by L. B. Carter
Nor let him pass, then reached over to the shelves to swipe a few more items and followed.
Rena, who was waiting on the other side of the counter, cocked her head.
“Protein bars,” Nor explained.
Her eyes rolled.
“Muscle power,” he protested.
She lifted one of her hands from the water bottles, silently letting it drop in a snub, then turned to head into the darker recesses behind a shelving unit next to the counter.
“Let me go first,” Ace said, feeling like he wasn’t contributing, which was not a role he had held before. Group projects had always involved him issuing orders and then eventually taking over every subset when his team members were too slow or incompetent to successfully complete what was needed.
The fragile windows shattered. Ace wasn’t sure if it was more humans slamming into them that had caused the fracture or something more sinister, but all three dropped to the ground, crouching as shards flew overhead.
“Go, go, go.”
One handed, the other still tucking the waters to her chest, Rena crawled. Nor followed her rear into the dark, and Ace took up the actual rear.
A second later, Rena grunted, then her arm appeared, sliding up a wall. There was a click, and bright light framed a doorway. The two crawled toward it.
More glass crashed and bits trickled from above. Ace dropped his chin, blindly crawling, his palms pressing painfully into the sharp glass pieces. One hand hit on something soft.
He glanced up. It was a shoe. Two shoes sat discarded on the floor. Shoes that Ace had nearly run into when he’d dashed into the motel bathroom at Reed’s unexpected arrival and found them protruding from the bathroom window.
Henley. Henley had been here. And gone.
And she was shoeless.
∆∆∆
The great thing about BTI’s lack of subtlety was just that. By instilling fear, they had started wide-spread panic. With the threat coming from overhead and quick at maneuvering, cars were driving into people in their attempts to flee while pedestrians didn’t know which way to turn. Moreover, others were doing the hard work for the trio of removing obstacles.
In the parking lot they emerged into behind the store, a woman opened a car door, about to get into the driver’s seat when a man carrying two small, screaming children darted past, looking around him, and in so doing, he blindly plowed her right over.
Was that what “the Bus” looked like in the halls?
Nor hadn’t spared a moment to wonder about the woman or the kid who the guy dropped in their collision and scooped right back up. Nor was already sliding into the vehicle and closing the door before the outraged woman could get to her feet and demand her keys back. Move, he mouthed through the window the woman was pulling herself up toward and slapping with her palms, yelling obscenities.
Rena was already in the passenger seat, buckling in, when Ace darted around the trunk and got in the far back seat, in case the woman might try to slide in the back with him when he opened the door.
“Go.”
“Yeah, like that’s easy,” Nor growled.
Beyond the front windshield, people darted in front of them every which way. Navigating without hurting anyone was impossible.
Ace squished between the seats, slapping the cigarette lighter on. Were all cars old in this part of the country? He had assumed the few they’d stolen were rare, but evidence suggested BTI was not as pervasive as they seemed, or rather, than they attempted to appear.
“What are you doing?” Nor questioned as he lurched the car forward in short bursts when there were breaks in the traffic.
Ace didn’t answer, willing the car to heat the little stick faster.
“Barnacles,” Rena hissed, plucking at her shirt.
“What?” Nor asked, horrified. “Are you hurt? Did you—”
She slapped his hand away. “Just water. Some glass must have punctured one of the water bottles.”
Nor sighed out. “Christ, don’t scare me like that. If it’s just a wet t-shirt contest—”
“Reed’s nervous habits are rubbing off on you,” she accused.
Pop. Ace snatched up the little plug, careful not to brush the driver, and scooted over to his window, dropping the back window down and letting in the cacophony of terror.
Someone jammed their head in the window. “Hey! Can I ride with you? Let me in, man. Move over. You got space.” His cheek connected with the little object Ace held carefully in his fingers, and the teen yowled, jerking away.
Henley would stop to see if he was all right. Ace merely shoved his torso far out of the car, almost sitting on the sill, braced the firework on the roof, holding it still with one hand, and held the tiny black plug to the thin rod poking out of the back.
“Brake,” he told Nor, watching the little spark work its way down toward the base. Right before it touched, Ace let go, slid into the car and rolled the window up. There was a loud crackle, some pops, a big bang and high-pitched whine.
A clear path opened in front of the car. “Follow that firework,” Ace said, feeling like he was in a bizarre chase scene in a film.
Nor gaped a second longer then took off, stepping hard on the gas. They couldn’t keep up, of course, but they could maintain a close enough distance to sneak through the exposed trail before anyone bold enough ventured back.
Henley wasn’t the only one who could think of a solution quickly, even if usually, his solutions were more mathematically- and programming-oriented. Ace was proved wrong though; they caught up to the firework quickly, which had smashed through the windshield of a boat just near to the turn onto the causeway and wedged there in the pane. It was now just shooting sparks and fire from its back end.
“Faster,” Ace urged as they were forced to pull up right behind it before turning one way then the other to get onto the bridge. Right as they cleared the second turn, the hiss of the sparks turned into the loud whistle and bang then crackle of the firework exploding. It worked to send most people away from the bridge—the stragglers who hadn’t already been driven that way by the drones.
The drones themselves had split up from their herd and were doing as they had in the cornfields, making wide sweeps of the lingering runners and sinking low around cars to peer, with some sense or other, in the windows. Ace imagined they were fitted with IR if not visual and audio sensors. However, heat signature-seeking capabilities lacked substantiation in a heat wave, especially when there were many bodies the devices could confuse as their targets. BTI had really missed their chance in the cornfields, thanks to Henley’s strong hearing.
Ace glanced at the shoes tumbled on the seat beside him while Nor weaved his way through abandoned vehicles and others fleeing across the bridge from the interrogation behind them at the port. Would they catch up to her before the drones did?
And how did she lose her shoes?
Chapter Eleven
Henley woke groggily, her throat even more parched than before, her eyes heavy. The rancid smell of her shirt roused her further. She desperately wanted a shower. The rumble of an engine below her tried to lull her back toward slumber.
Had she fallen asleep in Lindy’s truck? Something soft was under her cheek, and she smiled a little, remembering that Ace had pulled her against his chest, cradling her in his arms and legs for safety. When he said he needed her, she had assumed it was for ulterior, professional motives, but the more time she spent with him, the more she was starting to consider the possibility that he had a crush and was just too nerdy to express himself understandably.
She snuggled further down, the smile still playing across her mouth. She didn’t know what was ahead, so she’d enjoy this nap while she could. Ace was a lot more comfortable than she expected… and massive, fully encompassing her body.
“I know you’re awake. No point in pretending.”
Henley’s eyes heaved open, all contentment flashing away in a flood of horror as her memory caught up in a rush. The car was too quie
t to be Lindy’s, her cushion not that of a truck bed. And though it was yet another male voice, it wasn’t Buster’s… or the Stanleys’.
She lifted an arm to push her hair from her face, only to hear a clank.
“Handcuffs,” Stew informed her placidly like he was commenting on the weather. Although, the weather these days tended to inspire a more dire tone.
She shifted around until she could sit, lifting her eyes to narrow on her driver. “I thought you said I could drive,” she quipped, her voice raw and warbling.
He remained fully fixated on the road where traffic was moving incredibly slowly, honks and shouts surrounding them. He indicated that he had heard her only with a twitch of his mouth. “They’re my mom’s,” the kid added, looking away to nod at her hands. “They use them at the hospital on patients who are disobedient or criminal.” His dark, almond eyes flicked her way again. “You are both of those things, one of which we’ve already covered.” He shook his head.
Her gaze fell to her hands. The glove had completely disintegrated in the proceedings of everything, so one pale peach and one black hand were linked like a Yin Yang, cuffed one on either side of the seatbelt that crossed her lap.
That was only semi-considerate. If Henley didn’t herself work with the material used for seat belts, she would be amused he hadn’t chosen something less flexible, like the door handle. That material was robust. It also kept her facing her kidnapper. She didn’t bother pulling; it would simply engage the autolock on the seatbelt and restrain her movements further.
She did confirm, however, with a twitch of each digit, that her hand had garnered enough charge at the store to retain activity.
“Nice prosthetic,” he complimented with some honesty. Then he went derisive again. “Looks like you stole more than one piece of BTI property. I just don’t understand why you’d leave. Boston Technical Institute—” He pronounced the full name with pride. “—is an honor to attend.”
Henley actually had agreed at one time. “Actually, it’s my own creation,” she contradicted, rankled that such a place was getting all the credit and reverence the kid was radiating. She was proud of her work; she deserved that admiration… even if it was partially inaccurate; the newest coating was BTI property, according to that dang contract, though it was borne of her sweat and blood—no tears, at least.
“Do you attend?” He looked too young, and she couldn’t recall having ever seen him there though he was no Bus, taking up half of the hallway and demanding you notice him without the courtesy to return that favor.
He scowled. “Not yet.”
Right. Henley’s drug-addled brain recalled Jen saying he was going to. That’s why he sounded like Henley four years and eleven months ago. Heck, even a few months to years in, she had held that veneration toward the opportunity she’d been granted—one of a small percentage of the country after the academic system crashed.
“My admittance was conditional,” Stew mumbled.
“On what? Kidnapping me?” BTI was more amoral than even Buster had alluded to with the reveal of the contract’s true nature.
He shook his head. “No. You’re replaceable for them and don’t matter to me. They can fetch you themselves if they’d like. I want what you’ve been smuggling across the country. She’s mine. She was my discovery. She was my ticket to a future.” He visibly forced himself to pause and relax, lowering the shoulders that had been creeping upward marginally and dropping his hands lower down on the steering wheel. He said, more in control, “I need Sirena.”
Sirena was right to guess Stalker Stew wouldn’t give up. Henley almost laughed at the mimicry of the statement with what Buster had been using as a reason for dragging Henley with him. It seemed, like her understanding of that statement when used on her the first time, that he wasn’t interested in Sirena for personal or romantic reasons. He was using her for scientific and career advancement.
“She’s a who not a what,” Henley reminded absently. At least he’d used her name, unlike Bus who, she’d noticed, called her: “the experiment.” “And she’s not a discovery, she was a planned product.”
“I discovered her when they lost her; I uncovered what she can do.” He sounded like a desperate, grabby child.
Stew really was a younger Henley except he hadn’t yet produced his equivalent of developing an entire working hand and presenting it to the admissions board. He’d lost his—lost Sirena.
Henley didn’t even need to imagine how devastating that would be right at the end; she too had hit some kinks: the first, when she realized they couldn’t afford the plane ticket—for which BTI had increased her scholarship, generously, gaining even higher esteem in her mind; and the second when, working late one night, she had spilled her drink across the prototype, rendering the requirement of replacing several important parts and another week of all-nighters to get it done in time to present for that year’s application round. That’s what had inspired the design of its new exterior.
The difference between the Henley of five years ago and Stew was that, in Stew’s case, Sirena wasn’t easily replaceable with a few extra nights’ work. He had to follow this one.
“Look, it’s not what you think there. It appears wondrous, almost magical, what they accomplish—what they offer.” She shook her head, her hair shifting against her cheeks. “I promise you, that doesn’t last. It’s not their end-game.”
Stew scoffed. “Their end-game. I don’t care about the professors’ goals. It’s my project, my experiment, my career. They’re just a springboard.”
“Not the professors. BTI themselves. The administration, the institution. They’re bad.” She winced at how ineffectively she was expounding upon what had taken her years to learn. Jen had been right when she said they sounded like a comic. “They won’t let you leave,” she blurted. “That’s why I had to run.”
“Fine by me,” he returned, rebuffing the dilemma. “Do you see this mess?” He waved a sweeping arm toward the windshield, gesturing to what lay in front of them.
Henley took the offer to observe how far he’d taken her. Kidnap rescue chances dropped considerably once the victim was brought to a secondary location. Water glinted to the right and again on the left, past the hood of another car and the roof of another several cars and past that even more cars, passing the other way at an equally lethargic crawl to their own.
A single bridge to connect the eastern and western halves of the nation with poverty and desolation in the middle? Henley could understand the congestion. It was already a feat that the bridge contained as many lanes as it did and still managed to be two hundred miles long. She wanted to meet those civil engineers. Secretly, she feared they might be more BTI minions with this level of excellence.
“We did this—destroyed the Earth. The only thing to do now is adapt. Sirena is our chance to do that. I need her back.” The last sentence was spoken passionately through clenched teeth.
“You don’t think we should try amending our negative actions?” Henley was a little intrigued. Most either ignored the reality of human impact on the environment, blaming natural causes and fluctuations, and others were like Nor and his brother, fighting to convince people to just recycle a little more, don’t litter, and consider alternative fuel.
The car they were in was definitely electric, given how quiet the motor was, taking into account the low RPM. Henley glanced at the dash. The screen was black, quiet, but it was impossible to know if Stew was playing tracker for BTI via a more stealthy method.
“It’s too late now,” Stew answered. “Geologic feedbacks can’t handle the rapidity of the carbon dioxide increase in the atmosphere; the compensation works on much longer timescales than humans and their pollution output.”
Henley’s mouth dropped into a thoughtful frown. “What kind of feedbacks?” She didn’t know there were any. The other problem with getting a ‘terminal’ degree was that it was very niche. You became an expert in your field and in so doing, abandoned all other areas of learni
ng; Henley’s knowledge was limited to electricity, robotics, material science, and the like; Buster lived in the math and computer part of his brain; Jen in climate and geology. Presumably, this kid was all biology and genetics and anatomy. Yet he was talking about climate. “How do you—?”
The whoop-whoop of a siren cut through the sentence, potentially answering Henley’s questions about the tracker. She whipped around, trying to see where it was coming from, jerking on her restraint, breath coming fast and short.
“It’s going the other way. Calm down. You’re going to hyperventilate.”
The dang kid was right on all counts. The SUV, lights flashing, wove between the cars on the other side, darting past them toward where the bridge met land—where she’d last seen her friends.
Were they friends now? Not accomplices?
Henley’s vision swooped, too much oxygen over-saturating her system.
“Head between your knees,” Stew commanded her, sounding more like a whiny teen annoyed at his mom for doing something embarrassing in front of his friends than a kidnapper ordering his victim around—or even her mentor or Bus, for that matter, telling her what was expected from her.
Awkwardly, she dropped her forehead between her legging-clad knees, hair flowing down her shins, with her right arm awkwardly pressing into her stomach, still trapped in the seatbelt and linked to her left wrist. Though she detested following his suggestion on principle, she needed to remain conscious. Bare toes curled into the fabric of the floor mat. Henley closed her eyes and slowed down her breaths, taking deliberate and extended inhales and exhales.
Her mind didn’t slow. Did the police’s inaction toward her predicament dictate that they were not, in fact, in collaboration with BTI as her crew had feared? Or was there simply something else more drastic that required the police’s attention, and they entrusted Stew with the task of collecting her and her group, and therefore, Bus had been right to avoid the authorities?
She was still bent over when there was a sudden squeal of tires on cement and a loud metallic crunch. Her body jerked, lurching forward, almost going bum over head. Her back rammed into the console until her body had caught up with the sudden arrest of their forward momentum, and her butt returned to the seat.