“That’s all I ask. Thank you, Mister.” Phoebe offered her hand. He glanced to where several policemen had begun to fan out around the first-class carriage that he and the wolves had managed to utterly destroy.
He grabbed her hand and began pulling her toward the woods.
“Macijah St. John.”
3
No situation was made better with the addition of heavy rain. Phoebe stumbled down the path behind St. John, her sensible pumps sinking into the squishy ground with every step. His long-legged strides weren’t particularly fast, but she was practically running to catch up. She was also trying to pull a bulky suitcase behind her without much luck. When she ran over a large rock, the case tipped over and took her with it. She fell hard onto the wet ground, and the standing water splashed up and peppered her with a spray of muddy freckles. “Dammit,” she cried, wanting to throw herself down and have a kicking and screaming tantrum. Instead she took off one of her shoes and threw it as hard as she could. It whizzed past St. John’s ear, and he finally turned.
“Problem?” he asked, strolling back toward where she sat in the grass.
“Can you slow down a minute, please?” Her tone skated right up to annoyance. Couldn’t he see she was having trouble? So much for British manners.
He stared down at her, his arms crossed over his chest. “Actually, no. We need to get as far away from that crash site as soon as possible and you to that spaceport so I can be on my way.” He looked over the assortment of items that had fallen out of the case. “Got any trainers in there?”
Phoebe looked up at him like he had suddenly lapsed into Chinese. “What?”
“Trainers. Shoes. Like shoes you wear for running.”
“No.”
“Jeans? A jumper?”
“No again. I didn’t think I’d be trekking through the forest.” She took his offered hand and let him pull her upright. She limped over to where she had thrown her shoe, searching the grass.
“Is there anything in there that’s helpful or important?”
“Well of course,” she replied. “My clothes, shoes, toothbrush, toothpaste, anti-bac hand lotion—” He held up his hand to ward off the rest of her list. As she pulled her discarded shoe back on, he heaved a sigh, grabbed the suitcase, and flung it as hard as he could over the ravine.
“What are you doing?” she yelled as she held off the angry tears while watching everything she’d painstakingly packed take a header down the bank, spilling her delicates over the dirty ground.
How dare he have such disregard for her personal property. There might not be anything of value or anything “helpful,” but they were important, things she needed. A picture of her family, her allergy medicine, her copy of Gone with the Wind.
Phoebe started to run after the case, but St. John held her back. She beat her fists against his arms and chest. “Let me go. That’s my stuff. I need it.”
“Your stuff is slowing us down. Look, I said I would help you, but I’m not a bellhop or a hero. If you’re going with me, you play by my rules.” He looked up into the sky and let her go. “Come on, it’s nearly dawn.”
She watched him walk off, started to reconsider their arrangement but realized she had little choice but to follow him. They were so far off the beaten path that she’d never find her way out to a road.
Steeling her jaw and giving a last glance back to where he’d thrown her suitcase, she started walking. Despite his growling, he did slow his pace a little so that she could keep up.
As they walked, the trees rose up around them in an ominous canopy that nearly obliterated the early morning light of dawn. She could hear the stream that gushed beside them at the bottom of the ravine. It was hard to believe in their world that places such as this still even existed. It was almost desolate, but beautiful.
Watching him, she began to realize that St. John seemed almost as distressed as she felt. They’d been walking for hours, and in that time he’d become increasingly irritable. After several attempts at conversation, Phoebe had given up. But his declining mood made her worry even more than she had been.
“So, you don’t really seem like the normal space traveler,” he said, surprising her by breaking the silence. St. John shifted the backpack from one shoulder to the other. “What’s taking you to New London?”
“My sister. I’m going to visit her.”
“Interesting,” he replied blandly.
She didn’t trust St. John and wasn’t sure she should reveal her true intentions. Anyone could be working for Machine. Maybe he sent St. John to keep an eye on her. A devoted James Bond fan, Phoe had spent many hours watching spy movies. St. John could be some kind of operative who was just waiting for an opportunity to steal the medallion and leave her broken body in the woods. And of course there was the werewolf thing. “Not really. I mean, it’s just a visit.”
“Well considering that no one really lives on the space colony unless they’re either filthy rich or a scientist of some sort. Judging by your clothes, you don’t appear to be particularly wealthy. So that leaves scientist.”
“She’s an archaeologist,” Phoebe clarified. “She works for the Interplanetary Union, looking for natural resources and such. I’m a librarian.”
“I didn’t know those existed anymore. Libraries, I mean.”
“In small towns mostly, I suppose. I used to work for a digital archive in New Orleans, but I didn’t really like it there.” She bit down on her lip, wishing she could take it back. Her brain whirred, already constructing the story that she would tell him when he asked why she’d left New Orleans.
Everyone asked why.
To her surprise, St. John just nodded, glancing toward the lightening sky again.
“What about you?”
“What about me?” he parroted.
“Well, what do you do?”
“I’m not really sure how to describe what I do. I’m a problem solver, I guess.” Given the things Phoe saw in his backpack, his problem-solving skills involved heavy artillery.
They fell silent again as the terrain became jagged and more treacherous. She picked her way over fallen limbs and boulders, wishing she had those trainers he’d mentioned.
Truth be told, Phoe was more of an indoor girl and didn’t own much in the way of casual clothing. Some might even call her frumpy. Long skirts and bulky sweaters were her usual uniform. In summer, she would change the sweater for a smart, simple blouse, always at least one size too large so it hung on her shapeless form.
Having no idea what to expect from Port Canaveral except that it was a sub-tropical climate, she had dressed in a bland knee-length sundress with capped sleeves and no waistline. Now, as she tried to maneuver through a muddy pine forest, she wished she’d gone for comfort.
“What’s so important?” he asked, out of the blue. She nearly jumped at the suddenness of his voice.
“Pardon?”
“In that suitcase. Anything of value?”
“Why do you care?” she asked bitterly.
He paused and stared. “I was just making conversation.”
“Well don’t.”
“You seemed pretty upset.”
“Of course I was upset. You treated my possessions like they were nothing. They may not have meant anything to you, but they were mine.”
He nodded. “Then I apologize.”
Phoe snorted. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to forgive him. After all, that copy of Gone with the Wind was her favorite. It had been her mother’s and Phoe had kept it since she was a child. Not to mention that paper books were almost non-existent these days with the coming of eSlates. Sad really.
It had started to rain again, and her hair, now saturated, was dripping into her eyes, making it nearly impossible to see. St. John didn’t seem to mind the rain, or at least, he hid his discomfort well. They came to a steep, muddy patch in the path. St. John stopped, taking her hand and helping her climb. She put her foot down, using his arm for leverage, but the foothold was sli
ck and the heel of her shoe caught in the muck. St. John was quick, catching her with a steady arm around the waist, holding her tight so she didn’t fall.
“All right?” he asked.
It was the first time Phoebe had seen him up close, and for a moment she was struck speechless by his features: high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes the color of the Arctic Sea in a face that was almost too long. His nose, thin and slightly turned up, pointed toward a generous bow of a mouth that could be either sneering or warm. She hoped that she would get to see him laugh at least once. She suspected that would be something most rare and beautiful.
“Yes,” she managed to croak. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
He nodded slightly and set her back on her feet. “There should be someplace we can rest in just a bit. We’re coming up on Mercer.”
Phoebe sighed with relief. Her legs and feet were killing her, not to mention she was cold, wet, and hungry. “What’s Mercer?” she asked.
He grunted as he stepped over a tangle of branches and dead leaves. “You’re kidding. You don’t know about Mercer Village?”
“No… Should I?”
“Don’t keep up with the news in your own country?”
Phoebe shrugged. The truth was she tried to stay away from news and current events as much as possible. It only served as a constant reminder of the dangers in the world around her. Dangers that she chose to ignore.
“It was a little town out in the middle of nowhere, a mining town back in the nineteenth century,” he explained, walking on. “After they dug the mines dry, they just left the open shafts under the town. The story was that there was a natural gas deposit that had been opened by the miners, and one day it just exploded. At any rate, there was a fire under the town that couldn’t be put out. Poisonous fumes and ash rained down when the fire was at its peak. Everyone had to leave. It’s like a ghost town.”
Phoebe shivered. “And you think this would be a good place to take shelter?”
“The sun is coming up fast and we need to get out of the open until dark. There aren’t too many options.” He looked up at the sky again. It had faded to a deep navy. “We’re almost out of time.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket. It sprang to life, projecting a three-dimensional hologram of the forest. There were trees, various paths and changes in elevation. Just on the edge of the image was a house. St. John reached out and took the image in hand, pulling it closer then made an almost delicate motion to enlarge the model. “This place is abandoned and looks to be pretty stable. It doesn’t look like a burnout.”
“Do you think we’ll be safe there?”
“Of course.” A crackling of leaves made both of them stop in their tracks.
“What was that?” she whispered.
“Shush,” he snapped, one fingertip poised over his lips.
Phoebe’s eyes darted everywhere as she looked for the source of the noise. More twigs snapping, this time accompanied by voices. She clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming.
“I can smell her.”
“She has the Ultra with her. We gotta be careful.”
“What are we going to do?” Phoebe whimpered.
“Shut up,” St. John growled under his breath, grabbing her by the arm, he pulled her behind him. “Don’t move. They’ll hear us.” He crouched low and motioned that she should follow.
She found herself hanging on to his backpack, trying to match his movements as he stalked through the underbrush, keeping to the cover of the trees. He reached behind his back, grabbing the pistol tucked into the back of his jeans. Carefully, he removed the safety with a barely audible click.
He glanced over his shoulder. “When I tell you to run, you make for the stream. Follow it until you find the house. I’ll meet you there.”
“What?” Her heart fell like a stone straight to her belly. “Please. Don’t leave me.” She couldn’t be expected to make her way to that hideout by herself. What if those men caught up to her?
“I’m not going to leave you. Now do as I say.”
“But…”
“Go, dammit.” He shoved her toward the ravine just as two large men in full riot gear came over the ridge. Each of them was leading a gigantic dog that growled and snarled with their noses held high in the air. The beasts scratched at the ground and pulled against their leashes so hard that the men were struggling to keep them at bay. Phoebe stared at St. John, panicked. “Run,” he shouted, taking off toward the men.
Her fear made her obey. Kicking off her shoes, she broke into a run toward the ravine. The splintered twigs, dead leaves, and stones that littered the ground dug into her bare feet, cutting the skin deeply, but she couldn’t stop.
The dogs were barking behind her, and she could hear the men shouting to one another and then to St. John. Suddenly the popping sounds of their guns echoed off the tree trunks. She stumbled, falling to her knees and covering her ears against the loud gunfire.
Had St. John been hit? Was he lying somewhere in the ravine, bleeding out while she lay here helpless? “Get up,” she snarled, scolding herself. She stood up, ignoring the pain in her ankle that radiated up her leg to her hip. She could see the tops of the men’s heads in the distance, but no sign of St. John.
“She’s getting away,” one of them shouted.
That tore her from the fear-induced paralysis and she took off through the woods. She nearly ran off the edge of the bank when she got to the creek and stopped short, holding her arms out for balance. Remembering his instructions, she turned, following the water upstream, afraid to slow down for even a second. Her lungs ached and her legs burned from exertion. She stopped running, whipped her head around, and paused to listen.
Out of the corner of her eye Phoebe saw the house in the distance. She couldn’t stop now, but she had to catch her breath. She bent over, her stomach turning flips as it tried to catch up to the rest of her. She could no longer hear the gunshots or the shouting or the growling of those things.
“What in hell are you doing, Phoe?” she said to herself. “Traipsing off into the woods with Tarzan?”
A large, blue-black bird called loudly just overhead, making her heart leap once more and jerking her back to life. She glanced up at the bird, having a wild thought that it was staring at her. She turned back toward the house and came face-to-face with one of the enormous dogs. Its lip curled over a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. Blood and saliva dripped over its muzzle as it snarled at her.
“Nice dog,” she said, putting a cautious hand out as her father had always taught her. Never show fear, he’d said. “Good puppy.” It was watching her every move, waiting to strike. She could almost feel the low pulsations of its growl in her chest. “Please don’t eat me.” Her fingertips barely grazed the dog’s nose before it leapt at her.
Forgetting that one should never run from a dog, Phoebe ran, narrowly escaping its jaws. She could see the house in the distance, and she locked her eyes on it, blocking out the pain in the bottoms of her feet and the fear clouding her mind.
The dog was so close behind she could feel its hot breath on the back of her legs. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t sacrifice the wind. If her breath gave out now, she was dog food.
Finally, the house was within reach. She raced up the bank but stumbled over the remnants of the fence that had once been around the yard. She hit the ground hard, her knees scraping across the underbrush. She tried to get up, but her legs didn’t cooperate, and she fell again. The dog was right behind her. Phoebe closed her eyes, not wanting to see the beast as she rolled over to accept her fate.
A shot rang out, and the dog fell heavily to the ground, a single massive paw coming down on her chest. It let out a single bark, and its eyes closed. It was definitely not an ordinary dog. Its muzzle was the size of her whole head. Thick, wiry hair stood up all over its body, but she could see a glossy black skin underneath that looked almost like scales.
Immediately, she began thrashing and clawing her
way out from under the beast. As soon as she cleared it, she ran for the porch, screaming until her throat was raw. St. John stood silent, still holding the smoking gun, as she slammed into him. He embraced her tightly, holding on to her body as she shook and sobbed against his shoulder. “Shhh. You’re all right now,” he soothed. “It’s over.”
“What in the fuck was that?” she screamed.
“A hellhound. But it’s dead now. It can’t hurt you.” He cradled her head in his hands and looked her over, pushing her hair back from her face searching. Seeing she was physically whole, he let her crumble against him, her legs giving way as he swept her up, and carried her into the broken-down house.
4
Jess stood silently in Derek Machine’s study. She wanted to run and really, there was nothing holding her here. No ropes or chains. Nothing but two of his stoolies outside the doors, and of course the numerous guards around the perimeter of the house. Staring out the window, she saw the misshapen moon cutting its second path across the Martian sky, its reflection on the red sand lighting up the ground below with a glow like flames. In this strange twilight, she couldn’t see it, but she knew it was there, the thin membrane that protected New London from the toxic atmosphere. The colony was nothing more than a collection of giant bubbles that kept them from being smothered to death and flying into the void. In the distance she could see the New London skyline, looking like the bones of some great, slain beast, being rebuilt to create that false sense of security. Jess shivered. The whole thing was creepy. Mimicking a dying world on a distant planet. It was like living in a graveyard.
“Progress, Miss Addison.” Jess turned to see Derek Machine stride through the sliding doors leading into the room.
Just the sight of him made her stomach turn. Tall and gaunt with a shock of white hair, he was attractive in a strange sort of way, if not for the psychosis evident in his expression. The way he looked her over, the strange tone of his voice—even his almost disjointed movement left no doubt in Jess’s mind that this man was dangerously insane. She turned her back again, not wanting to look at him. He stopped just behind her, too close for her comfort.
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