“Do you think you’ll find one?” Sandra’s brow wrinkled.
Cree shrugged. “This island used to be full of fisherman, so I’m sure I’ll find something in a shed, or a garage.”
“Be careful.” Sandra warned. “Listen to the trees and animals. They’ll tell you if danger is lurking.”
“I will. And I’ll bring a spear.”
Mevia turned heel and walked away quickly. It was unbearable to imagine what would happen to Cree if he ran into the Poachers alone.
Why was it, none of her plans ever seemed to go right? First the Training Center escape, then Flora’s rescue and now this. The voyage to the mainland would be risky. So many things could go wrong while they were out there in the open sea. And what if the Poachers made a couple of correct turns and ended up snaking over their mountain?
Just the day before, she was inspired, invigorated even, by the idea of the tribe escaping to the mainland, but now she was weighed down by fear and doubt. The weather, the Poachers, the construction of the boats, food, water and waves. With so much going wrong, how could it possibly go right?
Chapter 45
Kilt
His journey was both physically and mentally arduous. With the threat of Eurasia at his back, the threat of Drones from above, and the threat of bullmoose and bears from all around, every step was like moving deeper and deeper into a trap. At least Kilt didn’t have to worry about the threat of starvation from within. His pack was still bulging with rations.
Finally, after many days of travel, he spotted the dome of the Kradle in the distance, the late afternoon sun glaring off the top. With all its glass, it looked like a blue bubble, or a blister protruding from the earth. His heart beat faster, but then he reminded himself how huge and vast the Kradle was. He was still at least a two days walk away.
By the next afternoon, the Kradle was considerably larger, and looked like a giant rogue wave frozen in time.
The strain from the journey was taking its toll. He was moving slow; he could feel it. Sleep was nearly impossible with his nerves. The drones didn’t seem to slow down at night and every hum in the wind jolted Kilt awake. He nearly had a heart attack over a mosquito in his ear.
The next day he covered himself with mud and tree leaves for camouflage, and that night he found a well-hidden nook under a mass of pine trees to make camp. He did not start a fire.
In the morning, he was sore from sleeping upright, but he kept up the pace. It took all afternoon and into the early evening to make it to the Kradle. About a mile earlier, he had left the gun in some bushes next to a large oak tree that was split from a lightening strike.
He walked along the circumference of the dome, keeping hidden in the forest. It took hours but he finally found the tunnel that he and James dug as kids. By then it was dark and the moon was only a whisper of a glow behind the thick cloud.
He pulled the tough strings of grassy overgrowth that had formed over the rocks and mud Kilt had laid long ago in order to hide the hole. When the GovCorps had found James sneaking through the other tunnel which was located in the cabbage fields, Kilt rushed to cover this one before anyone was the wiser.
He removed the last rock, laying it to the side as inconspicuously as possible so as not to draw attention.
Using a match for light, he stuck his head inside, and to his astonishment, discovered the tunnel was still open and clear. He shimmied through the dark, wet ground, curving his body, and then pushed himself up until he met another cap of rocks and mud. He knocked the dirt and pushed the rocks aside until the silver moonbeams seeped through like gossamer fireflies. Using his knife he cut through the grass. Then, with a push, he popped his head up and found himself in the loving arms of a ripe wheat field.
After climbing out and dusting off, Kilt’s journey on the inside began. He passed through the rustling wheat, as familiar as a lover’s touch. The pale solar moon transformed the golden stalks into white paintbrushes.
His dark figure floated through the miles as he passed through the Farmer’s town, not bothering to stop and check on his old house, and he kept going long into the night. The deeper he went into the Kradle, the warmer it became.
Finally he got to the Slags. There, he stole a bicycle among a full rack. He left behind a potato and a cloth full of jerky in its place. It wasn’t enough, but he was desperate. He tottered along on the squeaky ride through the stillness of the streets, passing pole after pole of flickering overhead lights, and on into the cranky morning until he reached the edge of the Corporates. Exhausted and aching for sleep, he made a right turn and rode until he found an abandoned squatter’s warehouse. He went inside and trudged among the smelly mounds of homeless and drug addled. Empty boxes of food rations were scattered everywhere. He climbed the stairs and then located a clean corner to lie down. His knife was clutched in his hand, hidden within his jacket; however the people on this floor were mostly families. They didn’t appear to want trouble any more than Kilt.
Hours later Kilt awoke with a start. At his feet a little boy staggered back, falling on his rear. He and Kilt stared at one another for a minute until he understood the little guy was just curious. He smiled. “You know what time it is?” His voice was hoarse.
The boy frowned and then shrugged.
“It’s just after noon,” called a voice in the corner. Kilt nodded at the man who must have been the father. He was shriveled over at the opposite end of the room with his wife and what looked like two more children. The curious boy was the smallest.
Kilt pulled himself up on his aching feet. He slipped his knife in his pocket and then checked his things, confirming everything was there. He took a long drink of water from his canteen and gave the boy a fistful of jerky and two potatoes. Then he left.
Once out in the light his senses revved back to life. He walked along the edge of the Corp walls, chewing jerky, making sure not to get too close and draw attention.
After several hours he was tired again and losing hope at finding a way past the Corp wall, but he pressed on and began to consider changing his strategy.
After another mile he found his big break: a delivery truck. It was idling in the middle of the street while the two trucks in front of it were waiting for the Corp delivery gate to open.
Kilt walked over, casually, as if he had no interest in the vehicle, but as soon as he was behind it, he dropped to the ground and pushed himself underneath. He found the hanging steel bars and hooked his arms through. This was a trick they played as kids—sneaking under the delivery trucks leaving the farms. Eventually they stopped because the farm bosses started checking underneath with a mirror.
Right then Kilt just hoped they didn’t check them upon entering. The truck accelerated, groaning over the loose, popping gravel. Then the gravel dissipated, and they were upon newer, smoother road material. He exhaled with relief. He was in.
They drove along and within minutes his arms grew tired. He prayed they would stop at a red light or an intersection soon so he could drop off and roll away, but the truck continued roving along, bouncing over mountain-like bumps as though they weren’t there. Kilt almost completely lost it when they went through a dirty puddle. The water splashed over his body. He readjusted his hands, but his grip was now wet and slippery
“Stop. Stop. Stop,” he muttered, gritting his teeth under the strain.
Finally the truck began to slow. When it came to a complete stop Kilt dropped to the ground and rolled away from the tires, and not a moment too soon because the light above had turned green and the truck was already pulling away.
Kilt pushed himself up and staggered out of the street.
For the next several hours he crocheted through the twists and turns of the streets, squeezing his body among the alleyways. The dark corners would hold the kind of people he was looking for. He needed help from someone not on Corp payroll.
He stumbled upon a thin walkway, sandwiched in between two abandoned looking warehouses. There was a huddle of dealers lin
ing the dark walls, each wearing a different colored shirt: red, green, and neon yellow; the colors representing the different kinds of drugs they sold: stimulants, depressants, hallucinogens, making it easier for customers to spot who was selling what.
The dealers were within the “Other Way” jurisdiction. Basically, the GovCorps looked the other way and allowed them to stay in the outer streets of the Corps. After all, their product created a three way benefit system. The drugs kept the people happy and high which meant they were unthinking and easy to control, a benefit to the GovCorps. The Corp customer base also kept the dealers in line and their products clean, no impurities. It was a kind of chemical ecosystem. It worked the same for the sex trade. Girls would start out in the streets, then as they became popular, gaining a large number of “stars” on their public profile pages, they would be bought by a Company Pimp inside one of the various Corp buildings. Then, they were in the big time. No more fast jobs behind the dumpsters, lying bare assed on flattened cardboard. From then on it was nothing but high-enders in middle grade hotel rooms.
Kilt spotted one such girl at the end of the street, leaning against the corner, staring at the ground, her arms crossed. As she noticed his approach she quickly stood up straight and smiled, her teeth large and crooked. Her tiny, pink purse bounced against her out-turned hip. The black sequined dress, too large for her bony frame, slouched down her non-existent chest revealing a pink lacy bra that looked more like a little girl’s garment than lingerie.
“Hellooo,” she said eyeing Kilt up and down, her voice a little too squeaky to be considered sexy. “Someone here to see Rushelle Dazzle?”
He stopped. “Rushelle Dazzle? Isn’t that a cartoon character?”
The girl frowned, still holding her pose. “No. It’s not.”
It was but he didn’t want to embarrass the girl. “How old are you?”
She scoffed, her heavily made-up eyes darting to the side. “Eighteen.”
“More like sixteen if you ask me,” he replied.
“Well, nobody asked you.” She perched a hand on her hip and frowned, an indignant wrinkle forming across her baby forehead. “And if you’re not here to buy, then I’m walking.” She turned to leave.
“No. No. Wait. I’m sorry Rachel.”
“Rushelle,” she snapped.
“Rushelle. I’m sorry. I just need to ask you a question.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I don’t get paid for questions.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.” Kilt placed his hand on his chest.
She leaned against the building and pulled her oversized neckline up to her chin, except it dropped right back down where it started.
Kilt took a step closer. “I’m headed to the CorMand building, and I want to avoid police drones. Do you know some streets I can take?”
She stared at him a moment, her freckled, angular face framed by her brown, arrow-straight hair. Then she laughed, a short burst. “You want to avoid police? Then don’t go to CorMand.”
Kilt studied her. Her pallid limbs were almost translucent in the shadows. Purple, bruise colored trails ran parallel down her forearms. Kilt considered those arms, looked over at the dealers, and then back at her. No matter how hard this poor child worked, she would never make it into the Corps.
“I don’t know where you’re from,” he said, “but you should go home.”
“Ha,” she laughed at him again, but this time her eyes were sad. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll keep that in mind.” Then she turned and walked away.
“Hey, wait.” He followed her. “Thank-you for your help.” Kilt reached into his pack and offered her some jerky.
“But I didn’t help.”
“You really did. Here, just take this.”
She took it, examining the pieces.
“It’s deer jerky. You should eat some. It’s really good.”
“Thanks. I guess.” She replied slowly, smelling it.
As Kilt walked away, she called out. “Hey! Be sure and ‘star’ my profile page! Rushelle Dazzle.” He waved in response.
It was hard to judge the distance, because of the size of the tower, but surely he was less than five miles away. He continued to weave through the shadows of the city buildings.
The sun was down by the time he arrived at CorMand. He had gotten holed up a couple miles back by a squadron of police drones scrubbing the area. There was an alarm whaling from one of the Corps so he figured it had something to do with that.
He had managed to sneak away and now he was finally walking across the soft, immaculate green lawn leading to the bright tower in the sky. Like a needle injected into the atmosphere, CorMand towered above the land.
Kilt stopped and took a deep breath. He was beat and considered if he should wait until he had some sleep before he went through with his plan, but from the looks of his surroundings, he would be hard pressed to find a private place to shut his eyes. Guards were roaming the streets, police drones buzzed down the sidewalks. There were also the addicts to deal with.
No, he would need to finish the job tonight.
“Here we go,” he muttered. He walked across the street, heading straight over to the security booth. His bravado must have shaken the guard behind the glass, because he nearly jumped out of his seat. He glared through the partition and Kilt read his expression like a billboard: bum.
The guard, whose nametag read ‘Zen,’ scowled and pressed the intercom button. “Beat it,” his machine-distorted voice crackled through.
Ah. Straight to the point. Maybe this’ll be over quicker than I thought. Kilt smiled like they were old buddies. “I’m here to visit someone.”
“My eye you are,” Zen’s robotic voice said. “Go on. Don’t cause trouble for yourself.”
“His name is Eli,” Kilt continued pleasantly. “Eli Jackson. You know ‘em?”
Zen rolled his eyes. “No, I don’t, but I know you.”
“Ya do?” Kilt patronized.
“Yeah. You’re a bum. Now get outta here!”
Kilt leaned against the booth as though he had all the time in the world. “No can do my friend. Eli Jackson is expecting me and I gotta see him.”
Zen adjusted his cap and gave an incredulous look. “Look buddy, you can either get out of here and go on your merry way, or I’m going to have to arrest you right where you stand.”
Kilt pretended to ponder this. He squinted to the sky. “Well, I’d rather not leave. I really need to see my friend.”
“That’s it, trash. You asked for it.” Zen mumbled something into his handheld and then set it down. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, looking very pleased with himself.
A minute later Kilt was in handcuffs and being hauled off to the CorMand jail.
“You could have had a nice night out on the town,” one of the guards said. “Instead you’ll be spending it in jail.”
“Really, I don’t want trouble. I just want to see Eli Jackson.”
“Who?” The guard frowned.
“Eli Jackson. Give him a call. Tell him that Kilt Tillman is here.”
Chapter 46
Eli
Eli stood in front of the screen which was programmed to receive from camera three. Camera three was programmed to film inside cell B, and inside cell B, was prisoner 151762M-2. Kilt Tillman sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, legs pulled up, elbows resting against his knees, a wad of chew bulging from his cheek. The last item was a gift from his cell mate—a scrawny blonde kid in a wrinkled suit who had puked all over the floor.
“Is this feed rigged for sound?” Eli asked the bored looking guard sitting in front of twenty other identical screens. The guard didn’t look up, only handed Eli a pair of headphones sitting on the desk.
“Thanks.” Asking to observe a prisoner prior to bailing them out wasn’t standard practice, but Eli had insisted. Kilt was only an old childhood acquaintance, he had told the front desk, and he hadn’t seen him in years and wanted to make sure the man wasn’t
crazy before he went to his cell.
Eli had been observing them for ten minutes trying to get a glimpse of what his visitor possibly wanted. However, the only thing he learned was that the blonde cell mate was a chatty fellow, and Kilt seemed to be on the brink of booting him in the face.
Eli listened to their conversation.
“My name’s Darby,” said the kid who was sitting on the bed. “So, what are you in for?”
“Nothin’,” Kilt answered from the floor.
“I’m in for public intoxication.”
“No shit.”
“It’s true.”
Kilt spit in the cup sitting next to him. He leaned over and appeared to check the clock hanging on the wall outside the cell.
“So did you, like, get in a bar fight or sumthin’?” The kid slurred, his head hanging to one side.
“No, Darby. I’m an assassin,” Kilt grumbled.
Darby smiled. “No you’re not. Your tag says M-2.” He pointed to Kilt’s prison ID number written on his shirt. “’M’ means misdemeanor and two means…two.”
“Smart kid. You should learn how to shut the hell up.” Kilt spit again. Apparently he was done playing nice.
“Srryyy.” Darby laid down on his cot. “I’ve just never seen anyone before that looks…like how you look.”
Eli took off the earphones. “Alright.” He turned to the guard. “I’ll see him now.” He followed the guard out of the surveillance room, past several sets of doors and into the holding cell area.
“Kilt Tillman!” the guard walked in and called. “Your visitor has arrived.”
Kilt jumped to his feet and grabbed on the bars. “Thank-you, Sir!”
Eli and Kilt made eye contact and perhaps he was imagining it, but Kilt’s usual self-assured smile appeared to falter, his eyes flickering. Then Eli understood. He had changed, and Kilt was surprised by his appearance. Eli supposed he was right—the haircut, the uniform, the weight loss. It had only been a few months since the Training Center but they had both changed drastically. Back then Kilt had been only mildly disheveled but now, his clothes were worn, his hair was nearly at his shoulders and his beard looked like a bird’s nest clinging to his pearly grin. The smile was the only thing that had stayed the same. But despite his wear and tear, Kilt actually looked more sun kissed and healthy than beat down. At least one of them was eating well.
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