appear completely genuine. “You suppose?” he asked leaning back in his chair, glancing around the room before he spoke again. “I was under the impression that you were uncomfortable,” he tilted his head, “uncomfortable with the idea of arming our drones with your Shield and then watching your fellow Slaggers get picked off like bugs in a kiddie pool.” He contorted his lips as if tasting something foul, “all because of your program.”
Eli took a deep breath. There was a game in session, but none of the rules were the same. When Eli spoke his voice was low and had a roughness to the edge. “Yes.” He looked him in the eye. “That does make me uncomfortable.”
“I thought so.” Villus paused for a moment before he smiled. “Which is why Colonel Harried and I are trying to pass the proposal.”
“Well.” Eli couldn’t seem to keep still. “That would be great.”
“Great.” Villus sorted the papers. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“But, do you think the proposal will pass?”
Villus stopped sorting and leaned forward, “I believe so. And I’m sure that completing Shield will increase our chances.” He gave him a pointed look.
“You think?”
“Oh yes.” Villus slid the papers across the desk. “Don’t forget Jackson, the most important thing for all of us is that we win the war.”
Eli leaned over and studied the papers, each sealed with a gold stamp. There it was: a proposal with both Villus’ and Harried’s signatures. He skimmed through finding everything simple and as Villus explained it.
Eli rubbed the papers between his fingers like a fine tapestry. Only the highest and most official of orders were composed on actual paper. However, there had to be an angle. What could it be? Villus’ approach defied the pattern of all their meetings up to this point. Normally he was doing his best to push Eli back to the Slags, but now he was trying to inspire his work? Something wasn’t right.
Then as if sensing his hesitation, Villus spoke. “You’re still having problems with NRP I hear?”
Eli stopped, but didn’t look up from the page. He swallowed, his mouth wet.
“Perhaps,” Villus continued, “I could make some calls.” Now Eli looked up to Villus’ open face, genuine and without menace. “Get things moving. Would that be all right with you?”
Eli took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice neutral, not wanting to give an inch in case this was a game, which it alm
ost surely was. “I would appreciate that. Yes.”
“And so I can expect to see some progress on Shield, in say, a week from today?”
“Progress.” Eli nodded once. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Good. Done.” Villus picked up the sheets and returned them to the file cabinet, locking it. “This will be beneficial to us all.”
Eli gave him a reserved smile. “I can see that.”
Villus sat up straight and placed his palms flat on the table. “By the way,” he said. “We still haven’t found your friends little boyfriend yet.”
Eli’s stomach flipped. “Who?”
“Your friend you trained back in the Demos.”
“Mevia.”
“Yes her. I was just saying that we still haven’t caught her male companion that she escaped with. Mister,” he scrolled through his handheld, “ah, Mr. Sloan Hissler.”
Eli blinked up at Villus’ expectant eyes, his mind racing. Sloan Hissler? Who was that? Then it dawned on him. Sloan Hissler must have been Kilt’s cover, a fake name, but why would he need an alias?
Eli quickly rebounded. “Still at large is he? That’s too bad.”
Villus shrugged. “We’ll find him. I’m only surprised it’s taken this long, but then again, some people get lucky.” Just then his desk phone rang. Villus checked the ID. “If you’ll excuse me, Jackson, I need to take this.”
“Yes sir.” Eli stood up, relieved. He gave a quick salute and then headed out the door.
As he walked down the hallway back towards his wing, a place he just minutes ago thought he’d never see again, he thought about Kilt’s alias. He certainly didn’t look like a Sloan or a Hissler, so Eli guessed that Kilt was, in fact, his real name. If he was planning to escape the Ark once and for all, it was understandable why he would need a new identity, but the question was, how did he obtain one? Maybe Kilt had friends in higher places than Eli gave him credit for, but who were these friends?
Well in whatever part of the country Kilt Tillman was hiding he had better stay low, not that Eli cared. The drones were on his scent and pretty soon, he was going to get sniffed out.
Chapter 42
Kilt
Days after his arrival to the cabin, Kilt awoke to a noise in the darkness. He lay in bed, heart pounding, waiting. The night was so pitch he had to blink his eyes to be sure they were in fact open.
He tried to place the sound. A coon? Hopefully that was it, anything but a bull-moose.
The disordered, animalistic rustling came again. Even with all the beasts roaming just beyond his doorstep, Kilt was comforted that it didn’t sound human. Slowly he sat up, his body stiff as death rising. He stopped, his torso perpendicular to his legs forming an L.
His head was spider webby with sleep. The fire was dead and he wished for the thousandth time that the moon would come out from behind the nuclear cloud that blew in a couple of days ago. Perhaps he should move on and find an unpolluted part of the country, but how far would he have to go? A ten day walk? Twenty? Fifty or more? No, it was better to stay put for now where there was still water and good hunting.
After Kilt had found the shelter he went out and gathered whatever supplies he could scrounge. He estimated he was about twenty-five or thirty miles from the Kradle, a comfortable distance; close enough to where he could walk it in less than a week, and far enough where he’d be hidden if anybody went there looking for him.
‘If.’ Ha. He was being hunted and that was a fact any way he looked at it. And he probably wouldn’t see them coming either, not until they saw him.
The sound came again, a rustling, too big for a coon. Kilt quietly pulled away his blanket and felt for a log. The two remaining coals from the fire glowed like evil eyes.
He tossed on two logs and soon his shelter of stone and wood glowed warmly. He fixed himself a torch, grabbed his knife from his bedside and went to investigate.
After releasing the latch and rolling away the calf high boulder, he opened the door. Black as a womb. He held the torch out first, hoping that if it was a ‘big ‘un’ it would be scared away.
As it turned out, there were just two ‘li’l ‘uns.’ Four green Maxopossum eyes blinked at him indifferently, chewing with their jeering jowls, already worldly and bored, knowing that the human wasn’t going to throw the fire and risk burning down the house. They continued their digging.
Kilt stepped out of the doorway and in one swift movement, adjusted his hold on the blade and threw the knife. It hit bull’s eye in the closest one’s neck. The other li’l ‘un took off, leaving his buddy behind keeled over in the cryptic dirt.
He picked it up by the stringy tail, trying not to look at the hands. Damned if that wasn’t the worst part, five fingers, large as an adolescent’s, bluish and veiny, too humanlike.
“Can’t a man get some sleep around here?” he grumbled, surveying the damage. They had reached the potatoes but only managed two. He threw the half chewed white lumps out into the woods, then shut the crate lid, reapplied the dirt and rolled the rocks back over the plot.
Tomorrow he would have to adapt and rig something more secure. Tonight, he just hoped the surviving varmint would warn all his buddies to steer clear of the pissed off human, but that thought also bothered him. He had tried everything to secure his brood, but nothing permanently deterred them, not logs, not rocks, not traps, each bypassed like a child’s puzzle. The learning ability of their little brains was staggering, and disturbing. Had they communicated with one another somehow? Warned each other through sign language perhaps? Hey bud, ‘der’s a trap o’er ‘der, so take ‘er easy.
His eyes accidentally fell on the hands with their long, dirt caked nails and knotty fingers. Again, he questioned Man and their reasoning for making these super opossums. What was the point? He had no idea. Then again, what did he know? He never met a dumb opossum before.
Scientists probably had a reason for the creation, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure it. Probably wasn’t a good reason. In his opinion, “going where no man has gone before” just didn’t cut it. Not by a long shot.
Kilt went back inside his cozy fire-lit cabin which was just a couple inches taller than he stood. He washed his knife in a water jar, hung the varmint in the corner, and finally laid two more logs on the fire, hoping the extra smoke wafting up the chimney would cover up the raw smell of meat. No need to feed a hungry bear.
He rinsed off his hands and lay down on his pine needle cushioned blanket. What time was it? He didn’t have a clock, but time wasn’t the real question was it? He was really wondering how far away morning was.
Kilt shifted over, trying out various positions, but nothing was good. Finally he succumbed to lying on his back with his eyes open. Just check. No.
Now who was he arguing with?
One peek. It won’t hurt nothing.
He sighed and threw off the blanket. It was no use. He wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he looked again, but, maybe he’d get lucky time. Maybe that’s why he felt the urge to check, some sort of intuition that Mevia and James were close. Or maybe it was just because he had nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait.
Kilt reached over and grabbed the module which was hidden inside a small hollow log. Anyone with half a brain could find it if they were looking, except he wasn’t hiding it from other people, but from himself, weary with his obsessive checking and rechecking for a signal.
He turned on the device and listened to the familiar hum of it charging up.
He held his breath….and then…nothing.
Immediately he turned it off. What was taking Mevia so long? Did she lose the power source? It could be broken. Or maybe something happened to James and he was…
Kilt returned the module and got into bed.
It was pointless thinking of such things. Of course he would hear from James. It would only take time that’s all. Laying in the dark, he assured himself of these things until he knew he believed them, and yet, it took a long time for him to fall
back asleep.
***
He ignored the watery sting in his eyes as he squinted through the hazy smoke, his face frozen in a grimace as he worked the maxopossum carcass, his knife scraping the pink, meaty tissue from the skin as flesh-ripped with each stroke. Once finished, he would set it aside with the others until he had enough to make a coat from the skins. Winter was still a way off, but he didn’t know how long it would take to stitch a coat and come first snowfall, he did not want to be caught without one.
The late afternoon sun cast a golden sheen across the camp. He raised a hand to shield his eyes against its rays as he surveyed his handiwork on the hide.
A gust of wind passed through the camp like a poltergeist, lifting the fire, stirring the sparks, sending a spray against the side of his face. Grimacing, he raised his arm to shield the attack. His thoughts turned to the meat roasting on the spit. He turned to check on it, while batting away the sparks trying to settle in his beard. Poking the side, he determined by outdoorsmen intuition that it still needed some time.
He squatted before the pot sitting in the fire and squeezed the two baking potatoes with his bare fingers. “Ow!” He jerked his hand up and sucked his warm, tender, fingertips. Almost done.
From the garden, a crow cawed, as if calling a challenge. Kilt turned and stared at the black bird perched on top of a dead corn stalk, staring back at him, defiantly, like a bull to a matador. The strange crow opened its sickle beak, and cawed again. A regular grim reaper with wings, Kilt thought.
“Scream your little head off, you overgrown horse fly,” he said. “Ain’t nothing there to eat.” Above the dirt, everything was weed eaten and dead, but below, he had uncovered potatoes, and carrots and beets ripe and begging to be picked.
A finch flew by, yellow and brown, passing just over the crows head. Instantly the black bird was airborne chasing it in semi circles and figure eights, a duet of twitters and ca-caws.
“Just looking for a fight were you?”
He went back to working the maxopossum, listening to the scratchy throated crow in morbid harmony with the sound of scraping flesh as if he were conducting a gravedigger’s orchestra.
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