Retribution: Book Four of the Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  Mosen, who was bruised as extensively as Jarek but looked suspiciously farther along in the healing process, seemed to be making a point of keeping his distance from Jarek.

  Not that Jarek minded the fact.

  As long as no one cried, “Mutiny,” and started shooting, he’d consider the day a win. And, though the grumbles and dark looks abounded, their happy little family spent the morning sweeping the streets of Columbus without major incident.

  By the time the sun hung high overhead, though, Jarek was worrying less about team morale and more about the fact that no one had seen any sign of their wayward allies.

  Hope peaked at the far northern reach of town when they came across a small community that had either survived in their little suburban haven since the Catastrophe or, more than likely, settled there since the dust had done likewise.

  That hope just as quickly died, though, at the terrified looks of the few villagers who hadn’t managed to flee at their approach.

  These people hadn’t seen new faces in a long while. Or at least not friendly ones, judging by the few old rifles he spotted poking out at the convoy from open windows here and there.

  Jarek poked his head and a raised hand out the driver’s side window of the SUV. The exosuit probably wasn’t going to put anyone at ease, but if their trigger fingers were particularly itchy, he’d rather the first shot be aimed at him and his armor.

  “We come in peace, guys,” he called, amplifying his voice through Fela’s speakers. “Just passing through looking for our people. We’ll leave if you haven’t seen them.”

  Silent faces stared back at him with different flavors of terror—frozen and helpless from those on the street, finicky and uncertain from those behind the rifles.

  “Right, we’re leaving,” he called, looking back to gesture the convoy to turn around.

  Rachel and the others must’ve moved on from Columbus. It was the only explanation he could accept right now. He was just going to have to pray to the Maker that they’d stuck with I-70.

  For a few seconds, he wondered if he shouldn’t try to get the locals to evacuate—to flee farther from the city, or maybe even to follow their convoy.

  But would that really be any better than letting them stay here in peace?

  There was no way to know. Not when they had no idea where the rakul were or what to expect them to do next.

  Plus, there was the fact that these people seemed to have few weapons, few vehicles from the looks of it, and zero trust for Jarek or anyone else in the group.

  The road wouldn’t do them any favors, and Jarek’s gut told him they wouldn’t be improving their safety by joining the human who’d killed Kul’Armin and coming along on his quest to find the friends who’d helped him do it.

  If the rakul were coming for any humans in particular after they’d meted out vengeance to the raknoth, it was probably Jarek Slater and his friends.

  So he bade the poor people batten down what hatches they had to batten and ordered the convoy back to I-70. Tense stares and poised trigger fingers followed their retreat until they’d rounded out of sight back toward the city.

  No one, Jarek included, was excited about hitting the highway west again without any clear plan or destination. Jarek half-expected Mosen to break at that point and either declare mutiny or just drive off on his own.

  But no, he followed silently along. For the first hour, at least.

  They had just passed Springfield when Mosen finally pulled his truck out from the rear of the convoy and accelerated until he was drawing even with Jarek’s SUV.

  Leaning over the slightly-uncomfortable looking Mosenite in his passenger seat, Mosen gave Jarek an aggressive tilt of his head. A sign, Jarek took it, for I’m too stubborn or pissed to break radio silence, but your stupid ass better pull over so we can talk all the same.

  Jarek sighed and guided the SUV gently over to a stop on the side of the road next to a sprawling field of wild grass.

  “Sit tight, kids,” Jarek said, turning to face his full SUV and glad the faceplate was there to hide the pained wince the movement caused him. “Mommy and Daddy just have to talk for a second.”

  Michael’s frown deepened.

  Chambers shot him a look that said Talk with your words, not your fists.

  Jarek hopped out of the SUV and went to meet Mosen where he’d likewise pulled over.

  Personally, he wouldn’t so much mind having the chance to pay Mosen back a good shot or two with Fela’s strength behind him, but something told him it wouldn’t be necessary, or particularly helpful.

  “So what,” Mosen said when they drew up to one another, “we’re just gonna keep truckin’ down 70 until we hit California?”

  Jarek turned a frown westward. “I don’t think 70 actually makes it that far …”

  Mosen tensed.

  “… but I’m guessing that’s not your point.”

  “My point,” Mosen said, gesturing back toward Springfield, “is that we might as well stop and take a quick look if we’re going to bother driving across the country blind.”

  Jarek wasn’t so convinced that was what they were in fact doing, but he wasn’t eager to explain his reasoning to anyone—least of all to Mosen. Standing under Mosen’s expectant stare, though, it seemed there weren’t any great alternatives.

  “They’ll leave us a sign,” Jarek said quietly. “All we have to do is stick to 70.”

  When he looked up, he expected it to be Mosen’s signature sneer that met him, but the man only closed his eyes for a long moment, jaw tight.

  “You mean she’ll leave us one, don’t you?” he finally asked.

  Jarek started to argue, but Mosen pushed on.

  “And even if she did, you’re willing to bet our convoy on your girlfriend being clever enough to leave some sign that won’t be a big flying rakul trap waiting to happen?”

  Jesus, why was Mosen making sense all of a sudden?

  “You think driving around in tight city streets is better?” Jarek shot back, but it felt like a halfhearted argument. “It’s hard to keep track, Mosen, what with the flipping and the flopping and the violent head trauma. You don’t wanna go west and look for our allies. You do wanna go west and stop at every damn town along the way.” He spread his hands. “What was the point of getting my face smashed in if we’re still gonna bicker about every little decision?”

  Mosen rolled his eyes and sighed, and Jarek had the uncomfortable thought that maybe it was him, and not Mosen, who was being the confrontational jackass for once.

  Maybe.

  But Mosen still looked plenty confrontational—and at least a little jackass-ish—as he shook his head and turned back for his truck. “I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to poke around for fifteen minutes to make sure.”

  He probably wasn’t wrong about that.

  Confrontational or not, it wasn’t the worst idea in the world.

  Jarek had already considered as much and had simply come to the conclusion that they were best off making up lost ground on their allies. Allies who, in his mind, must either still be westward bound or settled in some new safe hidey-hole. One that they’d have thought to somehow tip off to any following friendlies.

  The only downside was that Jarek could be dead wrong.

  Fifteen minutes.

  It was a small price to pay—and probably a smart one—for a little peace of mind.

  He was just opening his mouth to say so to Mosen when Al cried out.

  “Sir, here!”

  Jarek had to glance around to see that here must’ve been the spot a couple hundred yards up the road where Al was currently drifting along with the ship, waiting to see what they would decide.

  “What is it?” Jarek asked.

  Mosen paused and looked back, waiting to see what this new development was.

  “I do believe I’ve found your sign, sir, or I’m a circuit-scrambled Arduino.”

  Jarek’s heart jumped. “What? It’s … What does it say?”
/>   Mosen spread his hands in question, no doubt wondering what the fuss was about.

  “Well, sir,” Al said, “I do believe it’s addressed to me.”

  Jarek gestured to the ship, and Mosen broke into a run beside him without further explanation.

  “What do you mean, it’s to you?” Jarek asked as they ran. “What is it?”

  “Best you see it for yourself, sir.”

  “Drama queen,” Jarek snapped.

  “What’s the robot got?” Mosen asked between breaths, his sprint doing a fair job of keeping level with Jarek’s easy run in Fela.

  “First off,” Jarek said, “I’m the only one who gets to call him a robot. And secondly …”

  They were drawing close to the hovering ship now, but Jarek didn’t see anything other than the same field of wild grass, a distant old farmhouse, and, closer to the road, a bunch of bushes and trees and—

  He frowned, taking in the shape of a fallen log.

  No, not fallen. Broken. As if by a giant. Or a raknoth in a hurry.

  And not a log, he saw, but several of them.

  He traded a look with Mosen, both of them too intent on the spectacle ahead to waste words.

  They drew up to the logs and Jarek immediately saw what Al had meant.

  It would have been easy to miss from the road just driving by, but standing right at the base—or hovering above, as Al was doing with the ship—it was clear enough.

  AL.

  The logs had been broken at the proper lengths and laid out to form the two uppercase letters, unmistakable.

  Jarek whipped his head around, too excited to care about the twinges of pain the movement caused. Outside of that first moment hearing Rachel’s voice back in Pittsburgh, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so relieved—so light despite the monumental challenges that still lay before them.

  Because those challenges and obstacles didn’t matter right now.

  They had their sign.

  17

  “It’s a couple roadside logs, Slater,” Mosen said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I think you might need a little more to go on before you start throwing around the I told you sos.”

  Jarek was tempted to relinquish the cool relief of Fela’s faceplate for the first time that day just to show Mosen his incredulous stare. “They spell out Al, for the love of Christ.”

  Mosen shrugged, looking around in stubborn silence.

  “You know,” Jarek said, going to inspect the logs more carefully, turning them over and looking for anything of interest, “it’s a shame you’re not made of wool.”

  Mosen dubiously began his own inspection of the bottom leg of the L. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jarek paused to look up from his work and meet Mosen’s gaze. “Well, if you’re gonna be such a wet blanket all the time and everything …”

  Mosen rolled his eyes. “Well aren’t you just pleased as fucking punch.”

  “I am.” Jarek stood and swept their surroundings again, looking for a likely spot to leave a message. “I so totally am.”

  He wasn’t even saying it to piss Mosen off. Or not solely for that reason, at least.

  Rachel had been here. By some brilliant stroke of luck, they’d found her sign. And, either here or somewhere nearby, Jarek was sure there must be another one waiting for them.

  Back on the highway, the convoy was creeping up to join them after their mad dash to Al and the ship, Michael having slipped over to take the wheel of the SUV and one of the Mosenites having done the same in Mosen’s truck.

  Jarek flagged them to park by the logs, made a gesture he hoped would be understood as Have a look around, and turned to head toward the old farmhouse on the other side of a hundred or so yards of dry, tan wild grass.

  “Come on,” he said.

  “Come on what?” Mosen called after him.

  “Your ass is coming along to see the message this time,” Jarek called, not looking back as he broke into an easy jog through the belly-high tangle.

  Quietly, to himself, he added, “No more of this hearing voices crap.”

  “You tell them, sir,” Al said.

  “See? That. That—”

  “Was only tenuously ironic, sir,” Al said. “But I suppose I’ll give it to you.”

  Behind, the steady rustling of displaced grass and the equally steady stream of muttered curses confirmed Mosen was following along.

  “It never really stops being creepy, you know,” Mosen called from a few yards behind, “you talking to yourself all the time.”

  Jarek arched his brows expectantly, an amused smile splitting his face but quickly retreating at the fire it sparked in his bruised cheek.

  Al sighed. “Very well. We have achieved ironic liftoff, sir.”

  “Ha!” Jarek reached the edge of the wild grass and pushed out into the slightly shorter, greener stuff that surrounded the house.

  Mosen stumbled out of the field shaking his head and muttering something about goddamn weirdoes.

  “Yeah,” Jarek said, starting for the house’s front deck, “coming from you …”

  “Where are you going?” Mosen called after him.

  He glanced back and spread his hands as if to say Where the hell do you think? and almost bit it when the old wood of the first porch step gave out under his weight.

  “Gah! We’re looking for a glyph, or a note, or some other kind of sign. Obviously.”

  He was acutely aware of Mosen watching him from below as he inched cautiously up the creaking steps.

  “So, what?” Mosen said. “We can’t spare fifteen minutes to peek around Springfield, but you want to go over some old farm with a microscope because someone did some coincidental tree art?”

  “Pretty much.” Jarek paused at the top porch step, his eyes immediately settling on the fresh gouges beside the ruined screen door. “Not sure we’re gonna be needing that microscope, though.”

  The stairs groaned below as Mosen started picking his way carefully after Jarek. “Yeah? Is that what your gut’s telling you now?”

  “Mostly the eyes,” Jarek said as Mosen stepped onto the porch beside him and caught sight of the unmistakable glyph set carved in the dilapidated wall.

  “I won’t say it …” Jarek said slowly, then reconsidered with a little shrug, “but I fucking told you so.”

  Mosen kept his eyes straight ahead with a surly expression that would’ve made Alaric proud.

  “Fine,” he finally said, waving at the symbol in invitation, “let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

  Jarek approached the glyph cautiously, almost scared to touch it now that it was here in front of him, waiting and undeniably real.

  Closer up, he saw that the symbol wasn’t carved into the wood so much as scratched through the layer of aged discoloration that had set into the surface over the years. The design of the glyph was vaguely similar to the last one, but slightly more intricate and neatly arranged.

  But that didn’t really matter, did it? He was just stalling.

  So he took a breath, reached slowly out … and paused, hand in midair.

  “Al?”

  “Already recording video, sir,” Al said, talking through Fela’s speakers so Mosen could hear as well.

  “What would I do without you, buddy?”

  “Flounder most spectacularly, sir. Or so one might imagine.”

  “Is that not what this is?” Mosen muttered.

  Jarek spared a glance over his shoulder. “Pay attention, wet blanket.”

  He pressed his palm to the glyph.

  As soon as his hand touched, the scratched lines came alive and cast a soft azure glow across his hand and the age-darkened wood.

  Warmth touched his hand through Fela’s tactile sensors, soft, and smooth, and—

  There.

  Rachel.

  As it had in Pittsburgh, her presence seemed to envelop him—her warmth, the ripe yet sweet scent of her after too long on the road. He closed his ey
es and tried to absorb every bit of it.

  “Jarek …”

  Her voice wasn’t tense as it had been last time. Just tired, and maybe a shade mournful.

  “I don’t know if you’ll ever hear this.” She blew out a dubious huff, and his heart trilled as the faintest trace of her breath tickled at his cheek. “Hell, we’d probably already be breaking the odds if you even found my message back in Pittsburgh. And I would’ve at least left a message in Columbus like I said, but …”

  A sigh, and he could all but see her pulling her composure together.

  “That doesn’t matter now. I’m just gonna have to believe you’ll find this. And when you do, you need to head to Cheyenne Mountain, in Colorado. I don’t know why Johnny knows this, or who the hell thought it was a good idea to—never mind. Point is, there’s supposed to be one hell of a bunker there. Nelken’s thinking it’s our best bet to hole up there while we recoup and wait for our Enochian super soldiers to—what?”

  Jarek tensed, expecting gunshots, monstrous shrieks, or worse, but there was just a mumbled voice he couldn’t make out.

  “Do you wanna say something?” Rachel asked.

  Another muffled, distant voice.

  When Rachel spoke again, he could hear the smile in her voice.

  “Drogan says he hopes you won’t die before he has the chance to slay another rakul with you at his side.”

  Jarek couldn’t help but smile. “Me at his side?” he mumbled to himself.

  Rachel started to say something, but the glyph’s glow wavered, along with her voice.

  “Shit,” she said when it stabilized. “I’m not sure if this is all making it down or not. I’d better wrap up. Get to Cheyenne Mountain, Jarek. Keep Michael safe. Tell him I love him. And …”

  He held his breath, part of him suddenly hoping she might fill that pregnant silence with three words, the other part insisting it didn’t matter when she took a breath and moved on.

  “And I should do a roll count,” she said. “Just so you know.”

  Rachel proceeded to list off names and give a rough group count. It sounded like they hadn’t lost anyone since Pittsburgh, aside from Al’Brandt, who’d left to take any pursuing rakul on a decoy chase, but when the glyph sputtered out and died, she hadn’t mentioned either Alaric or Commander Daniels.