Tomorrow's Gone Season 2, page 26
“I want you both to come.”
“No.” Annette shook her head.
But Whitney jumped down from her bunk, then sat on the floor and stared at them earnestly.
“Don’t even,” Annette said, looking down at her sister.
“Why not?”
“Because, it’s stupid.”
“We haven’t even heard his plan yet.”
Annette looked from Whitney to Elijah, clearly annoyed. “What’s your grand plan?”
Elijah told them what he was thinking.
“Was this your idea, or Daniel’s?” Annette asked.
“Mine. Why?”
“Because he still hates me for what I did to his sister, and setting me up would be a great way to get in good with the guards. And seeing as they already hate you … No thanks, smells like a trap.”
“It’s not a trap. And we need your help.”
“My help? What can I do to help you?”
“Get us to Stratum,” Elijah said. “I know about your power.”
She pursed her lips, shaking her head, moving the pen faster and harder, her anger slowly obliterating the paper. “It’s a horrible plan. Leave us out of it.”
“So, what are you going to do, wait for them to kill you or Whitney?”
“They won’t kill us.”
“They already put you both into fights. They made you kill someone, and they made Whitney fight me.”
“Because they knew you wouldn’t kill her.”
“Did they? And what about the next person one of you has to fight? Who’s to say that they won’t kill you?”
Annette kept scribbling
“You’re ruining it,” Whitney told her.
“I don’t care!” She tore the page from her tablet, then ripped it up and threw it at Elijah. “It’s not gonna happen!”
He stared at Annette, trying to think of something that might change her mind. There had to be some angle to take that would make her see past the fear, to recognize the opportunity for what it was.
“I don’t want to die here,” said Whitney, finally breaking the silence. “We should leave.”
Annette shook her head again. “They’ll kill us if we try.”
Whitney was back on her feet. “I’d rather die trying to be free than living in a prison.”
Annette made a ball with her body in the corner of the bed, staring down at her shredded drawing, clearly trying not to cry. “I … I can’t lose you.”
Whitney climbed onto the bed, hugging her sister. “If we stay here, it’s only a matter of time until one of us loses the other.”
Elijah was violating their space and their moment, so he stood up and looked away, across their pod at a still-sleeping Fire Hands.
But Daniel was up and out of his bed, coming toward the sisters’ cell. He approached the door with an awkward wave.
Annette wiped at her coming tears, sniffing as she nodded, doing her damnedest not to cry.
“Hey, I just wanted to say I understand if you don’t trust me,” Daniel said when he opened the door. “And I also understand why … well, you know.”
Annette finally lost the war with her tears and surrendered into heaving sobs. “I’m so, so sorry about Veronica.”
She got up and went over, hugged him, and they cried together.
Even Whitney was tearing up as she joined the hug.
If Elijah didn’t get out of the cell, he might start crying too.
He returned to his cell feeling almost confident that he might soon be free again. He looked over at Fire Hands and saw that the murderer was no longer sleeping. He was sitting down, facing Elijah. If not for the bandages over his eyes, Elijah would swear the man was staring right at him.
A cold shadow fell over his optimism.
They weren’t out of this by a long shot. And as Elijah stared at Fire Hands, his certainty hardened. Surely the man was there to kill him.
There were only a few minutes left before lockdown.
Elijah shot up out of his bed and dashed over to Annette and Whitney’s cell so abruptly, everyone looked at him in surprise.
“We need to leave tonight.”
“Tonight?” Annette and Daniel repeated in unison.
“Tonight,” Elijah confirmed, glancing back at Fire Hands’ cell with an ugly stirring in his gut, sure that his enemy had turned ever so slightly, following his movement from one cell to the next.
As if to confirm Elijah’s squirming fear, Fire Hands smiled.
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED …
Episode 6
Forty-Seven
GENERAL McTAGGART
McTaggart rode just behind Captain Jacobi in a platoon of his best Rangers, headed to The Slums, where the general could finally get his hands on the girl.
Solomon was in front of them — the man they’d found outside the prison — tied up on a horse and leading the way.
The man had been a bargaining chip to buy their entry into The Slums. If the Slum dwellers opened fire, they’d have to kill their own man first.
There were four Alts with them, riding in the middle of the platoon. They had been hand-picked from the prison for just such a mission. Skilled fighters that would take on any Alts The Slums were surely hiding.
McTaggart wasn’t at full strength because part of The Darkness had left him to take care of something, so he was hoping that diplomacy would work, and he could get them to hand over Emory without an ugly battle.
Jacobi was a big man with a thick dark beard and bulging muscles that turned his red leather armor into something ill-fitting, like an adult trapped in a costume meant for a kid. He was smoking a cigar as he slowed his horse to ride beside McTaggart.
“We’re not far. You sure you don’t wanna hang back and wait? Could get ugly. And, no disrespect, but I don’t think that uniform will protect you from arrows.”
McTaggart shook his head. “I’m not worried, and I need to speak with Slum Lord.”
“You still think that scumbag can be reasoned with?”
“Do you doubt my negotiating skills?” McTaggart asked.
“No, sir. But these people are savages. They don’t listen to reason.”
“Everybody can be reasoned with, once you know their levers. Even the simplest savage has needs, desires, and fears, all ripe for exploitation.”
Jacobi said nothing.
“You got something you want to say, Captain?” McTaggart eyed him harshly.
“No, sir.”
“Good. Now leave me be so I can think.”
Jacobi grunted, then sped his horse back up to yell at the Ranger riding behind Solomon. “Stay alert!” he barked, though the man was clearly paying attention.
McTaggart smirked at his predictability — Jacobi always did exactly what the general expected following a reprimand. Humans all had levers, but so few had the self-realization to know when they were being pulled.
A man on horseback burst from the woods to their left, right into McTaggart’s path. The general half-expected an ambush. He nearly leapt to the ground before regaining his composure and sizing the newcomer up.
He was rough-looking, but scared shitless, eyes widening at the sight of McTaggart’s Ranger platoon, his face dappled with blood and his clothes shredded to ribbons.
“Halt!” Jacobi turned his horse and aimed his crossbow between the newcomer’s eyes. “Identify yourself.”
The man raised his empty hands to prove he meant no harm. “I’m from The Slums … they’ve been overrun.”
McTaggart led his horse forward, inspecting the man. “Overrun? By whom?”
“By what. We were hit by a Ruin Storm. Lost Ones attacked everyone outside the gate.”
McTaggart eyed him, letting his Darkness determine the truth. “And what happened? How many were killed?”
“Mostly shanty refugees. The Slums closed their gates, leaving hundreds to die.”
Jacobi pulled up just behind him, trying to intimidate the stranger by staying just out of his vision. “And yet you survived. How?”
“I escaped after the Sentinels arrived.”
“Sentinels?” McTaggart repeated. “What are they doing there?”
“They showed up with guns and slaughtered all the ferals.”
“They just showed up out of the blue to help?” McTaggart raised his eyebrows. “How many?”
“Around fifty or so, about as big as your group? And no, they didn’t show up to help.” He shook his head. “They’re looking for someone.”
“Who?” McTaggart already knew.
“A child named Emory. Being protected by that fucking Slum Lord and his people.”
“And did they hand her over?” McTaggart asked.
“I don’t know. I got the hell out of there, fast as—”
“What kind of coward flees his city?” Jacobi interrupted. “Why not stay and fight?”
“I served that fucker for years as a Defender, then he goes and lets some shit kid from shanty town come in and run the drug business, handing over perfectly good apartments to a mess of them filthy fuckers. I’m doing my job, enforcing the rules, and he takes the word of some shanty fuck over mine. Slum Lord kicked me out and left me to die with a mob of diseased refugees outside the gate. Fuck him, the dirty shanty scum, and the city.” He shook his head, almost violently. “The Slums are no longer my home. The Sentinels can kill every roach in there for all I care.”
McTaggart held up a finger. “Please wait a moment, would you?”
“Okay,” he nodded.
“What do you want to do with him?” Jacobi asked, once McTaggart ushered him aside.
“This complicates our approach. Especially if they have guns.”
“We’re not turning around, are we?”
McTaggart mulled the option. His Rangers wouldn’t stand a chance against an equivalent number of Sentinels. No doubt they had their own Alts, in addition to all the guns. His Rangers would need to outthink the Sentinels to get the child, not outfight them.
He turned back to the newcomer. “What’s your name, sir?”
His eyes lit up at being called ‘sir.’ So desperate for the respect denied him by Slum Lord. A slighted man’s lever was easy to pull.
“The name is Lomax, sir.”
“So, Mister Lomax, you say The Slums are on lockdown?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Sentinels are outside the city gates, trying to get in?”
“Last I knew they were waiting to talk to someone, likely Slum Lord.”
“And do you think he would hand the girl over?”
“I don’t know.” Lomax shrugged.
“Would you happen to know another way into the city, besides the gate?”
“Yes, sir.” Lomax nodded. “There’s a tunnel. It will lead you right into Slum Lord’s hotel, The Baxter. And that’s where the girl is.”
McTaggart grinned at his excellent fortune. “And would you be so kind as to show me this tunnel? I am happy to reward you for the information. Money, a place to stay, perhaps a place with my Rangers, and a community that will appreciate your skills and loyalty?”
“I would love that, sir,” said the dolt, unable to hide his big stupid smile.
Of course you would.
Looking down from the hilltop, McTaggart stared at the purple fog clinging low to the strip of grassland between shanty town and The Slums.
Lomax turned to him, apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that The Ruins had covered the entrance.”
“What a useless trip.” Jacobi rolled his eyes.
McTaggart surveyed the platoon of Sentinels lined outside The Slums in the not-too-distant west. He longed to swoop in with his men and slaughter them all, but his Rangers could never compete with the Sentinels’ guns.
Why the hell had Freeman Senior ever agreed to surrender their weapons? They should have expected that Stratum would keep theirs.
Freeman Senior had led the people through a difficult time, but his pacifism had always rankled the general. McTaggart knew it would come back to bite them all in the ass someday. It had always been a matter of time, and now that time had come.
“Go into The Ruins,” ordered The Darkness.
What?
“Go to the tunnel and sneak into the city. I will protect you from the Lost Ones. Bring Lomax. Tell him to get the girl. He will be glad to serve, and make them pay.”
“The Baxter … how well do you know the place?” McTaggart asked.
“Extremely, sir.”
“Could you get in and out undetected? Could you retrieve the girl?”
Lomax looked back and forth as he considered the question. Pursed his lips, then nodded. “I think I can.”
“You think, or you know?”
Lomax nodded, then met McTaggart’s eyes. “I know I can, sir.”
“Then I have a mission for you,” the general said with a smile.
Forty-Eight
Boricio Wolfe
Boricio couldn’t find Solomon in the woods near Fortress.
And he sure as hell wasn’t going to face-fuck any more of his time looking for the guy. Not when his daughter was waiting in Old City.
He aimed his mount north. “Giddyup to the rest of you, but I’m out of here.”
“What are you going to do?” Lydia asked.
“Hide out until it’s safe.”
“And how will you know when it’s safe?”
Boricio shrugged. “Maybe Slum Lord will send someone to tell me.”
“You trust him?”
“About as much as I trust anyone, I suppose.” He shrugged again. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m thinking of heading to John’s Township. Get some supplies, then meet up with my friends, plan some shit out.”
“Come with me,” Boricio offered again.
“No thanks. I like my sanity.”
“What happens when the Rangers figure out that you sprung me? Maybe you should cover your tracks, blend back in.”
“The general is going insane.” Lydia shook her head. “It’s getting worse every day, and I just can’t do it anymore.”
“Well, normally I’d say something about my hopefully curling your toes again in the future, but I’ll spare you the pleasures of memory and craving.”
Lydia smiled. “Until we meet again, good luck.”
“Good luck,” Boricio repeated, watching as she turned her horse and headed south. He patted his horse, its coat and mane in shades of chocolate. “Just you and me now, girl.”
He rode north. No connection to Emory. This telepathy shit was about as reliable as a Triumph Mayflower. He never really knew what he was doing — probably why it worked so sporadically.
Hey, Boricio thought to The Light inside him, why the fuck can’t I reach her?
But The Light kept frosting his shoulder.
Boricio hoped Emory was okay, that she was in Old City or at least close to it. He wasn’t sure when she left, and couldn’t help but fear that something awful might have happened to stop her. Maybe McTaggart got to The Slums before she could leave.
Or maybe someone betrayed her.
Like cooking, killing, fucking, and all the other food groups of fun, life was best lived at the speed of jazz, and Boricio had lived much of his life by following a North Star of spontaneity. Not knowing what might happen from one moment to the next was half the fun. And it made him superior, evolutionarily speaking, since living for the minute saw him regularly exercising his skills with adaptation.
But with a child to look after, uncertainty became a boogieman. Not knowing whether Emory was safe or not chewed on Boricio’s insides like a hobo through a bowl of chili. Maybe if—
Something slammed into his chest, sending him down to the ground without any wind.
Boricio looked up to see a wire tied from one tree to another, his chest aching. He was lucky the thing didn’t cleave him in two or leave his head rolling in the dirt.
Movement to his right and left — a pair of bandits emerging from the woods, approaching Boricio from either side of the path.
One held a wooden spear and the other a crossbow. They were scrawny, faces slathered in dark paint or shit. He couldn’t tell if they were young or old, but both were bug-eyed, clearly high on something, stepping toward him with nervous laughter.
“Give us your belongings, you won’t get hurt,” said the man with a spear, shaking in his hand.
“Sorry Opie, but I gave everything to the last shit-covered hoodlums, and now all I’ve got is a bunch of Bazooka Joe wrappers. Interested?”
“You got that nice Ranger suit, and that sword,” said Crossbow, firming his aim.
“Oh, this?” Boricio waved a hand down his body as if showcasing himself. “And this?” The sword was suddenly in his hand.
“Stay down!” Spear warned him.
Boricio scrunched his nose as if he didn’t understand. “Did you say stay down … or get down?”
Spear blinked in confusion.
Boricio used the moment to grab his spear by the tip, wrench it away from him, then swing down from his horse onto the ground while turning his newly acquired weapon on Crossbow.
The bandit raised his weapon and fired a bolt.
But Boricio’s instincts already had him rolling sideways on the ground, away from the projectile.
He leapt back to his feet, launching himself at the bandit before the ball sack could load a second bolt.
Then Boricio made a bandit shish kabob right through his neck.
Crossbow crashed to the ground, and Boricio turned to Spear, grinning at his buddy’s terrified eyes.
Crossbow drew a knife.
Boricio offered him another chance anyway. “You wanna live, I suggest you walk away right now.” He nodded toward the forest.
“You gonna pay.” The bandit shook his head, stepping toward Boricio and slashing his knife through the air.
Boricio backed away, but not out of fear; he was moving toward the spear. Crossbow saw what he was doing and charged, but Boricio easily countered, striking the bandit’s hand hard enough to break a few bones and send the blade flying from his fingers.
