by Joe Hart
He moves to the mouth of the alley he’s in and stops, peering out around the closest corner.
Someone runs by so suddenly and quickly he’s afraid his bladder will let go. The man streaks past without a look anywhere but ahead and disappears around a corner into the next street. Lee glances in the direction the man came from and sees nothing but the ghostly silhouette of the Space Needle. Ahead is the northern side of the city. Should he try for the 520 bridge that he first entered the city on or hide in one of the buildings farther north? Maybe he should wait until dark to try to slip past. But from what he’s seen of the army, they’ll have all routes into and out of the city blockaded by noon.
A short chatter of gunshots comes from the north, their echoes like fading thunder. So that decides it, only one choice really, Lee thinks. He’ll have to go east and try to cross Lake Washington. Maybe find a working boat along the shoreline.
He watches the street, confirming its emptiness, then runs forward, staying close to the nearest building. More gunfire comes from several streets to the south followed by an earsplitting boom that can only be another shell from the ship. He ducks involuntarily as the explosion cuts the air, making his eardrums flex. His breathing is erratic, untimed with the falling of his feet. He concentrates on matching the two while looking everywhere at once.
The next street’s intersection is devoid of life but five blocks to the south a row of vehicles rolls forward at a steady pace, men on foot before them. Lee streaks through their line of sight without stopping, cutting up and through a yard below a three-story home with paint long faded from its siding. He leaps a broken fence and skids into a small alley before bursting onto the next street.
Shouts rise from the direction of the squad to the south.
They’ve seen him.
His heart feels as if it will come unmoored in his chest. He scans the sides of the street.
More homes, most with tall trees in their front yards and broken glass lining their fronts. The urge to hide inside one of them rises again and he pushes it aside. They will find him if he stops now, he knows it just as surely as he knows Ray is gone.
He runs up a small rise and turns right down another narrow street. Ahead the trees and shrubs are thicker, the homes larger and more lavish in design. He must be nearing the lake. Find a boat and get across, then he can disappear into the wilderness of the nearby mountains.
There is a vibration in the air beside him and a mailbox explodes into a shower of plastic and metal. Lee flinches away, guts clenching in terror as another shot skips off the pavement a dozen yards ahead.
The low rumble of an engine rises to a roar.
He dives to the left behind a car skewed partially across the driveway and lawn of a towering three-story home. There is a plunk and he sees the windshield spiderweb as he rolls away and is up on his feet again, finding himself facing a looming growth of vines littered with thorns.
He’s moving too fast to stop.
The thorns tear into his face, past his shielding arms and hands, their bite like a thousand wasp stings. His clothes snag and jerk in different directions as he plunges forward, blind and sure at any second he’ll hit a hidden wall behind the biting foliage, knocking himself unconscious.
But then he’s free, out in the open again, blood running down his face and off his chin, arms burning with scratches, legs throbbing from exertion. The ground opens into a clearing, large trees spaced a dozen strides apart and several steel benches sprouting from the earth.
And beyond that, the lake.
Lee runs across the park toward the suggestion of a path leading into another heavy section of woods. The rain and wind toss the lake’s surface into a tumult, white foam washing onto a littered beach.
The growl of an engine becomes louder behind him and he knows they’ve entered the clearing. Without looking back, he ducks into the cover of trees and doesn’t slow, feet pounding up the trail that winds through the trees, glimpses of the lake speeding by on his right.
The engine’s sound lowers with each step. Maybe they didn’t see him enter the path. But really there is only one direction he could’ve gone. They will follow.
His lungs hitch and stutter with each breath, the air on fire every time he inhales. He won’t be able to keep running for much longer.
The trail dips and jags at nearly ninety degrees before emptying out into another clearing half the size of the first. Someone has parked two dozen cars and trucks at the opposite end in the direction of the city, their headlights watching him like dead eyes. Ahead a picket fence cordons off a private property but past its end he sees the planks of a dock jutting into the water.
He pours on the last of his speed and vaults over the fence, landing hard on the other side. His ankle tries to turn and he sprawls to all fours, clawing forward onto his feet again.
The home is a massive black and white mansion set on what used to be a manicured three-acre lawn. Everything is overgrown now, weeds and vines invading at all angles. At the lake’s edge a boathouse slants to one side as if pushed by a giant hand, but the structure isn’t what makes him pause, then hurry down to the water: it’s the small aluminum boat overturned beside it.
Lee races to the craft, ears picking up the rumble of an engine along with another gunshot in the distance. The rain falls harder, stinging his eyes as he slides to a stop beside the boat. Hanging from the dock are tattered ropes suggesting a much larger vessel was once harbored here. Praying he will find what he needs beneath it, he flips the boat over onto its hull.
Flattened grass and weeds are all that meets him.
Cursing, he stands listening past the hush of the waves. The motor he heard earlier is quiet now. He scans the ground around the boat before spinning toward the boathouse. The door sticks when he tries to open it and makes an anguished cry when he forces himself inside. It takes less than five seconds for him to locate what he needs and haul them outside.
The oars are made of a black, composite plastic with steel locks bolted to them. He gazes at their hinged pins for a moment, eyes shifting to where they fit in the gunwales. He hesitates only a second before tearing off two pieces of his shirt, wrapping them around the pins before shoving them into the boat’s fittings. Anything to help him quietly cross the lake.
He slides the boat down through the grass, wincing as it scratches across the loose rocks and sand, until the stern touches the water. The same fog that hung so thick over the ocean is receding on the lake, its veil being drawn back by the falling rain. He takes a moment to steady himself, knowing this will be his only chance of escape, and the likelihood that someone will see him rowing away is very good. With a deep, calming breath he leans into the bow and begins to shove the craft into the water.
A cold circle of steel presses into the back of his neck and a voice that locks his muscles tight with fear says, “Where do you think you’re going?”
11
Hiraku Hashimoto dips the thin-handled brush in the dark ink and traces a curve on the paper that will become the grey heron’s neck.
Another blast from the guns above him on deck shakes the table and nearly causes the brush to miss its mark. He breathes in and out slowly, steadying his hand before making the next graceful arc. The bird begins to take shape. He can already see its surroundings: a calm pool in the middle of a lush grove. Perhaps a koi fish in shadow beneath the water. That’s what the heron is stalking, his next meal. Hiraku can still recall the feeling of his father’s hand over his when he was no more than six years old, guiding, teaching him how to blend the ink to shade the subject realistically. It is our responsibility to reflect what we see if we have the gift to do so, he said. And responsibility should never be shirked.
In the narrow corridor outside his room he hears the sound of heavy footsteps. Hiraku sighs, lowering the brush. The guns are silent now and he knows what will come next and he dreads it. He would give anything to stay in his cabin and finish the painting, anything not to have to climb up and
see what his men have done to the city. What he’s done.
The sharp knock on the door inevitably comes. “Give me a minute,” he says, and there is silence before the footsteps retreat. Hiraku sets the paper aside, knowing the picture will never be finished, and stands to his full height. He is tall for his heritage—half Japanese, half Chinese—at almost six feet and deep through the chest, the genetic lingerings of his grandfather, who was a champion sumo wrestler. He stretches and rubs the keloid scars on the backs of his arms, their presence like a diary, always forcing him to remember. The folded piece of paper, yellowed with age, sits on his nightstand. He picks it up, tucking it gently in his shirt pocket before donning his heavy jacket. With one last, longing look at the tidy room, he shuts the door and locks it tight.
Shirou waits at the top of the stairs in the open air that’s heavy with moisture. The smaller man is ten years his junior but always manages to seem so much older. Hiraku supposes it is his gray eyes, the color or lack thereof speaking of great age. As of late there are more lines on the face of the man who is a younger brother to him not in blood but in bond. The lines disturb Hiraku. They are not only creases that speak of stress but also of cruelty. Grimaces of anger have etched them there over time and he would say something to Shirou now if those lines weren’t mostly his doing. Too many years of asking the worst of him, and never once a complaint from the younger man.
“The last barricade was destroyed. The city is yours.” Shirou bows and Hiraku waves it away. The mixture of their crew is so diverse, the gesture looks out of place.
“Casualties?”
“Only fourteen.”
“And their side?”
Shirou pauses. “I’m not sure.”
“Have I not made myself clear that casualties will be counted on both sides?”
“You have. I apologize.” Hiraku sees the other man resisting another bow and steps past him to the railing.
The bay is heavy and acrid with smoke that’s taken the place of the fog they arrived under. Four small boats buzz back and forth from the ship to land, dropping off loads of men one after the next. The harbor itself is a ruin. The shells flattened half of the buildings lining the docks, tearing massive chunks from the closest streets so that they gape like open mouths. The remnants of the city’s defenses lie in rubble and he can see bodies already being stacked beside one another like cordwood.
“It’s unreasonable,” he says, mostly to himself, “that so much death should have to come before life.”
“What?”
“Nothing. What’s the status of the munitions factory?”
“Our intelligence was mistaken. There are fewer rounds than we were hoping for.”
“How much less?”
“Half.”
Hiraku turns to look at his second in command. “That won’t be enough. We’re already running low.”
“I know.”
“And the solution?”
“They have one functioning brass machine and plenty of brass as well as enough powder.”
“You’re saying we’ll have to manufacture the ammunition?”
“Yes. But there’s a problem.” Hiraku waits for Shirou to go on. “A shell clipped the building and a portion of the roof fell on one of the machines. It needs to be repaired.”
Hiraku breathes in deeply, trying to keep the sudden anger at bay. He’s been able to control his fits of rage for years, but he feels himself nearing the edge once again, the blind fury blistering within him like scorched paint. “In your opinion, are any of our men capable of this?”
“Most are engine mechanics or simple service technicians. I’m told this will require fabrication.”
Hiraku stares at the destruction for another long moment, unmoving but for the shifting of the ship’s deck beneath him. “Ready a boat for me. I’m going ashore.”
12
Lee watches the boat land and the men step from it onto the rocky beach.
He shivers, the remaining adrenaline in his system gone, leaving him weak and cold. He can still hear a slight ringing from the ship’s guns and the wound on the side of his head has clotted, the blood on his face crusted and flaking. The shoulder of the man beside him brushes his arm. He doesn’t know his name or his face, just another person he never got to meet among the thousands of them standing near the shoreline facing out to sea.
The men who had stopped him before he could cross the lake had hustled him into a vehicle, making him lie flat in the rear storage area while they swerved and jostled their way down through the city back to the port. There had been another man in the back with him, bleeding heavily from a wound in his side, and it was only when Lee had asked him his name that he realized the man wasn’t breathing anymore. They’d unloaded him along with the corpse onto the city street closest to the bay and ushered him around the gaping holes left by the ship’s guns. When he saw what the remaining pier held, he stopped in his tracks until he was shoved forward by the soldier behind him.
Thousands of the city’s men stood in ranks surrounded by just as many of the invaders, guns at the ready as they paced the perimeter. But it was the tangle of bodies being heaped in rows beside the street that Lee couldn’t look away from. Blood ran from the mound in a steady stream down the gutter, dropping away into a grated drain.
He had been sick then, he couldn’t help it. The smell of blood mingled with the briny air was too much, but the soldier accompanying him wouldn’t let him stop so he vomited on his own feet as he walked. Connor was in the pile somewhere, or what was left of him. The thought was enough to force more bile from him and he doubled over, finally stopping only to be kicked into motion again. When they’d reached the pier he’d been guided to the farthest side and told to stand still or he’d be shot.
And so he had, wondering if these were his last minutes on earth. Wondering if he would feel the bullet that tore through him or if it would be so fast there would only be a seeping cold before darkness took him. Wondering if it would be Zoey’s face he would see last before everything winked out of existence.
Booted footsteps bring him back to the present and he gazes through the ranks of men to where the latest invaders have stopped. There are three of them, the closest man taller than the other two and standing rigid in a heavy coat. His Asian features are blank as he observes them, eyes cold beneath a short forehead and a shock of dark hair going gray at the temples.
“My name is Hiraku Hashimoto, and I know you hate me. I am aggrieved that so many of you had to die but if we hadn’t attacked first, many of my people would’ve perished.” He considers them all for a moment before raising his chin. “Who is your leader?” When no one speaks Lee glances around, searching the ocean of faces for Tyee, but doesn’t see him. “It is cowardly not to admit leadership in a time of defeat,” Hiraku says. “Step forward and you will come to no harm.”
“He’s dead!” a voice yells from somewhere to Lee’s right. He looks for Weller, knowing the foreman’s growl from many hours on the docks. There is a jostle of men and Weller’s bald head appears, a thin line of blood running from a wide gash above his left ear. “He was shot a few blocks away along with his contingent.”
Hiraku studies Weller. “How do I know you’re not lying? How do I know you’re not the leader?”
“Because every man here can vouch for me.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything. Your men would lie for you, leader or not. It really doesn’t matter in any case, but things always seem to go smoother when I can speak directly with the person in charge.”
“Tyee wouldn’t have given you anything, you piece of shit,” Weller says, taking a step forward. The two soldiers behind Hiraku raise their weapons but he only points a finger at the tall man. “You might as well get back on your little boat there and sail away, because you’ll get nothing from the rest of us, either.”
Lee’s heart jabs painfully against his breastbone and his legs feel like dropping him to the ground. His eyes flick back and forth from We
ller to Hiraku, a terrible tension gathering in the air like a poisonous mist.
“I need someone with fabrication skills,” Hiraku says, slowly looking away from Weller. “Someone who can design and machine parts. This person will be given benefits during our stay here and a higher position within my group when we move on.”
Lee’s stomach twists. Several of the dockworkers who had witnessed him attend to the Sara May’s hull turn their gazes in his direction. He sees more eyes darting elsewhere.
“Don’t, boys,” Weller says. “Don’t give him shit.”
“Where’s Loring?” someone yells from the middle of the crowd. “Loring’s head of engineering; he can help you!” There is a chorus of “shut ups,” a cry of pain, but the voice rises again a second later. “Loring! Where are you?”
“He’s dead too!” someone says from several rows in front of Lee. He thinks the man’s name is Ollie. “I saw him in the street outside the munitions plant.”
Hiraku motions Ollie toward him through the crowd. “You work in engineering then?”
Ollie shakes his head. “In the munitions factory. But Loring was there enough for me to recognize him.”
“Can you repair the damaged munitions equipment?”
“Me? No. I just work the line.”
Hiraku nods, his gaze seeming to catch something on the ground. He nudges it with his boot and kneels to pick it up, turning it over enough for Lee to see it’s a dried clamshell dropped by one of the thousands of gulls along the port. Hiraku rubs the shell with a thumb before saying, “Someone will step forward to help us or there will be consequences. I don’t want to hurt anyone else. In all truth I want you to join us because we aren’t what you believe us to be. But I won’t be waylaid now, not after I’ve come so far.”
“Stand strong, boys. He’s bluffing,” Weller says, turning to the crowd. Lee watches as Hiraku frowns and gives the slightest incline of his head.