“And your father and brother are both still alive. Three generations. That’s special.”
“Yeah—we should be studied.” He was joking she knew, but she caught a flash of fear at the thought of his daughters being taken away as lab rats in the interest of learning why they were still alive when so few were. He looked at her. “Waylon and I let on we’d found the girls, rescued them, that they aren’t naturally mine. It was safer that way, I think.”
She was surprised at where his mind had gone, but three generations was unusual.
She said, “I know of an entire family immune to the virus: mother, father and nine kids. You met Tony Antonelli and his son Mario? Their entire family is all immune.”
Nelson looked impressed. “It’s Tony’s wife whose heading up the Freeland takeover?”
“Say it that way and she’d go screaming to the hills. Gayle’s snooping around, wandering into places she shouldn’t be in, by mistake, pretending ignorance, gathering information, gathering others like us inside Freeland, preparing for when we return. She’ll get away with it, too. If you saw her you’d think she’d never pull it off. She’s a tiny thing, sweet, motherly, and wouldn’t hurt a fly. Until one of her kids is hurt. That I witnessed in the Prince George Killing Fields. Trust me, you want Gayle Antonelli on your side.”
Nelson grinned. “Like you. Like my Amanda.”
“Hey—you were going to tell me your Amanda and the lamb story.”
“Yeah. When me and Waylon and the girls arrived at Dad’s place, we were surprised to find Dad and Seth—my brother—had taken in a few strays. More than a few, actually. They were bunking in the house and in the two barns. Dad made no bones about it, the girls got a bedroom in the farmhouse and Waylon and me were assigned to the barn with the rest of the men.
Wren leaned back against the couch and yawned. “That’s what happened to us up north. Men in the barn until we spruced up an old cabin…” Darn, she wanted to close her eyes so badly…
“There were crops to tend, animals, chores, firewood, water hauling.”
She nodded. “Sounds familiar. We’re by a river and I had water pumped from a shallow well I’d had dropped around thirty feet down a few months before, coming up right inside the cabin. I wanted running water year around and no chance of freezing.”
“Sweet!” Nelson replied. “Good thinking.”
“I had no crystal ball, I was just being lazy.”
“Anyway, Dad heard about this woman who was raising some sheep and sent me over to see what I could see.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m approaching this woman’s cabin, and I’m whistling so she’ll know I’m there, I’ve got nothing to hide and so she can prepare herself—no surprises for her, or me."
Wren nodded, picturing Nelson whistling down the road, only in Wren’s version, Nelson looked a lot like Huck Finn: Short legged overalls, hung on one arm by a drooping shoulder strap, bare feet, straw hat and reckless. No—it was Waylon with the freckles, what with his wild red hair and fair skin…
“…Lamb was all over the yard, and me and the woman, a real looker, mind you, though she dressed plain…”
Wren wondered how the goats were doing back home, remembering how Catherine had tried to delay their leaving by insisting they first build a milking stand for the goats. Such delightful little creatures, full of sass and personality… Deklin would…
“…And there I was, clutching this mud-covered lamb to my chest as I tried to climb back out and quick as you could spit out interspecies adoption, the little guy grabbed a’hold of my nose and started sucking! Well now, I’m all for…”
“Wren.” She was being shaken. “Wren, wake up. They’re on their way back. I just saw them approaching the building.” It was Nelson.
She pried her eyes open, saw it was starting to get light outside, and the fire was out. She’d dozed off. She was lying on a couch, pulled close to the fire, and was covered with an assortment of clothing. Someone had put her here. Nelson. He’d placed her here, covered her, and covered Coru, where he lay sleeping. Nelson thought of her like he did his daughters. Her heart swelled at his kindness.
She pushed herself up. “I meant to give Coru more pain meds. Sorry for dozing off.” She swung her feet to the floor and the room spun. “Holy moly. Room spins here. And I wasn’t even drinking.”
“I gave him some early yesterday morning, in the afternoon, and again last night at midnight,” Nelson told her.
“Last night? What?”
“You’ve been out for over twenty-four hours. The pair of you. It’s tomorrow.” He grinned, trying to take the sting from his words, stood up and pulled open the grubby curtains. A low shaft of light pierced the room, revealing thousands of dust motes dancing in the stuffy, airless apartment. “It’s around six or seven a.m.”
She shot to her feet and abruptly sat back down. Mistake. “We’ve lost a whole day?” She saw daylight was indeed returning.
Nelson grimaced, not wanting her to take on the blame. Couldn’t be helped.
She looked over at Coru. He was sitting up and pulling a sweater over his head, layering up. She grabbed her pack and went to find the bathroom. When she returned, dressed and ready, both Nelson and Coru were packed up and on their feet, though Coru stood with much of his body weight on his right leg. He was leaning gingerly on a cobbled together crutch Nelson had fashioned from a length of wood from the woodpile, and two drawer handles, which he’d lashed to the top and partway down the length of the wood with narrow cording. He’d first padded the top handle with a section of Coru’s ruined pants to fit under his arm, the lower one was for Coru to grip.
Wren hugged Nelson and whispered, “Thank you.”
You’re welcome. Had some time on my hands, stuck here with you two sleeping beauties.
Coru tossed back a couple of pain tablets, chasing them down with water. They were what they used to call “over the counter” grade and barely touched his pain, but it was all they had. The sound of footsteps echoed in the stairwell now, along with excited talk, growing louder as the Shifters approached. Wren’s heart squeezed in her chest with apprehension, though she showed no sign of her fear to Nelson and Coru. She’d hold up her end.
Better than she had last night, letting Coru take an arrow in her place. No. Yesterday.
She read that Nelson had redressed Coru’s wound while she’d slept—three times. He thought, the swelling’s down; the stitches look good.
She smiled her acknowledgement of his messages, flooded with relief on this account, at least. Nelson had taken well to communicating with her through telepathy, even though he couldn’t hear back.
The apartment door opened, with Max and a few Swing Shifters entering noisily, cheerfully. Max looked extremely pleased with himself. Wren chilled at what had made him this happy—selling Coru.
But as she listened more closely, she learned that what made Max happy wasn’t just Coru. It was the excellent deal he’d just made.
Her eyes widened—he was selling them all!
He rocked back on his heels and grinned wide, weak morning light licking across the leering toothless hole on one side of his bewhiskered face. “I trust you enjoyed your stay.” Wasting no time, he waved them toward the door.
They moved forward, Coru walking awkwardly, not yet used to the jury-rigged crutch. Wren searched Max’s head for an image of the man who had paid for them. Was it Payton Wisla? Moses Zhang? The deal had been arms-length; Max hadn’t actually seen the face of the man paying for them. They made their way down the stairs, slowly, in deference to Coru. Max laughed. “Can’t damage the merchandise.”
Nelson thought, Asshole as he passed Max, purely for Wren and Coru’s benefit.
Exactly Wren sent back, forgetting for a moment Nelson wouldn’t hear her. Her hours of sleep had helped immensely.
They slipped away from the Shifter’s building and made their way along a path only the Shifters seemed aware of, carefully navigating Hume Park, stayin
g clear of the newly occupied POE section and the unsettled portion the remaining gangs were squeezed into and currently fighting among themselves to claim their fair share. It seemed the Pig Stickers had been decimated and were no more. The Transit Tramps and the Hummers numbers were down and had joined forces. The Burnaby Burners were going strong and were taking advantage of the purge to settle a larger slice of Hume Park for themselves. All this the Shifters skirted, sly rodents that they were. They’d cleverly fled from the conflict and had gained a valuable, bankable prize for their efforts. Win/win.
It was full-on daylight when they approached a heavily guarded entrance into Tanya’s stronghold, Glenbrook Raven Park, which looked very different than it had at night. The fortitude of the surrounding wall was intimidating, backed up by many well-armed men, all grizzly and bewhiskered, and deeply tanned, with stoic expressions that did not invite interaction. It had been miraculous that the Indies had made it through the first time. This was where the hand-off would occur.
Long-barreled weapons of all types were trained over the wall from the Raven’s park side at the Shifters and their prisoners. The tension—on both sides—was mind-blowing. Thoughts pinged around the space, echoing off one another, flooding Wren’s head with their fear. Dozens eyed each other, hair-triggers backed by past insults and injuries. A wrong word, a misinterpreted expression, and this whole thing exploded.
A tall, shadowed figure stepped through the opening in the wall that protected Raven territory and out into the open. He’d been waiting, was on edge. He wore a hooded cloak, his head large, his face unseen. Wren concentrated on him but found only focus. Alive. All of them alive.
Why alive? She was grateful yes, but who was this man, and for how long would he allow them to remain alive? There were no answers to be had.
Alive. All of them alive.
She asked Coru, Do you know this man? Is this Zhang?
No. Too big.
Max shoved Coru forward, making him stagger to stay upright, then shoved Wren and Nelson as well, reluctant to advance himself. Wren realized Max was afraid of this man, but with the Swing Shifters as witnesses and here to protect him—he hoped—Max couldn’t afford to show weakness.
“Their weapons?” The shadowed man’s voice was low and powerful, the voice of an orator.
This surprised Max, set him on edge. What was this guy playing at?
“I have them, obviously.”
The man tossed a bag onto the ground between them. It slapped against rock then rolled, jingling. He had no use for Max. Max was a means to an end. “I’ll take their weapons.”
Surprised at the request, Max made a show of shrugging his indifference, though he was loath to give up any weapon. He nodded to his men. They stepped forward with Coru and Nelson’s confiscated weapons and laid them on the ground next to their three captives, then carefully stepped back.
The man said nothing.
The silence stretched.
He asked, “You’ve taken up archery recently, Max?”
Max’s mind flamed with angry resentment. How did this man know what I did or did not do? He jerked the bow and quiver from his shoulder and tossed them down, biting back an ill-advised retort. It’s not wise to make this man my enemy. And the money’s here for the taking.
“Come.”
Coru, Nelson and Wren stepped away from the Shifters.
“Bring your weapons.”
They could have their weapons? Was this Tanya’s doing?
They scooped their weapons, Coru without grace, staggering beside his crutch to recover. They knew there would be no fighting their way out of this, not here and now, but once armed they might have a chance. Nelson’s brain was already formulating paths from the Raven’s territory back out to SFU, bypassing the new POE portion of Hume Park.
They approached their purchaser. Once they were beside him, he called out to Max, “The purse is yours.”
Max sent one of his own, Damian, to claim the bag. In a heartbeat, the Shifters were gone.
“Come.” Their new owner turned his back to them and led them through the Raven’s Park gate, past the watchful eyes of the Raven guards. Was he that foolish? That confident? All Wren could read from his mind was, Alive. All of them alive.
Once the gates were closed behind them, the man turned to face them, removing his cowl. He was a black man, with massive coiled dreadlocks spilling to his broad shoulders and down his back. He smiled at them, though his smile was filled with regret and his large dark eyes held a lifetime of grief. “My name is Dom Derrick. There is someone here I want you to meet.”
19
MIKE: YEAR SEVEN: WEN 2042
MIKE WAS WORKING around the clock with Moses. Some days he didn’t even go home to his condo; he’d stretch out in one of Moses’s spare rooms, clock in a few snatched hours of sleep then get right back at it. They had so much work to do. He’d brought a few clothes over for such occasions and was taking advantage of the arrangement more and more.
Plus, Moses’s gym was far better than his, though Moses himself never set foot inside it. There was also the added benefit of carrying no memories of Cherry or Conrad, like his home gym did.
They were racing against time here, building an underground enclave to protect highly prized and educated people should there be a global disaster, which they knew was coming. With all the saber rattling around the world, country after country squaring off based on imagined petty and personal insults, the future was becoming more and more uncertain and they planned to save as many fine minds as they could.
These so-called nation leaders were largely formed by the lowest, common-denominator politician finding his or her way into positions of power through buying or bullying. Mike had been here long enough to recognize the pattern now: Opportunists mowing down the voices of reason by enflaming festering prejudices, fears, and insecurities by manipulating social and mainstream media outlets. Often, whoever screamed the loudest and longest was the winner. There were no controversies untouched by those seeking to unsettle and topple the status quo, each claiming that he was the master, and would bring their followers their just desserts at long last.
In fact, while watching the nightly news, Mike was now of the opinion there should be an intelligence test given to each citizen before the power to vote a leader into office was granted. So many morons were being raised to positions of power through the votes of people who had no idea of the ramifications of their choices. Their chosen candidate would scream out what they wanted to hear and be rewarded by being raised to the top of the heap on the shoulders of other morons.
And now, the monkey house was about to collapse under its own weight.
“Sanctuary”, their first secret, self-contained complex, was almost complete. Tucked away in the Kootenay Mountains in south eastern BC, it was well protected and extremely well financed, thanks to Mike’s skills at juggling multiple investment firms. People flocked to his investment companies now, throwing their money at him. He was rolling in money, every project he had undertaken, including those he’d only dreamed about, were now all fully funded for years to come.
DRAs were springing up all over the planet now, unopposed. The good news? More often than not, the host country agreed to finance their own units, finally on board with the idea of minimizing waste rather than piling it up—poisoning waterways, eating up land, killing indigenous species, polluting the airways. Who’d have thought this simple concept would be such a hard sell? Ship it out into space—we all know there’s enough room out there. More than here, that’s for sure. Geez!
Still, many of his other environmental projects continued to meet with resistance from unions, special interest groups, petty politicians, NIMBYs: Not In My Backyard citizens, scientists and experts with differing opinions, governmental bodies who obviously didn’t have enough to do but complain, and of course, competing players who believed their brand of “save the planet” was better, cooler, smarter, cheaper, hipper, faster... fill in the non-applicab
le adverb of your choice here and you had their complaint. Nothing original. Just noise. It never ended.
He was so damned tired of trying to make a difference in the face of such indifference. Did people not see what they were doing to the planet? Some days he just wanted to drop a bomb on the whole place and begin again.
This would be frowned upon, of course, he snickered to himself, stirring cream into his fourth coffee for the day, craving whiskey instead. Too bad…about the frowned-upon bomb global reset and the whiskey. The whiskey he could do—he would do, later.
Lifting his cup and turning toward his desk, he glanced at the clock on the wall and stopped. Ten p.m.? Seriously? The last time he’d looked, it was three! Veronica would be having a cow. He tossed his coffee into the sink, strode to his desk to grab his jacket and headed for the elevator, angry at himself for hustling to please a woman he had no true interest in beyond distraction. Who was running his life, Veronica or him?
Lawrence, his driver, was watching a fight on the screen dash, still waiting on him in the underground garage. When Mike opened the door, Lawrence started, switched off the fight and fired up the car. “Evening, Boss.”
“I’m going to have to get you to come get me at night. I’m losing all track of time these days.”
Lawrence guided the car from the underground parking and out onto the street. The traffic was light, a testament to the time. He glanced at Mike through the rearview mirror. “Your lady ain’t gonna be too impressed.”
“You said it. Let’s swing by and pick up some roses from the florist first.”
“They’re closed. You got the grocery store or nothin’ this time a’ night.”
Mike blew out a sigh of annoyance. Veronica was becoming more trouble than she was worth. Since she’d moved herself into his condo over the last several weeks, she was beginning to display disturbing tendencies toward making the arrangement permanent. Not his plan. Far from it. Veronica was a port in a storm; a bit of amusement. He only kept her around because he hated being alone in the condo.
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