The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

2

As a native of Minnesota, CALVIN B. FISHER learned to spend long winters tearing through pages and pages of novels.

Stormrise is second in his award-winning Northfield Saga series. His desire to write for an audience bloomed early; as a child, he sold stacks of homemade comic books to family and neighbors. In the years since, his passion has refined and matured, but ultimately remains the same. His desire to bring characters to life is the engine that powers each work.

He currently resides in Denver, Colorado.

CALVIN B. FISHER

“And while there’s plenty of action in Fisher’s first novel, Apocalypse Bounty, it’s also a fascinating character study of a troubled man trying to do his moral best in a world where he’s the odd man out…Fisher’s a new-to-me author since Apocalypse Bounty is his first book, but I’ll certainly keep an eye out for whatever he writes next.”

—CHARLES DE LINT, Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine

STORMRISE

Mark Northfield has lost track of time. The days, the weeks, and the months blend together while he sits in the Network’s dank prison.

After the detonation of Zeus’s Mercy, the Network’s secret device, the city is rid of the toxic gas that plagued its citizens for a decade. Yet, the death and destruction seem far from over.

His world only darkens when a new prisoner arrives in his cell block: Geralt Salb, the leader of the Yellowbacks. He is a man that Northfield once considered an ally, turned to a tenuous ally. His capture means that the Yellowback’s rebellion against the Network has failed.

With both men in the Network’s possession, the organization’s ultimate plan for Northfield and Geralt is set into motion. The Network stronghold in the mysterious, neon-drenched city of New Medea wants them, for reasons they can’t fathom. All they know is that the Network will make them pay for their actions, one way or another.

The Northfield Saga:

Stormrise Calvin B. Fisher

Publisher Page

an imprint of Headline Books, Inc.

Terra Alta, WV

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

by Calvin B. Fisher copyright ©2023 Calvin B. Fisher All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Publisher Page.

To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com Tel: 304-789-3001 Email: mybook@headlinebooks.com Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN 13: 9781951556990 Library of Congress Control Number: 2022942219

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S TAT E S O F A M E R I C A

To my parents, for your endless support and love.

1 He wondered if this would be the final blow. The very last time those cables would be strapped to his chest. The shock would be one too many volts for his body, and he’d have a heart attack. Maybe one of his captors would trip along the way to the defibrillator and he’d flatline. No more to it. No fireworks or applause. His brain would starve on the cold, dark floor as he plummeted toward whatever came next.

He watched the blood drip from his split lip. The drops splashed into a dime-sized pool between his feet. Blood fell from his cheek and landed close by—two crimson neighbors, alone in a black abyss.

Sharp barks of electricity echoed across the small room. The smell of ozone singed his nostrils.

The metal clamps were cold. They hurt, too, because the teeth harshly gripped his skin. But he mostly felt the cold.

His muscles seized up. His shoulders and back knotted and tangled into ugly balls of pain as electricity surged through him. He forfeited his goal of keeping quiet, crying out almost immediately.

There would be no heart attack. There never would be. His captors had their technique down to the most precise science.

The electricity passed, but the pain didn’t. He forced air in and out as cramps riddled his body like cancer.

His captor leaned in, his nose inches away. His breath smelled sterile, like the air-conditioning at an airport. His mask probably filtered out the odor somehow. That, or he had an obsession with brushing his teeth.

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The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

“You know what time it is, Northfield. Time to guess a number.”

His captor leaned closer, but Northfield averted his eyes. He knew what time it was.

He mumbled something quiet and incoherent.

“What was that?”

Nothing. He had said absolutely nothing. Random incoherent noise just to get his captor to go on. Even if a gun was pressed against his temple, he couldn’t have told anyone what his utterance meant.

His captor said, “I don’t know if your answer was high or low, so I’ll come right out and tell you. Fifteen.” He drew another breath and repeated himself. “Fifteen.”

Northfield kept his head low. He merely watched the clamps float toward his body. Twin silver dragons glimmering in the pale light of the room. His eyes watered.

They bit into him, and the shocks hit harder than before.

“Fifteen soldiers were killed today.”

Drool dribbled from his quivering lip.

“Why were they killed, Northfield?”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Why?” His voice came out raspy and ugly. “Because of the war.”

“And who started the war?”

“I… Me. I did.”

Two tears seeped out of his eyes as he expected another shock.

At the very least, he expected a set of hard knuckles driving into his stomach.

Instead, stillness greeted him. It felt cold under the darkness, which the flickering overhead light couldn’t hope to beat back.

His captor put away the clamps.

“No more beatings, Northfield. No more shocks.”

So this was it. Northfield waited for something sharp and final to stab him from the shadows. Perhaps they’d drag him to some pit beforehand, with dead bodies already piled high. At least he would have some company.

His captor reached for something behind him. A gun, then.

Northfield would have to look his death right in the eyes.

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Calvin B. Fisher

But his captor didn’t pull out a gun, knife, or any other weapon. Instead, he held a small square object. It was black or maybe brown; the light was too dim for him to tell.

“I have something different for you. Something special.”

His captor turned the object toward the light. A picture, Northfield realized.

The caverns between mountains couldn’t compare to the deepness of the despair splitting apart his heart.

His voice cracked: “Jess.”

The picture singed his eyes. Her white dress and the bright leaves surrounding her were fires far too bright for the darkness around him.

The frame had never looked so brittle. The glass had never looked so thin.

His captor pulled the picture back. “I’m sure you know where we got this picture. Your backpack, still on your broken and bloody back when we found you. Tell me something. Have you spent long nights thinking about what happened to this picture?

Did you simply hope that it vanished into the ether, destined to one day fall back into your lap?”

A lump swelled in Northfield’s throat, and his cheeks stung from a harsh pressure on his entire face.

His captor continued. “It’s your wife, I take it. Who else would it be? You carried this picture for a decade. As you went through more layers of damnation than you thought anyone could stand, she was with you, encased in this little frame, wasn’t she?”

Northfield tried not to react. Yet the pull to her image was irresistible.

His captor turned the frame around, studying it clinically.

“You never forgot her face. That was the best part, I bet. Because of this picture, you still had her features etched neatly in your head. In your best nights of sleep, maybe you even spent a few precious moments with her.”

His captor reared his hand back and swung. Dread swelled the ball in Northfield’s throat, and he couldn’t even scream. The picture struck the corner of the interrogation table. Fragments of glass fell to the floor. The high-pitched crackles were isolated and alone in the otherwise silent room.

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His captor wriggled the picture out of the broken frame. A shard of glass had cut into Jess’s dress. His captor picked it out carefully.

“You want to look away, don’t you? But you can’t. You’re transfixed, because you know what’s going to happen as well as I do.”

His captor pressed the picture into Northfield’s face. A heavy pulse of revulsion coursed through him, but he couldn’t pull away. His captor was right. Damn him.

His captor fetched something else from a pouch on his belt.

It was a thin object the length of a finger, with a tip redder than blood—a match.

He promptly struck it. The flame was pale and weak, threatening to flicker out at any moment. Northfield had never looked at a flame with greater fear.

The match drifted over to the picture until the fire nearly touched the bottom. His captor didn’t express any urgency. He had all the time in the world. Endless matches to burn, if the wind’s light draft happened to extinguish this one.

“Take your last look, Northfield. Go on, really draw it in.

After this, you’ll never see her again. That image of her in your head? It will only get dimmer. It’ll disappear sooner than you think, too. First, it’ll be the small details. Tomorrow, you’ll realize how hard it is to recall her cheekbones. How exactly did they rest on her face? Perhaps the precise waves in your favorite haircut will be hard to recall.

“Eventually, the bigger details will get blurrier, too. Imagining her will be like seeing a person from across the room. Then across a street. You might have a small revival in your dreams. The subconscious has a way of remembering things our conscious brain discards. But even that will slip away. All that will remain in the end is a haze. When you try to think of her, the features will morph around, never setting quite right.

“Maybe you’ll live until then. Probably not, though.

Either way, in the time you have left, you’ll know that decay is approaching. For me, that’s enough.”

He touched the match to the corner of the picture. The flame had no mercy, and it held no quarter. Within moments, his most 8

Calvin B. Fisher

prized possession had been reduced to ashes scattered on the floor.

The tears flowed down his cheeks freely, and he blinked until they were gone.

“You’ve been with us for six months, Northfield. I waited until today to do this. Why?” He tried to find the picture’s remnants, but they blended into the shadows.

His captor continued. “You’ll see soon enough. I’d hate to ruin the surprise for you. Think about that while you sit in your cell.”

He spotted some black motes in the dried-up pool of blood beneath him. He found the last vestiges of his picture, but he didn’t feel any better.

Harsh knuckles clashed against metal across the room. It was his captor, rapping at the door. Normally, Northfield relaxed in response to the sound, as it meant he had survived another day in this dank room. Today, his muscles remained as rigid as stone.

“Officer Colt, are you finished?”

“Yes. Get the prisoner out of here. And send the cleaners in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Two guards marched in. Their black, red, and blue uniforms looked like they were made for a place like this. With each step, their boots clacked against the floor with a cold, clinical air of menace.

The guards unlocked Northfield’s handcuffs and brought him to his feet. They supported the majority of his weight, and he hung from them weakly.

As they dragged him past Officer Colt, his captor whispered, “Fifteen. Feel like a hero yet?”

The hallway was dark, but the scarce lights were unduly bright.

Some of them strobed harshly, too, on the last legs of their lives.

They created a slideshow effect that proved most nauseating. The guards could replace them if they wanted. They chose not to.

He barely felt his body being tossed into his cell. The slamming door registered as a sound from millions of miles away.

He lay in the very spot he had landed for a while. With no clocks or windows, he couldn’t know for how long. Did it matter?

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The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

What were the true measures of his day, save for his time spent in that dark, ugly room?

In and out. His breaths were long and slow. He pulled to the very center of his being and pressed out as if the world itself lay on his chest.

A boat in the middle of the ocean. That’s what I am—a boat in the middle of the ocean.

God, put a current under me. Put the wind behind me.

Anything so that I can move. I can’t stay still. If I do, I’ll drown.

His breaths sharpened.

Three. Two. One. With a grunt, he rolled onto his chest. He pressed against the cement floor, wishing it was a thin piece of wood he could break through to anywhere but here. He lifted into a push-up position. Every cavern of his body ached from soreness, from wounds past and current. They weighed on him, pushing him back to the cement. His teeth gnashed, and he forced himself up again. Over and over, he went down and up, down and up, until his mind and body shared a common numbness. A tiredness that devolved into a dull hum that shut out everything.

When he finished his push-ups, he lay on his back and lifted his leg into the air.

Look at this, Jess. I remembered everything you told me. All the physical therapy techniques you thought flew clear over my head.

For all those times you scolded me for keeping my eyes on the TV, let this be proof. I told you I was listening, didn’t I? See, that’s what Officer Colt doesn’t understand. Your face is just one memory. He can’t take away my arsenal. Not until he puts a bullet in the back of my head. The date of that happening seems awfully close.

He ran through all of his exercises, at least one for every part of his body that had been shot during his assault on the South Network Facility.

At first, it had been unbearable, even after the month he spent at one of the Network’s infirmaries before they shipped him to this pile of manure they called a prison. An infirmary where they did everything in their power to keep him up and running. Their 10

Calvin B. Fisher

most advanced medical technology, all expended on him. Lord knew why they put in the effort.

The pain dwindled. The soreness and stiffness lessened.

His range of motion started to return. Now he couldn’t tell the difference between the aches from his daily “interrogations” and those from his gunshot wounds. Yet the process had been slow.

Very slow.

My God, six months in this hole.

He crawled over to the wall, sitting against it and panting along with the thumping in his chest.

Officer Colt took only one memory of you. Just one. So why does it feel like I lost you all over again?

Footsteps approached in the hallway, along with the squeaking of wheels. He fought down the balloon of dread that swelled in his stomach.

Your day’s pain is over, Northfield. It’s just mealtime. Breathe.

It’s just mealtime. Unless Officer Colt’s surprise is coming…

His first supposition was correct; a guard rolled a cart in front of his cell. The cart contained meal trays. No five-star dishes. That he could attest to. The guard aggressively slid a tray through the gap under his cell door. A bowl tipped over, and rice spilled everywhere. The guard scoffed. Without another word, he moved on to grace another prisoner with his stellar service.

Northfield crawled over to the tray and took inventory. A mushy apple, halfway on its way to rotten. The chef ’s specialty.

When he bit into the soggy, bitter fruit, he liked to imagine it had instead been marinating. The slab of jerky beside it was harder than the base of a mountain.

The grains were the best part of his meal. Along with his bowl of spilled rice, he had two buns. They weren’t fresh, but they weren’t stale, which he had learned to become more than settled with.

He received a different meal than the other prisoners. They received only one bun. And no rice. Every meal was that way, since the day he had arrived. At first, he thought the guard was being generous, until one day, he crawled to the bars, weak in both mind and body from a rougher beating than usual. He 11

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

gazed at the food in mystification, and he viewed the guard as the only person in his world that was close to being a friend.

“Why?” he had whispered, beyond terrified the other guards would overhear. If they did, maybe his extra portions would be taken away.

The guard leaned in close. “You want to hear God’s honest truth, Northfield?”

All he could do was nod.

The guard shrugged. “I was ordered to.”

The cart rolled away. Its squeaking wheels pierced the stillness like arrows.

Northfield recalled that conversation every day. The guards inflicted pain every day with ardor. They weakened his mind in every way they could find. Yet they left his body just intact enough so he could recover.

Long, endless months in this place. Yet Northfield still hadn’t figured out why.

He picked up each grain of rice and returned it to the bowl, moving with the slowness of a man who didn’t want the task to end. A man who didn’t want stillness to again envelop his world, wrapping its cloak of runaway thoughts and despair tightly around him.

He ate everything except one of the rolls. It called to his stomach passionately, but he resisted it. Today was the day. Today was finally the day he would do it. To hell with Officer Colt and his surprises. Northfield had received enough of those to last him a dozen lifetimes.

Now came the hardest part: waiting. The guards never made a great effort when patrolling their cell block. They didn’t need to. Nobody had ever escaped, and nobody would. Even if a man did, the only place he would land was right back in the Network’s outstretched teeth, molars itching to grind him to powder.

However, every prisoner in his cell block was “interrogated.”

At least once every day. Like an alarm, the screams of somebody being dragged across the hall awoke the inmates to their reality as the dank and the damned. From there, one man went after another, until the cell block was left with the cries and aches of 12

Calvin B. Fisher

men who had lost yet another piece of their soul.

The guards changed their order each day, so nobody knew when their time would come. The only warning, if it could be called that, was the unlocking of a man’s cell door, at which point hands were already seizing him. Northfield had long since abandoned trying to guess which order he left each day, and today was no different. Maybe he was closer to the first. Maybe he was closer to the last.

Determining when the last man had returned to his cell wasn’t a challenge. He just had to listen for when the screams stopped.

In the meantime, he had to wait in the stillness. The shadows from the bars seeped into his cell. The bricks on the walls closed in on him inch by inch.

He tapped his finger on the floor, sweat pooling in his palm. A long scream tore past his cell, accompanied by boots thundering with the steady cadence of a war drum. His heart beat intensely and threw off his breaths. Squeezing his eyes shut, he focused on steadying them.

Physical therapy exercises. Breathing exercises. You left me with a lot, Jess. If our situations were reversed, what would I have left you with? Would it have been enough?

The war drums returned, and the guards discarded a prisoner into his cell like he was a worn-out rag. The guards left the hallway, and their beat faded into the cold memory of another pained day.

He pulled himself up and approached his sink. Rust covered nearly every inch of it. His hand snaked under the bottom and reached into the gap between the sink and wall. A frenzy welled within him as his fingers searched, but they grasped only shadows.

He checked his surroundings again. His cell was at the end of the hallway, right at the mouth that spat out Death Corps soldiers. The cell across from him didn’t currently have an inmate, and it hardly ever did. He was the prisoner of honor, after all. The guards kept the cell empty to further isolate him.

This hellish place was already in the farthest bowels of the earth.

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The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

Yet the Death Corps couldn’t help but jab a stick at him. Every inch they could push him down.

No one to see. No one to talk to. But nobody to watch me, either.

I’ll take that and run—all the way to the hilltops.

His finger brushed against the screw. It was covered in even more rust, but it was strong and sturdy. His panic receded, settling into a hot nausea.

He clenched it hard enough for the rivets to imprint marks on his skin. The screw was something he had found on his return from an “interrogation.” The guards had tugged him roughly, and his feet couldn’t keep up. His body had just been dragged along.

Looking up was too difficult, so his eyes kept keen track of the ground. There, he saw it. Right in front of him, approaching with a speed he nearly couldn’t react to.

Even if a gun was put to his head, he couldn’t guess where that screw had come from. Something God had dropped from the heavens, maybe. Slipped right through the clouds from all the skyscrapers the angels had been building—anything to get them farther from the earth that had turned into acrid cinder.

His feet had moved numbly. They had squeezed around the screw, but his prize had nearly slipped through. He had to regrip the screw to prevent it from slipping. In reaction to his fumbling, the guards had only jabbed him in the midsection so he would pick up his pace.

That was weeks ago. Lord, maybe months ago.

He found the darkest corner to sit in. Among the shadows, his wrist still managed to look pale. He held the screw against his wrist. The tip was dull. With enough effort, however, it would still cut.

Jess’s breathing exercises came to mind. He went through the motions again, feeling numbed by them. Horrible decisions could be made in the swiftest of motions. A tree took decades to grow but only minutes to chop down. A car took seconds to crash. Bullets did their job in the space between breaths.

How long did a screw take?

I remember my promise, Jess. Not by my hand. It won’t be by my hand.

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Calvin B. Fisher

He grabbed the corner of his blanket. He didn’t get a bed or even a pillow. Just about his only earthly comfort was a raggedy orange blanket with loose threads sprawled out everywhere.

Even in a crack den, it would have looked ugly.

The corner of the blanket covered a small section of the wall; the placement was deliberate. It covered his greatest secret, besting even the screw.

Only at night, when the darkest of darks reigned, did he risk pulling back the fabric. Until today, at least. With Officer Colt’s surprise on the horizon, he didn’t know how much time he had left.

Today’s the day.

After a final check past the looming bars, he revealed his secret—a single brick, around which the mortar had been slowly chiseled away. The brick looked like a castle surrounded by a mote. He didn’t know how much farther until he broke through, but he was going to do it.

Today.

He leaned into the wall and ignored the shaking in his hands.

Back and forth, he scratched the screw against the remaining mortar. The task would be time-consuming, he knew, but time was dying anyway; the evidence of such surrounded him. Death, day by day, as prisoners were taken away and never brought back. Northfield knew the guards weren’t freeing them. That was for certain.

There were so many faces. They all blended into a single image: a man, decayed in everything but his eyes, which gazed upon his captors like they were a casket closing on him.

The mortar started to give. When he applied pressure, the screw pressed in, just itching to break through.

Northfield wondered about the man on the other side of the wall. He couldn’t recall his name. No, that wasn’t right. He had never learned it in the first place.

However, he knew what the prisoner looked like. In his early thirties, he had only recently been grasped by the hand of age. Hair that had once been fire red, dirtied into the color of sunburnt earth. Long, like all of their hair had become.

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The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

The guards didn’t believe in shaving prisoners’ heads. Hair served as something they could grab to pull your head back and expose your throat.

Suddenly, Northfield felt the screw puncture through. With a gasp of excitement, he chiseled harder. Inch by inch, the mortar crumbled under his hand. For those short, fleeting moments, he was the king of all the stars.

Once all of the mortar was gone, he didn’t pull the brick away.

Not yet. He scooped up his remaining bread roll, cupping it like a golden nugget. Only then did he pull back the brick, slowly, ever so slowly. He wouldn’t let a single runaway sound destroy his achievement.

He dropped to his belly, not yet peering through the hole. His neighbor must have noticed. Northfield wondered how he would react. Initially with fear, in all likelihood. Every fiber of his being would urge him to scream for the guards. But if he could just fight back that temptation, if only for a few seconds, he would see the bread slip through the opening. The first of many to come, if he could keep a secret.

With a nervous breath, Northfield looked through the hole.

No. Lord, no.

Nobody near the bars. Nobody near the back wall. The cell was vacant—a black, empty void.

His neighbor should have returned by now. The guards had stopped their interrogations. Another face, gone from this cursed place forever. Northfield was glad he had never learned the man’s name. It would have just been another to cross off a list that had no end.

He returned the brick and wrapped himself in his blanket. He brought the roll close to his chest. It felt nice, having something soft pressing against him. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Try as he might, his mind held him down, trapping him in the cell more effectively than the bars could dream of doing.

A clamor came from past the hallway. The muddled combination of footsteps, chortles, and bitter tones belonged to a larger group of guards than usual. He could hear five, maybe six, men though he hardly trusted his senses. In his captivity, he had learned that lesson all too well.

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Calvin B. Fisher

His eyes snapped open. The hairs stood up on his back, and a chill ran down his spine with a knife’s sharpness. One of the voices belonged to Officer Colt.

Northfield grasped around until he found the screw. Officer Colt never visited the cells. His underlings always handled transporting prisoners.

Another voice stood out: a low, aggressive grumbling, accompanied by the slurring that split lips and swollen cheeks provided. The voice opposed the others; whenever Northfield heard it, the other voices quickly descended upon it like a pack of wolves.

The chill in his spine brought about shivering. His teeth chattered, and he struggled to fight back against it.

Officer Colt’s surprise. This had to be it. Perhaps his tormentor wanted to show him his replacement. The next sorry soul to occupy his lot.

The footsteps violently cracked, a regiment of whips punishing the ground.

He could hear Officer Colt, now.

“We got you, you son of a bitch. Welcome to your new home, however short your stay.”

The guards hooted.

Officer Colt continued. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

One of the guards spoke up. “Hope you believe in karma, because this is it. In spades.”

Another said, “This is for my buddy, Rex. You animal.”

The footsteps came imminently close. Northfield scooted against the wall, pressing against it with all the strength he could manage.

The guards stopped right in front of his cell. There were six of them. They blended in with the darkness, but their red and blue stripes reminded Northfield that they were all too real. Officer Colt’s uniform didn’t look any different, but Northfield could tell which one was him. He stood tall. Danger oozed off him like a cologne.

Northfield’s heart rocketed into his throat, but they ignored him. They were too preoccupied, at least for now. The prisoner was 17

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dressed in the same dingy orange jumpsuit that all of the captives wore. Guards stood in front of Northfield’s cell, preventing him from getting a good look at the new arrival.

Officer Colt leaned toward the prisoner, but all could hear his words.

“I’ve heard about you. I know what you are, and I think I’ve found the words for it. You’re a comet. Blazing through the sky, hotter and more headstrong than anything else, burning everything we’ve built. But now, the horizon’s right in front of you, growing and growing until the crash.”

“Is that—” The prisoner spat out blood. “Is that your best beating? Up yours. I think I’ll do just fine here.”

His voice sounded strange to Northfield’s ear. Something about it sparked the dread part of his brain, which was already stimulated enough.

“Is that right?” Officer Colt asked with false sincerity. “Maybe you should take a look at him.”

He gestured to the guards, who rotated the prisoner toward Northfield’s cell.

Officer Colt lowered his head toward Northfield; even through the mask, his look was burning. “Surprise. Look at what your war gained.”

Northfield and the prisoner exchanged glances, and his fear blanched into pure shock. The prisoner’s mouth fell agape. The man had a lot of stubble, which approached a full-grown beard.

His hair was salt and pepper, with more salt than pepper. Above all, what stood out to Northfield was his striking eyes. A pair that could only belong to one man.

Geralt Salb.

18

2 The guards tossed Geralt into the cell across from Northfield.

His body slapped onto the ground just as the bars crashed shut.

They spent a couple of minutes jeering at Geralt, firing insult after insult like a gang of Western sharpshooters. Northfield didn’t hear any of them. Their words dissolved into a monotonous hum as he stared at the man across from him. The fearless Yellowback king, reduced to the dredges and dirt.

Officer Colt addressed his men. “Alright, alright. You have jobs to do. I trust you’ve gotten your aggression out.”

A guard retorted, “Not nearly, sir.”

“Well, it will have to satisfy for now. Besides, think about it.

What’s worse? Your words? Or the silence?”

Officer Colt paced between their cells, eyeing each man as if they were pond scum.

“I hope you enjoy your reunion. I certainly do, because this means the end. The chaos you’ve brought is over. For you, dusk has arrived. For the rest of us, the sun’s coming up.”

He beckoned the guards, and they withdrew. Their footsteps faded, but the ghosts of their echoes still haunted the cells.

A prisoner down the hall whispered, “My God, Geralt Salb.

Is that—” Another prisoner swiftly chastised him. “Shut up, man. Shut the hell up. You wanna live longer? Then don’t talk to them. Don’t even look at them.”

The first prisoner didn’t speak. A third muttered, “The things you have to tell people, man.”

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Geralt Salb ignored them. Instead, he worked his jaw, wincing.

His eyes didn’t leave Northfield. “I don’t believe it. I thought you were dead. Buried in one ditch or another.”

Northfield didn’t respond; he remained pressed against the wall. He blinked to make sure Geralt wasn’t a mirage. But Geralt remained firmly in front of him, his existence only growing more concrete.

Geralt cocked his head. “Well, you ain’t pretty to look at. Hell, your hair’s long.”

Still, Northfield kept quiet.

Geralt leaned forward. “You still in there, Northfield? Or have they got to you that bad?”

He cleared his throat, and his voice came out raspy. “I’m still here.”

“You don’t look pretty. But for six months in a hole like this, you don’t look awful, either. Still got some meat on you.” He tilted his nose up at the walls, as if they were as thin as sandpaper.

“Don’t seem too bad here. Maybe I’ll run this place eventually.

Before I burn it to the ground.”

His words stirred Northfield, and he crawled to the bars.

False hope only gave the Death Corps a larger ledge to push you off of.

“It’s bad, Geralt. What I’ve seen….” He gripped the bars tightly. “Look, I’m the exception. I don’t know why, but they’re preserving me. Like a damned can of fruit. But the rest… You shouldn’t even be talking to me. You should—” “You’re an exception? Then I’m one, too.” Northfield’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Geralt said, “Look at me. See how mild this beating is? I was their most wanted guy. Their prized whale, swimming loops around their hooks. Now they’ve caught me, and this is all they got?”

He had a point. Geralt’s beating was superficial, at least by the standards of this place.

“If that’s so,” Northfield said quietly, “then I don’t know if we’re the lucky ones. Not when all’s said and done.”

“Luck, heh.” Geralt smirked bitterly. “Haven’t counted on it for a long while. Always flips on you. Always.”

20

Calvin B. Fisher

Northfield reflected on that for a moment. “You should get some sleep, Geralt, as much as you can. Tomorrow’s your first full day here, and they’ll try to break you in.”

“I’m a tough nut to crack. Tell you what, how about you worry about yourself?”

Just then, he saw something in Geralt’s face break. A small chip in his armor had manifested as a hollow stare at the space between them.

“I’m sorry, Geralt. I’m sorry they got you, too.”

The Yellowback’s teeth flared, but the reaction wasn’t directed at Northfield. “That officer’s words… about dusk. He wasn’t wrong. The Yellowbacks are done.” His back was rigid. “A division formed in my ranks. Cowards versus the rest of us. I didn’t know there were so many. Biggest damn mistake of my life.” Geralt repeated himself, lowering his head. “Biggest damn mistake of my life.”

He didn’t move, and Northfield had no words of comfort to give him. Any that came to mind felt like lies. Tiredness made each thought feel weighty and laborious.

He crawled back to his corner and discreetly pulled the screw from under his blanket. Facing away from the bars, he held it close to his chest. It reminded him of the empty cell. All that work for a ghost. All that work just to create evidence of disobedience.

What a waste it all was.

The screw still could accomplish the other job. In mere minutes, he could take the guards’ plans for him and shove them to hell.

The temptation terrified him. He brought the screw over the toilet. One flush, and he could jettison it possibly miles and miles away along with the other sewage.

Instead, he shoved the screw back under the sink. He told himself that he might need it later. For what, exactly, he couldn’t have said.

I’m holding on today, Jess. You see that, don’t you?

I pray that every day counts. No matter what comes tomorrow.

21

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

*** A loud screech awoke him. Before his eyes opened, he realized it was his cell door opening. He scrambled to sit up, but a boot drove into his shoulder blades and sent his face to the floor.

Arms looped around him and yanked him to his knees. The boot in his back had been entirely unnecessary. Then again, nothing about his extended stay in Hotel Shit Creek cared about necessity.

He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, trying to flush the grogginess out like rain off windshield wipers.

A voice caused immediate alarm, even more than the boot in his back. It was Geralt’s.

“You feel like a big man, huh? Hitting a guy in his goddamn sleep. I hope it does, you—” The butt of a baton put an end to his protest. The guards dragged the dazed Geralt out of his cell and out of the cell block.

He and Northfield being taken at the same time did not bode well for either of them.

A guard held on to each of his arms. The guard on his left was slightly taller, slightly thinner. Besides that, the two looked identical in their demonic uniforms. They dragged him out roughly. The bars screamed behind him, an ugly foreboding of what lay ahead.

The taller one whispered jeeringly, “You know, I’ll actually miss you. You were always fun to mess with.”

Northfield tilted his head to look back. The movement was slight, so neither of his “escorts” would smack him for resisting.

With a tremor in his stomach, he realized the guards were dragging additional prisoners—four, by the looks of it. Maybe more would follow.

Their behavior was atypical. In this place, atypical never resulted in good. The guard’s words echoed in his head.

He said he’s gonna miss me. That can only mean one thing: I’m leaving this place. I’m not getting out on good behavior, either.

I should’ve grabbed my screw, figured out a way to pocket it.

But where would that have gotten me? I couldn’t overpower them all.

22

Calvin B. Fisher

I fought so damn hard. Don’t waste all that effort just to die alone in a dark room. I don’t want to die alone, by their hands.

They entered a rectangular room far longer than it was wide.

The walls were stark white, except for one, which had heavy sandbags against it. The guards corralled them into a line against this wall. Sterile light reflected harshly against the white, burning his eyes and making them nearly impossible to keep open.

The tall guard roughly jabbed him and muttered to the other guard escorting him, “Aw, would you look at that? So sensitive to the light.”

“Downright adorable.”

While his eyes struggled to adjust, he realized more prisoners were entering the room. It took him a startlingly long time to recognize that they were women. They were gaunt and wore illfitting uniforms, which didn’t help. The guards escorted them through a door opposite the one the men had used, and they put them against the same wall.

He supposed the women’s cells must be past the door. On the very same floor as him, and he hadn’t learned until now. Six months of captivity, and yet he still didn’t know the basic layout of the floor. His world felt very small and very lonely.

The doors swung shut. Out of the prisoners, he counted four women and six men. Guards lined up about halfway across the room, one for each prisoner. Each carried a gun. Officer Colt stood behind the line with his arms crossed. Behind them stood another door, black and sharp with bars that looked like teeth.

The room’s purpose didn’t elude him. The sandbags. The back walls. He had figured out where the countless other prisoners “disappeared.” Shot to death along the bags, then dragged out the far door, away from either the men’s or women’s prisons. He bet the guards scrubbed the room to an agonizing cleanliness before the next round of poor cattle were shepherded in.

I kept my promise, Jess. I tried as hard as I could to persevere.

You see that, right?

God, all of that pain… I didn’t want to go out this way. Not without somebody outside knowing I’ve gone.

23

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

Geralt stood next to him. He flashed Northfield a cocky sneer, yet he did so with a level of discretion, as if he had some big secret, one he didn’t want the guards privy to quite yet. Maybe he had a lot of treasure buried in some faraway desert, not that it would do either man any good.

Officer Colt lifted his arm; the motion carried an implicit order. The executioners lifted their weapons, pointing their barrels squarely at the prisoners’ chests. Their fingers hovered over the triggers, and tension emanated from their forearms. It was the excited, ready energy of men who might not land their first shots, but they sure as hell wouldn’t miss every round in their magazines. They waited, itching for the order to paint the sandbags red.

The prisoners’ reactions spanned the gamut. Some whimpered. A woman unleashed a volley of curses. A man prayed to no god in particular. Sobs threatened to collapse others. The rest remained quiet, either from sullenness or the bitter but resigned rage of animals wounded too many times.

Geralt, for his part, kept his sneer barely contained. He rested his head against the sandbags like they were pillows. In a room full of predators, he alone possessed the teeth to bite back.

You’re not a wish-granter, God. I’ve learned that. But if I have to go down, please make it quick. I don’t want to listen to more screams. Please, no more screams.

Officer Colt kept his arm up. Northfield watched his armored hand intently and waited for it to drop. He didn’t know why; he might as well close his eyes and just let the bullets come.

You know I tried, right? You know I tried my best…

The anticipation continued. Moments passed and burned like fire.

Officer Colt’s voice thundered off the walls. “Lower your weapons.”

The guards didn’t hesitate; they dropped their weapons to their sides, standing at attention.

Confusion filled Northfield more than relief. He hadn’t been given mercy; he was sure of that. The other prisoners appeared to share a similar feeling, with about half of them letting out measured sighs.

24

Calvin B. Fisher

Geralt Salb’s expression didn’t change, save for a slight upward turn of his lip. Evidently, his smirk was growing harder to suppress.

Officer Colt gestured horizontally to the men in front of him and addressed the prisoners. “I want you all to reflect on what you just felt. The anxiety, the panic. My men aimed at you for only thirty seconds. I bet that some years have felt shorter to you.

What was all of the terror over? The thought of your impending deaths. An infinite blackness that, for half a minute, loomed too closely.” He stepped in front of his men. “I want you all to remember the fear. Burn it into your hearts because this is what awaits you. A spot on the firing line. Or on the gallows.” He was about to continue, but he noticed Geralt’s unimpressed smirk.

“That look, Salb. You better wipe it off your face real quick.”

Geralt leaned forward combatively. “How about I tell you to go screw yourself instead?”

Colt moved so quickly that Northfield didn’t realize he was swinging his pistol until it collided with Geralt’s cheek. Before Geralt could do more than utter a grunt, Colt was on top of him.

He swung the pistol again and cracked Geralt across the head.

He turned and pointed the barrel at Northfield. “Him too.”

Guards grabbed him and hurled him to the ground; his head struck the hard floor, and his vision went blurry. When it returned, he found himself inches away from Geralt’s nose.

Geralt’s cheek was already starting to swell from the blow.

Colt leaned over them. His voice was low, but its edge was undeniable. “Do you care to say that again, Geralt? Do you really want to see how much pain disrespect can cause you here?”

Geralt let out something between a laugh and a cough, and he spat up a small glob of blood. “I know a big bark when I see it. You ain’t gonna do any real harm to either of us. You think I haven’t figured that out yet?”

Geralt laughed-coughed some more, and Colt loomed over both of them, patiently waiting for him to finish. That patience terrified Northfield more than anything else.

Geralt continued. “C’mon, what do you got? Some mental games? Yeah, right. What can you torture me over? Threats to my 25

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

friends and family? I don’t have either of those anymore, jackass.

I have nobody.” He snarled. “So go on, see where that tactic gets you.”

The lights cast Colt in darkness. He waited for stillness to pass over the room. With each passing moment that Geralt had an arm pressing his head to the ground, he looked weak, ineffectual, and inconsequential in the room of shadows.

Colt leaned down, and he spoke low enough that only Northfield and Geralt could hear. “I’ll give you both some food for thought. You’re right, Salb. Your treatment has been different from the other prisoners. But I want you to think about why that is. Neither of you has a bargaining chip. So what could your treatment be chalked up to? That we like you? That you’re just lucky? I’ll let you in on the big secret.

“There are forces at play bigger than you. Bigger than me, too. I have my orders, and I’ve followed them, regardless of what I might want to do otherwise. But guess what? My orders have changed.”

He commanded the guards to pick them up and put them back against the wall. The other prisoners refused to make eye contact with them, even those who had been defiant in the face of death. The prospect of a longer life had a way of rekindling the flame of self-preservation.

Colt addressed all of them. “This morning, you will be transferred to New Medea to continue your sentences. The trip is eight hours long, and we’ll be traveling through areas that are still inundated in gas. You won’t have gas masks, so dispense with your dreams of escape. Before we go, you’ll receive your last meals, and I suggest you go to the bathroom beforehand.

We won’t be stopping. If you’re relieved to be leaving this place, I suggest you reevaluate that feeling.”

He commanded the guards to return the prisoners to their cells, with Northfield and Geralt last in line. He stood by the door to the men’s cells, watching each prisoner pass by. He stopped Northfield and Salb, saying, “Your good fortune? I hope you enjoyed it because it wasn’t grace. It was growing debt. And, Geralt, I hope that shit-eating smirk does well for you when the loan sharks knock on your door.

26

Calvin B. Fisher

“One more piece of solace for me: I requested to join the transport. I’ll hand you off to keepers in New Medea personally, and I’ll stick around to see them collect.”

Geralt cracked a spiteful grin. “I bet you’re one ugly mother under that faceplate, aren’t you?”

Northfield tensed his body, preparing for another physical rebuke of Geralt’s unrestrained tongue. To his surprise, Colt lowered his head almost solemnly. “Geralt, I want you to think about the number of soldiers your Yellowbacks have killed. Do you feel bad for any of them?”

“That depends. You feel bad for killing my people?”

The guards kept Northfield and Geralt at the door, waiting to see what Colt would do.

Colt waved his hand sharply and said, “Bring Salb back to his cell. Leave Northfield for a minute.”

Once Geralt had disappeared, Colt examined Northfield from head to toe. “Geralt Salb. That’s the man you decided to burn the city down with. Crass and crude. A scrapper that belongs in the mud. I don’t understand it.” He gazed through the doorway as if he could see Geralt past the walls. “If you think you deserve any more mercy than him, you’re wrong. Hell of a bed you’ve made yourself. I hope you enjoy sleeping in it.”

Northfield met the gaze of his tormentor, trying to do so without flinching, but he failed. “You burned her picture yesterday. You know, I was angry at the world when I lost her. For a long while. But it just made me tired. Made me feel bad, too. I realized that, eventually. But I wish it would have been sooner.”

He sighed. “I’m tired now. Whatever you’ve gotten out of me, I don’t know how much more you’ll get.”

Colt put his face into Northfield’s nose. His voice was quiet.

“Your muscles aren’t deteriorating. In fact, they’re doing the opposite. I can tell that you’re exercising. If your spirit is broken, you don’t exercise. The only question is whether the Network will finish breaking it or if they’ll just kill you first. And I’m not willing to spoil the surprise.” He said to the guards, “Now get him out of my sight.”

27

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

Northfield didn’t reply. He kept his head low, avoiding eye contact with the officer. The halls passed in a blur, and his shoulder collided with the floor of his cell, the bars closing behind him.

When the guards left, Geralt spoke to him. A bruise darkened his face, and he nursed it. “Why’d they keep you behind? To hit you some?”

“No, they… No, they didn’t hit me.”

“That’s good.” He paused. Something clearly was on his mind.

“Sorry they tossed you down, too. Didn’t think they’d do that.”

“It’s alright.”

“Telling them to screw off was necessary, though. You can’t show them your belly, Northfield. If you do, they’ll mess you up even worse in the long run.”

“Don’t know if we’ve got the long run left, Geralt.”

“You never know if you’ve got the long run. Who the hell looks around anymore and thinks they’ll reach their golden years? Look at you. You can’t show them your belly like this.

Have some damned respect for yourself.”

With nothing left to say, Geralt returned to caring for his cheek. Northfield waited until he appeared preoccupied. He slinked over to the sink with the caution of a mouse under the watch of birds.

He fished out his screw and held it close so Geralt couldn’t see.

This is it, isn’t it? My last chance to end things on my terms, not whatever theirs are. They’re gonna transport me to New Medea, for Christ’s sake. They wouldn’t do that unless worse awaited me there.

I don’t want their batons, their whips, their electricity. I don’t want their firing lines. I don’t want to stand there and watch their barrels again. God, I’m not strong enough.

I’m trying. Lord, I am. But I’m just… I’m losing sight of the bigger picture. What do you need me for? What grand purpose of yours does it serve to keep me here? Is all this effort really just to let me eventually die alone in a dark room?

Jess, would you want me to bear all this so that I didn’t renege on a promise?

28

Calvin B. Fisher

He glanced at the screw. But going out my way would mean dying alone in a dark room, too. Wouldn’t it? Nobody outside would know if I die now, regardless of whether it’s done by my hand or theirs.

He stared at his stupid reflection in the rusty sink beneath the shadows of his shaking arms.

Damn it. With a measure of both discretion and speed, he slid the screw into the back of his waistband.

I shouldn’t have survived that night in Little Empire. I have no idea how many miracles you limit yourself to, God, but you used one on me. I need to know why. Just, please… I need to know why.

The rickety wheels of a cart announced the arrival of guards with food. One pushed the cart, and another distributed the trays; they started at the far end of the hall, reaching Northfield’s and Geralt’s cells last.

When the guard picked up a tray for Northfield, he noticed something unsettling. For the first time, his tray had the same amount of food as those of the other prisoners.

The guard spun his tray around slowly, displaying it like a statue at the museum. He said, “We’re gonna miss you around here, Northfield. Figured we ought to do something special for your last day. Isn’t that right?”

The guard pushing the cart replied, “Yeah, I’d say so.

Something really special.”

“Our chef here does a good job, but I have to admit, his food can be a bit bland. After so many months of the same crap, it starts to numb the tongue. Wouldn’t you say, Northfield?”

He didn’t respond.

The guard picked up the bowl of rice from his tray. “White rice. Pretty flavorless. Sadly, I don’t have any soy sauce on me. Do you, Dale?”

His partner replied, “Shoot. Left mine at home.”

“Well then. We can’t do much about the taste.” He lifted a finger as if he had come up with a great idea. “Ah, but the plating.

That’s something I can fix.” He turned the bowl upside down.

Rice fell out like an avalanche, with a fair portion spilling off the tray. He slid the tray into his cell and then leaned into the 29

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

bars. He spoke quietly. “Look at that pile. While you pick at the grains, think about how you still get to eat. My buddy doesn’t get to anymore. No, he’s taking his meals through straws now.” He stepped away and retrieved Geralt’s tray. “Dale, now that I think of it, I don’t think I’ve eaten yet.”

“Well, you’ve got to. To keep your strength up and all.”

“Do you think the prisoner would mind?”

“Geralt Salb? Never. He’s such a class act.”

During their exchange, Geralt faced away from the bars.

Clearly, the wall warranted his attention more than the guards’ drivel.

The guard ripped his bread roll in two, then studied the larger half for a moment. “Damn, I just remembered something. I can’t eat with my mask on.”

“That’s quite a dilemma. We’re not allowed to take it off in front of prisoners, you know.”

“Hmmm. But we wouldn’t want to waste half of a roll.”

“Certainly not.”

The guard with the tray lifted his finger; another bright idea had occurred to him. “I know. We’ll feed it to the rats.”

He leaned into Geralt’s bars, much as he had leaned into Northfield’s. Northfield couldn’t hear what the guard said to Geralt, but he assumed it was along the same lines of what he had been told a moment ago.

Satisfied, they left. As soon as they were out of sight, Geralt grabbed his tray.

“Thank God, I’m starving.” He bit hard into the remaining half of the roll and winced, clearly from pain in his jaw. He persisted through the discomfort and took another large chomp. Between chews, he said to Northfield, “They’re petty, aren’t they?”

Northfield was nauseous, and the thought of eating repulsed him. Despite this, he forced himself to put something into his stomach. He scooped up rice and poured it into his mouth, hoping speed would make the experience more bearable. “At least they didn’t poison our food.”

Geralt chuckled, which Northfield didn’t expect. He spoke only half-jokingly and didn’t think his comment was funny 30

Calvin B. Fisher

anyway. The former Yellowback leader said, “Yeah. But if they wanted to off us, they would’ve just shot us in that room.”

“Unless they plan on driving us into the middle of nowhere and dumping us in the gas. Maybe all that New Medea stuff is bogus.”

His fingers felt tingly, and he realized that he had been scratching his arms; white marks ran up and down them. He needed to move. Otherwise, he was liable to scratch all the skin off his arms. Or grab the screw out of his waistband.

Your exercises, Jess. Let them be my life raft again. Let me hold on to them until the waves leave.

He started with his legs; that was always the hardest part. The challenge enveloped his mind like a heavy blanket.

Geralt observed before he eventually asked, “What are you doing?”

Between groans, he answered, “Physical therapy.” He endured another stretch before adding, “Some bullets got me that night.”

Grimness spread across Geralt’s lips. “How many?”

Northfield winced. For a moment, he could recall exactly how each one felt. “Six.” “Six? Hell.”

“Yeah.” He moved to his other leg. “Figure that.”

Geralt cast his glance down; he seemed unwilling to meet Northfield’s eyes. For Geralt, the behavior was highly unusual, and it gave Northfield pause.

Geralt asked, “The night you and my boys set off Zeus’s Mercy… how did it go down?”

The memories of that night hit Northfield like water bursting through a brittle dam. Zeus’s Mercy was a device designed to rid the city of the toxic gas that had been drowning it for a decade.

The device was stolen by the Network, completed by its scientists, and hoarded for power.

Northfield and his allies, Elena and John, stood on their last legs. Elena and John were the only surviving members of the Coalition, a rebel group dedicated to setting off the device.

Geralt’s brother, Nathan, died after the Coalition was wiped out.

31

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

Northfield, his two allies, and a group of Geralt’s Yellowbacks made a final assault on Little Empire, the Network’s facility, to reach Zeus’s Mercy.

Northfield’s arms trembled, ever so slightly, before he composed himself as best as he could.

“It was… We went down one by one, Geralt. My God, I don’t know how I made it.” He buried his head in his hands. “Your Yellowbacks… most were dead before I even knew it. John, too, went down so quickly. He put himself in the line of fire so we could advance, and we didn’t even know it until he was already dead. Elena went last, and she… I held her. For what little time I could. I did what I had to, after that, to get the mission done.”

Geralt’s expression changed. There was a longing in his eyes or a woe. A weight pulling on him. He was a cynical man.

He must have figured his men had died that night. But getting confirmation was another thing. “Were my men brave?”

Northfield nodded. “They were warriors every step of the way.”

There was a long pause. Geralt peered to the side. “You haven’t experienced it yet, have you?”

“Experienced what?”

“The air. There’s no gas in the city anymore, and for some ways out, too.”

“No, I haven’t gotten the chance.”

He shook his head. “The guy who flips the switch doesn’t even get a taste. It ain’t right.”

“Maybe today will be the day. They’ve gotta take us outside for a few moments to get us in their trucks, right? Unless they’ve got garages.”

That’s right, Northfield. Hold on to that crumb. Something to look forward to. How long’s it been?

Let me take a clear breath, God, even if the light blinds me from being in this stupid hole for so long. Even if the guards insult me and kick me right in the nuts. Even if they shove me in a hole darker and deeper than this one.

Let me know that you don’t hate me. Let me know that Jess doesn’t, either.

32

Calvin B. Fisher

The guards came with little warning, as usual. He barely had time to make sure the screw was fastened in his waistband before he was dragged off. The guards jabbed and taunted him more than they had before.

“Since it’s the last time we’ll see you,” one of them muttered, “we have to get our last couple hits in.”

The words passed him like wind, and while the blows stung, they weren’t the worst he had endured. Rather, his focus lay ahead, where Geralt was being jabbed forward while spitting out his usual retorts in the face of men with hardened, featureless faceplates.

The guards brought the prisoners to a large freight elevator, and they packed the prisoners in tight enough to make even the most stalwart heart claustrophobic.

The elevator first hummed, then buzzed, then howled as it began to descend. For the first time in half a year, Northfield left the floor of his prison cell. The elevator’s pace quickened, and its scream nearly drowned out the guards, despite their best efforts to roar above it. Down, down, and down, the elevator plunged.

33

3 The corridors blended; there were so many twists and turns that he couldn’t form a mental map of the place. Pathways branched from theirs with the complexity of old trees. Yet he figured their course was the only way to an exit; at nearly every other bend they reached a checkpoint replete with guards wielding stumpy shotguns and wired doors that crackled with electricity. Once the gatekeepers cleared them, the doors opened with an irritatingly loud beep.

The constant stops filled the guards with impatience. They took it out on the prisoners. The guards prodded them forward, barking about how they all moved too slow. They built momentum in the prisoners, only to lose it at the next checkpoint.

After they finally passed through the corridors, they entered an expansive room. Its decor vaguely resembled a hotel lobby, if hotels brandished enough guards to fill a bus.

Northfield barely took them in; all his attention drifted to what lay on the far side of the room. A black metal door, as tall as the ceiling, was propped open by guards. Intense light poured from it, and his eyes welled with tears. Light streamed through a number of thick windows, which were caged like the prisoners themselves. The light was natural; the outdoors lay just a few yards away.

For a moment, he forgot himself, freezing in place.

The guard behind him yelled, “Keep moving!”

It took a rifle butt in the small of his back to return his senses.

Geralt was at the mouth of the door, a grin marking his face.

He called back, “You ready, Northfield?”

34

Calvin B. Fisher

The guard struck him in the shoulder. “Turn around and shut up, Salb.”

Excitement filled Northfield. The feeling was so foreign that he hardly knew how to cope with it. His footsteps quickened.

However, a frown masked his face; he feared the guards would strike a smile off him.

The outside light was too much to bear, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut.

A cold draft hit him, pushing him back toward the prison.

Northfield didn’t let it stop him. He tucked his chin into his chest and pressed on.

He tried to inhale, but his lungs were paralyzed. A decade of living in toxic gas told him that if he felt outside air against his skin, it wasn’t safe to breathe.

I saw what Zeus’s Mercy did with my own eyes. But now, that memory seems so faint, so unreal. Could the city truly be free of the gas?

Or could it all just be another fever dream induced by this place?

He couldn’t pry his eyes open; he couldn’t see if the gas was still there. But he could still hear the prisoners’ footsteps marching ahead of him. They clearly weren’t dropping dead.

He concentrated, pushing away the survival instincts that had been beaten into him. I need to take this one on faith, right?

He took a short breath. The air was frigid and painful, but it was also purifying. It stung with the crispness of mouthwash.

Nothing had felt better—nothing in a long, long time.

His steadfast frown slipped. A small stream of tears dripped down his cheeks; he couldn’t hide them.

We did it, Elena. Your dream is here—your gift, free for everyone to enjoy. I know your dad’s as proud of you as he can be.

I hope he’s proud of himself, too, for all he did.

Geralt, I hope you’re proud of your brother. None of this would have been possible without him.

Jess, at the end of it all, no matter how close or far my end is, at least I have this. I can point to this and say I did something good in this world.

35

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

A dampness marked his clothing; it took him a moment to realize the source.

Snow. It was snowing.

The dampness only made the cold bite into him more, and he shivered.

The guard behind him mocked, “Aw, poor little Northfield.

Forget your jacket at home?”

He ignored the remark. Finally, his eyes adjusted to the light, and he could open them.

They were in an expansive yard bordered by thick walls that appeared nigh impenetrable save for the most extreme acts of God. Guard towers decorated them like Christmas lights strung across a wire. The snow couldn’t conceal the sharpness of their edges or the ferocity held within the upward tilts of their corners; they resembled the bottom jaw of a resting, waiting beast.

The buildings of Cumulus stood beyond the snowy haze.

Plumes of smoke rose from several places. They were too big to mean anything but chaos. Nearby buildings wore damage like scars. Broken windows, crushed walls, entire floors shattered and ruined like broken skeletons. His shivers deepened.

The guard at his back muttered, “War, huh? Guess peace wasn’t exciting enough for you.”

Salb overheard, and he yelled back, “You fired first, genius.”

The guard escorting him replied with rage, “No, we didn’t.”

“Yeah, you did.”

The guard shoved him forward. “Believe what you want because we’ll fire last.”

The path led to a wide cul-de-sac containing six vehicles neatly arranged in a semicircle.

Formidability oozed off of them. Their tall, deeply treaded tires could eat up any ground put under them. Their size sat somewhere between that of a van and a tank. Armored plates were bolted to nearly every surface. The grills had long spikes just itching to punch through anything that dared oppose them.

A turret extended from each roof. They were too compact for gunners to use, which led Northfield to believe they were remotecontrolled.

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Calvin B. Fisher

The guards separated the prisoners into groups and sent each to a vehicle. Northfield and Geralt were in the same group.

The back doors opened. Three guards were already inside, waiting for the prisoners like hungry crocodiles swimming around a shallow pond. They stood with a smug demeanor that made their featureless face masks grin.

Northfield recognized one of the guards, and a chill shot through him.

Officer Colt’s voice cast an endless shadow. “Just as I promised you boys, I’ll be here, right until your bitter end.”

He beckoned the prisoners forward. The guards had their fun shoving them inside.

The cargo area had three benches, one for each wall. The rear bench had cushions, while the side benches were bare metal frames. They weren’t more comfortable than they looked; Northfield figured that out pretty quickly when the guards forced him to sit down.

Officer Colt and the guards sat on the comfy bench. Officer Colt waved away the remaining guards. The doors shut with the clinical, detached air of killers.

Northfield sat directly across from Geralt. The former Yellowback’s eyes darted around their confines. Geralt was scanning for any avenues of escape.

Officer Colt and his fellow guards were well-armed, even by Death Corps standards. They wielded compact assault rifles with many attachments slapped onto them. Pistols were strapped to their hips and their ankles. Disarming the guards would be akin to pulling apart Russian dolls; once you removed one tool of death, another would pop right out.

The guards’ bench was placed with calculation away from the prisoners. Too far away for them to lunge without getting shot, but too close for the guards to miss if any tried to run out of the back.

Northfield and Geralt were the closest prisoners to the guards, which made any attempt at defiance twice as suicidal.

The other three prisoners—a woman and two men—had malnourished faces, puffed up only by smatterings of bruises.

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The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

They hardly glanced up from their toes, crestfallen and resigned to their fates. They wouldn’t stage an escape; that was for certain.

If their handcuffs had been removed, their hands would remain clasped together.

Officer Colt conferred through the radio in his mask. Within moments, their vehicle roared to life; Northfield could feel its vibrations in the soles of his feet. The engine sounded tough but weathered. The minotaur was about to leave its labyrinth, coughing up a cloud of smoke.

Colt tapped the walls, and he said, “This vehicle is called the Hound. It’s a little gift from New Medea and the first of many.

It’s immune to those thermite rounds you concocted. Not that anybody would get the chance to fire them, anyway. The Hound’s turret fires at 1800 rounds per minute. Imagine six of them between each of the Hounds in our convoy, ready to blast on the smallest rat that scurries between the snowbanks.” Colt cocked his head at Geralt. “Then again, nobody is planning a rescue attempt for you, are they? Certainly not the Yellowbacks. How does it feel, watching something you’ve built wither in the cup of your hands?”

Geralt sneered at him. “I see you’re a big fan of rhetorical questions.”

Colt laughed. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, Geralt.

However, I’d be careful if I were you. The drive is long. Kourtier or Raleigh can get quite bored.”

Kourtier and Raleigh must be the other guards. Northfield wondered how long until their names slipped from his mind, like so many others.

There weren’t any windows; he could only guess their location by his sense of movement. The Hound’s vibrations, its accelerations and decelerations, were his only guide. Eventually, the terrain became bumpier, and the Hound made less frequent stops and turns. He figured they had finally left Cumulus.

Minute by minute, the place of his imprisonment grew more distant. Yet he was supposedly heading somewhere worse, which dampened any excitement he might have had about that fact.

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Calvin B. Fisher

Colt and his lackeys refrained from harassing them. Maybe, just maybe, even they got tired. For hours, not a single word passed within the cargo area.

He glanced at the other prisoners and thought, I pray for them, God. I pray that what they face in New Medea isn’t as bad as I fear. But I don’t think there’s room for that in your tapestry, do I? I hope they’re praying for me, too. I think I need it right now.

The Hound traveled at a steady pace for what felt like hours.

The smoothness lulled the prisoners to sleep. Eventually, they came to a stop.

Kourtier said to them, “Welcome to New Medea, jerkoffs.”

Indeed, the Hound chugged forward slowly; they seemed to be going through a checkpoint of some sort. When they passed through, the Hound proceeded to pick up some speed but not much. They made a couple of turns and looped onto a smooth, fast road—a freeway, most likely.

Geralt became restless. His fidgeting started small. He shifted back and forth, searching for a comfortable position. With how hard their seats were, it was a losing proposition. As his movements became more pronounced, Northfield worried the guards would become agitated.

Geralt stretched his feet and rolled his neck. After a big groan, he rotated his neck the other way. The guard on Colt’s left, Raleigh, tilted his head and leaned toward him, but he didn’t react further. Evidently, Geralt’s restlessness wasn’t worth his effort.

That changed when Geralt exclaimed, “Couldn’t we at least get some music in here? Jesus, I’m sure you guys want some, too.

Unless you’re already playing tunes through those buckets of yours.”

Raleigh said, “Geralt, if I could get you into a room with a wired baseball bat…”

The former Yellowback leader scoffed. “A wired baseball bat?

Spooky. Did you read that one out of your latest murder mystery novel?”

“At least I can read, you brute.” Raleigh started to rise, but he hesitated, looking to Officer Colt for approval.

39

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

The officer answered his unspoken question. “You know, I’m bored. Go ahead, Raleigh.” He turned to Kourtier. “Do you want to join in?”

Kourtier stood up and cracked his knuckles. “You don’t need to ask me twice.”

Officer Colt ushered them forward. “Don’t wound him. But make it hurt.”

Keep low, Northfield. Keep your head down, and they just might ignore you. Geralt’s big mouth brought him this. He should have kept it shut. There was no damn reason to speak.

Well, what would I even do? The last I checked, these cuffs haven’t loosened.

Right now, they’ll take all of their rage out on him. You could divide their aggression. Save him a couple of punches, maybe.

And why the hell would I do that?

Raleigh and Kourtier stood and regarded one another.

Raleigh said, “You or me first?”

“I want to go first.”

“Well, I want to go first, too.”

“Why the hell did you ask, then?”

“I don’t know. I thought you’d be polite. Seeing how I was being polite and all.”

“Let’s settle this, then. Rock paper scissors?”

“Sure. Best two out of three.”

Geralt interjected, “This is pathetic. I’ve seen more manly eight-year-olds. I bet you hit softer than them, too.”

Raleigh pointed at him. “You just earned yourself a kick in the nuts.”

But I’m so tired. I’m so tired.

He thought back to the clear breath of air he had taken.

I prayed that I would breathe the fresh air, and you were faithful to me. I need to be faithful, too. I need to hold out, no matter what comes next, even if it all just ends with a bullet the second I step out of this Hound.

Chest out, Northfield. Hold it strong like steel. Be her man.

Raleigh had evidently lost the rock paper scissors game.

Kourtier stepped forward, rotating his shoulders like a Spoonbills pitcher about to start the first inning.

40

Calvin B. Fisher

Northfield swallowed, attempting to dampen his throat. He tried to keep his voice level, but it still came out a bit shaky.

“Hey.” The guards turned to him. Officer Colt leaned back, out of either amusement or surprise. As always, the mask made it difficult to tell which.

The first word was always the hardest to utter. When he spoke again, his voice contained a little more confidence.

“How can you tell when a Death Corps soldier has been promoted to officer?”

He stared into the starless abyss of Officer Colt’s faceplate.

Raleigh muttered, “Oh, this oughta be good. How?” Northfield couldn’t help it, but a small grin crept onto his face. “The stick in his ass finally comes out of his mouth.”

Geralt chuckled heartily.

Officer Colt tilted his head. Softly, he said, “What happened to you, Northfield? Did the cold strengthen your spine?”

Kourtier said, “Maybe he’s just jealous that Geralt’s getting all the attention.”

Raleigh asked, “Can we give him a lesson, too?”

Officer Colt nodded and said, “Now you won’t have to decide who gets to swing first.”

Northfield put out his chin. Despite knowing a punch would soon send him to the ground, he hadn’t felt better in a long time.

A radiance welled in his chest, one the Death Corps couldn’t touch. Not today.

Raleigh lorded over him and reared back his fist.

Before he could strike, their vehicle suddenly halted. Raleigh and Kourtier were thrown off balance, but they quickly regained it. Their desire for blood hadn’t been sated, and they eagerly readied their fists again.

“Stop,” Officer Colt commanded. He pressed his fingers against the side of his faceplate and said, “This is Beetle Two. Copy that, Beetle One. I see the crash through your feed. I agree.

Let’s take the detour. It’ll be faster than sitting here. Out.” If Colt could see the crash, his helmet must have some type of video feed. He hadn’t heard of the Death Corps using such 41

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

tech before; perhaps it was another gift from the Network in New Medea.

With the tech, Officer Colt could command from the safety of the Hound’s back compartment while having eyes on all the trucks and keeping close proximity to the “cargo”—in this case, the prisoners. Still, in his position, Northfield would have preferred having his own eyes scanning the horizon. Perhaps, though, that was just his distrust of those black metal faceplates, built from months and months of unfriendly treatment under their gaze.

Raleigh said, “I hear there’s like a dozen crashes on this highway every month.”

Kourtier exclaimed, “Why’s it so hard for people to drive in a straight line? That’s all a highway is. A goddamned straight line.”

Officer Colt leaned forward like a puma preparing for a pounce. “Stay ready.”

“You think something’s up?”

“Probably not. But I have one of those feelings brewing.” He transmitted, “Colony, this is Beetle Two. Let’s make the rest of our trip with some speed. Say again, with speed. If you see so much as a shrew, send up a flag. Out.” Raleigh and Kourtier sat down. They kept their rifles ready, able to level them on the prisoners at the first sign of any trouble.

Northfield and Geralt’s retribution was forgotten, at least for the moment.

The Hound moved at a steady rate, making turns every so often. Colt barked orders and asked for status reports. His focus departed from the confines of their vehicle and instead homed in on whatever he saw through his helmet.

Unlike him, Raleigh and Kourtier didn’t stare blankly at empty space. Instead, they gazed at the walls, as if they were also prisoners. They didn’t seem to have viewports in their helmets; perhaps that tech was reserved for captains. After all, Raleigh and Kourtier were probably more useful focusing on the prisoners.

Geralt decided that it was an opportune time to start shittalking. “Are your boots starting to quiver, Colt? Boy, you’d sure be in trouble if you lost us.”

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Calvin B. Fisher

“Be quiet, Geralt. You’ll pay double later for every word out of your mouth. I promise you that.”

“Double for every word, huh? Is that a hard-and-fast deal, or can we compromise?” Geralt gave him a toothy grin, which was distorted by the bruises on his cheek. “How about I pay one and a half instead if I promise I won’t insult your mom?”

Raleigh tensed up and leaned forward, preparing to lunge.

Kourtier put out his arm, crossing over Officer Colt to halt his comrade. Colt remained focused on his video feed.

Kourtier said, “You wanna talk about mothers? Get used to it because you’ll be crying for yours.”

“Well, I’m waiting, tough guy.”

“You’ve spent years as the leader. As the man on top, with people waiting on you. I bet that’s made you pretty damn soft.”

Kourtier paused for emphasis. “You survived one night in our custody. Me and you, alone in a room? I’d break you within hours.”

Surprisingly, one of the other prisoners spoke up. His voice didn’t rise above a desperate plea. “Look… we’re not with them.

We’re not with these idiots, alright?”

He was on Geralt’s bench, and he was the closest to the door.

His lips quivered, and sweat dotted his brow.

The lone woman added, “Yeah. Please. We didn’t say anything.

You… you know that, right?”

Bemused, Raleigh said, “But you’re speaking now, aren’t you?”

The two prisoners turned their eyes to Northfield and Geralt, glowering. The other male prisoner didn’t react, his head low like an old, weighed-down branch. His hair obscured his face, perhaps acting as a flimsy shield against the harsh world around him.

Northfield let their rage wash over him. They had every reason to be angry at him and Geralt, but he only had two options. He could shut up and pray that his outburst wouldn’t bring the prisoners any harm. However, he had already opened his mouth, so perhaps it was too late. Plus, Geralt wasn’t going to shut up, not unless the guards sealed his lips with glue. Path one didn’t seem to bear any fruit.

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The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

That left option two: He could continue taunting the guards and drawing their attention. He could keep them focused on him and Geralt, and maybe they would forget about the other prisoners. But maybe it would backfire, and the guards would just hurt the other prisoners worse as a result. However, Officer Colt had already laid out their mission statement: to cause the prisoners as much suffering as possible. The choice seemed plain.

Chest out, Northfield. Chest out.

He said, “Tell me, Raleigh, how long did it take for your crumb of power to swell your head? As soon as they fitted you in your big boy uniform?”

Raleigh cracked his neck, doing so with relish. “The wise guy act doesn’t suit you. I’ve seen tears from those blue eyes so many times that watching this is like seeing a toddler take his first steps.”

“Guess we’ve got something in common. Toddlers have big heads, too.”

Geralt cackled.

“That’s enough!” Officer Colt yelled. The boom of his voice rattled their confines so much that Northfield almost flinched.

Almost.

He pointed his rifle at Northfield and Geralt, swinging it back and forth with an air of vengeance. “What’s going through your heads right now? Do you think your actions won’t have consequences just because we’re transferring you? That we won’t—” An explosion burst from under the vehicle so violent that it defied comprehension. The noise dulled Northfield’s ears, and all he could hear was the wrenching, grinding sound of furious metal and gunfire. Blood rushed to his head. His back and neck cracked like raw carrots. A dreadful weightlessness overcame him.

Through these sensations, he realized he was suspended in the air, banished from his seat, tumbling in a void that was soon to collapse. Frantically, he groped for anything solid to use as an anchor. He found nothing. The chaos of tumbling bodies and the spinning truck left him no better than blind.

44

Calvin B. Fisher

There had to be shouts and cries from his fellow passengers, but he couldn’t hear them. Every sound blended into a similar drone of chaos.

There was a sudden, decided shift. They had been rising into the air, but no longer. Now they were plummeting.

He tumbled forward. Arms and legs slapped into him; his own limbs undoubtedly did the same to others. The walls continued to spin, but one swelled in size, as if it was consuming the others.

He collided with someone hard. The unforgiving edges of armor plates dug into him, like spears just dull enough to not break the skin. An instant later, he felt an even greater impact, a sledgehammer to the small of his back. His body stopped abruptly, but his head kept moving, right up until it smashed into something.

His flight through the air had come to a bitter end. His body was now still, although he was almost too dazed to realize it. He blinked and raised his head, a sack of lead that hung from his neck by the thinnest of threads.

His nose was mere inches away from the faceplate of a Death Corps guard. He couldn’t tell if it belonged to Raleigh, Kourtier, or Colt. Whoever it was, he took the brunt of the impact with the wall, serving as a not-very-comfy cushion for Northfield.

Explosions rocked the outside of the vehicle. The deep, steady thunderclap of the Death Corps’ turrets roiled around them.

Like those of a dog drawn to a specific whistle, his ears caught the voice of Colt. Months under his boot had conditioned Northfield to listen for it acutely.

“How close are they? How close? Over. Report, God damn it.”

Everything inside the Hound looked like it had gone through a blender. What had been the floor now stood upright to Northfield’s side, with the prisoners’ benches aligned horizontally like bread on a sandwich. A convex dent sat in the center.

Whatever had detonated under the vehicle hadn’t breached the hull, but it had come close.

A smattering of blood stained the walls, originating from one man—a prisoner, whose head had cracked open. Northfield 45

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

couldn’t tell if he was dead. There was a lot of blood. The hot red mess mainly covered the farthest corner of the prisoners’ benches.

Judging by the dent, Northfield guessed that some sort of mine had blasted the Hound from below. It had sent the behemoth tumbling around and around. Luck had dealt one of the prisoners an ugly hand, putting him and the bench corner on a collision path.

If it’s his time, God, take him quick. Grab him and pull him away from here.

The guards and other prisoners were tangled up, limbs weaving under and over each other. Geralt was close to Northfield; the top half of his body had landed on the female prisoner. The impact hadn’t been kind to her. She gasped, frantically trying to catch her breath, clutching her ribs tightly.

The last prisoner remained face-down. The small shakes in his arms betrayed that he was conscious.

The other guard lay beyond them.

Geralt’s eyes locked on to Northfield. There was a hunger in them. He smelled the chance of escape in the air.

Colt alone was free from the chaos. He leaned against the wall, fingers pressed harshly against his helmet. His other hand cradled his assault rifle.

He screamed, “Keep them back! Keep them back!”

The guard under Northfield stirred before violently bursting to life. He shoved Northfield off of him and groped for his rifle.

Northfield blinked; taking it hadn’t even occurred to him. With his arms tied behind him, though, he couldn’t do much with it anyway.

Yet he still had a weapon of his own. His fingers crept to the back of his waistband, wrapping around the rusted screw.

The guard that had shoved him off said, “Officer Colt. Raleigh.

You guys okay?”

Raleigh picked himself off the floor. His rifle had been pinned under him, so nobody could have stolen it.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Sir?”

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Calvin B. Fisher

Officer Colt didn’t answer. Instead, he yelled, “Beetle One, status. Beetle One, status. Over. Beetle Three, status. Beetle Four, status.” He took his finger off his earpiece and cursed loudly.

Northfield felt Geralt’s stare intensify. Subtly, he tilted his chin so he could make eye contact. Geralt’s glance flickered to Northfield’s back. The movement was slight and fast, yet it communicated a clear message; Geralt had seen him reach for his screw. Geralt’s lips twitched slightly. For the scarcest moment, he smiled.

Raleigh prompted Colt again. “Sir?” Colt simmered with frustration. His voice was level but angry. Very angry. “We have our orders. Anybody tries to take this Hound, and we put a hole in them.”

Northfield and Geralt understood the opportunity in their laps. The other prisoners, if they had any awareness, decided to take their chances with inaction.

Northfield moved first, twisting and throwing his back at Kourtier. He held the screw rigidly, pointed outward, his lone offense against enough firepower to slay a village. Raleigh flicked off his safety and swung his rifle around, but he didn’t move fast enough.

Northfield crashed into him, thrusting the screw as hard as he could. The Death Corps had soft spots in their armor, where the plates separated. One was right around the appendix.

His aim was true, and he managed to push the screw through.

Raleigh’s howl, scrambled and deepened by his helmet, sounded like an angry bear.

Geralt lowered his head and charged at Raleigh, letting out a battle cry that only a Yellowback could muster. His timing was perfect; he struck right when Colt and Raleigh were startled by Northfield’s attack but before they regained their senses.

Geralt drove his shoulder into Raleigh, slamming him against the wall. Raleigh’s armor protected him, and he was hardly stunned. He fought back, trying to throw Geralt off of him so he could level his rifle and shoot. The former Yellowback leader kept throwing everything he had into the guard, keeping him pinned. For the moment, at least. With Geralt’s hands trapped behind him, this wasn’t a struggle he could win.

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The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

The female prisoner scooted as far away from the fray as she could get. The conscious male prisoner didn’t budge, save for the increasing tremors that afflicted his entire body.

As fiercely as Northfield and Geralt fought, there were only two of them. Officer Colt was completely unchallenged and free to take action. He only had to choose whom to kill first.

Since Kourtier was crying in distress, Colt chose to target Northfield. He aimed his rifle, finding Northfield’s center mass amidst the struggle. Northfield noticed out of the corner of his eye. He gripped the screw tightly and tugged sideways as hard as he could.

The screaming Kourtier, with the screw in him, had no choice but to move in the direction of Northfield’s choosing.

The wounded guard’s back came between Colt and Northfield, right when the commanding officer pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced Kourtier’s back plate but didn’t break through his chest plate. His screams stopped abruptly, replaced by a choked gurgle.

The fight left his body, and he collapsed on Northfield, limp. He was a large man, with his armor making him heavier. The sudden burden overwhelmed Northfield, and his legs gave out. He fell onto the floor, with Kourtier landing on top of him.

Rage overtook Colt, and he roared almost louder than the bullets. He pulled the trigger, again and again. Kourtier’s safety couldn’t have been further from his mind; perhaps the man was already dead in his eyes. Only the mission remained. Kourtier’s size was Northfield’s saving grace, as the bigger man shielded him entirely.

Northfield released the screw, and he groped for Kourtier’s pistol, strapped to the guard’s hip. At last, he found the holster, which was sticky with blood.

Raleigh fired his own rifle in chaotic full-auto bursts. Between them, he screamed, “Kill him, boss. Kill him!”

Northfield couldn’t see past Kourtier. Judging by the franticness in Raleigh’s voice, he guessed the guard wasn’t talking about him. Instead, he was referring to Geralt. The former Yellowback must have still been driving into him, preventing the guard from aiming his barrel at him. Still, Raleigh was pulling the trigger, shooting wildly into the air.

48

Calvin B. Fisher

Geralt wasn’t dead yet. Thank God. But he would be, in only a moment. Colt swiveled toward him.

Northfield found the trigger. Pinned under Kourtier, with his hands behind him, he couldn’t hope to shoot Colt in time. Yet he could still do something.

He pulled the trigger, aiming at nothing, intending to hit nothing. Yet the shot achieved his goal. Colt now knew he was armed. His priority shifted, and he fired at Northfield again.

Northfield curled into a ball, making himself as small as possible. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed Kourtier’s armor would hold. Each bullet hit Kourtier’s body like hard punches, reminding Northfield of just how soft his flesh was. They reminded him of what getting shot felt like. He waited for one to break through Kourtier. He knew exactly how the bullet would strike his skin, how it would burrow into his muscles and organs.

The knowledge only added to his fear. Kourtier’s blood sprayed everywhere, ejecting onto Northfield’s cheek like a geyser.

The TAP—total armor penetration—rounds from Colt’s gun were good at breaking one layer of strong armor, but not two.

In most cases, it was better that way. The bullets would bounce around the target’s body, like a lion causing damage in too small of a cage. Northfield was on the other side of that cage.

During Colt’s onslaught, Northfield looped his bound arms under his legs, bringing them to his chest. Now he could aim with the pistol.

He didn’t wait for Colt to stop firing; an unlucky bullet was liable to hit him either way. He sucked in a breath, very cognizant that it could be his last. He rolled out from under Kourtier’s body, lying on his back and pointing the pistol out. His eyes locked onto Colt, both of their bodies exposed, each holding the other’s death. The surge of adrenaline was overwhelming, and he pulled the trigger multiple times.

Colt grunted and fell back against the wall, sliding down it.

At the same time, Raleigh managed to successfully shove Geralt back. The former Yellowback king stumbled, tripping over the prisoner that had been cowering. There was so much blood, and there was no telling whether the prisoner had been hit. Geralt 49

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

slammed against the back wall just as Raleigh’s barrel centered on him.

Northfield fired. The guard’s chest caved inward. Two craters by each of his ribs vomited out blood, and he toppled sideways.

Geralt scrambled to his feet and said something, but Northfield couldn’t hear it; his ears were dulled to anything but the loudest of screams. When Geralt raised his voice, his words finally registered.

“Northfield! Stop him!”

Northfield followed his eyes. Colt was alive, grasping for his rifle, which had landed next to him. Northfield jumped to his feet and charged over to the Death Corps officer. He kicked the rifle away before Colt could pick it up. The rifle skidded across the floor, hitting the wall with a decided crack.

Geralt grabbed the keys to their cuffs from Colt. He unlocked his own and tossed the keys to Northfield. He then picked up Raleigh’s rifle and stood over the Death Corps officer. With a bitter sneer, he jabbed the barrel into his temple.

“Should have gone for your pistol, dickhead.”

“Wait,” Northfield said, putting his hand out. “Don’t shoot him.”

Geralt cocked his head with impatience, yet he refrained from pulling the trigger. “Why?” “Look at him. It’s cold blood, man.”

Geralt responded by pulling the trigger, sending a bullet through Colt’s heart. The officer’s head slackened, and the rest of his body fell limp. Geralt glared at Northfield. “Where the hell is your head at? Look around.”

Red trails of blood ran through every crevice of the vehicle.

Explosions and gunshots flared outside.

“This ain’t cold blood,” Geralt said. “Not that he’d deserve better, anyway.”

Northfield watched Colt’s body. For some reason, he expected the officer to spring back to life. A bullet seemed too pedestrian for a man of his theatrics. Yet he remained dead. The terror of his days, the terror of his nightmares, was finally still.

50

Calvin B. Fisher

His ears still rang like a cacophony of church bells, but there was no mistaking what he heard, and it snapped his attention away from the dead officer. There was an exchange of gunfire directly behind the vehicle’s rear doors. Whatever battle was raging outside, it drew near.

“Grab a rifle,” Geralt ordered.

Just when Northfield grabbed Kourtier’s weapon, they heard shouts from just outside the vehicle. They couldn’t make out words, but the voices were deep and modulated. They belonged to Death Corps soldiers.

A thought occurred to him. “Geralt, this ambush… is it the Yellowbacks’ doing?”

Geralt shook his head. “There ain’t Yellowbacks in New Medea.”

They searched Colt’s body for keys to open the Hound’s back doors, but they had no luck. Most likely, Officer Colt had to send a command to the driver to unlock the doors. The precaution would be for situations such as theirs, so the prisoners would remain trapped.

“Guess we’ve got no choice but to wait and hope the ambushers get us out,” Northfield said.

Geralt nodded grimly. They backed away from the doors.

The ambushers probably didn’t have the time or luxury to look for keys. That meant they would have to blow up the doors; Northfield and Geralt wanted to be as far away from the blast as possible.

The gunfight behind the rear doors had ceased, although the greater battle persisted.

A blinding flash of light came from the back doors, and the vehicle rocked as the doors blew open. Somebody had detonated a breaching charge.

Light streamed through the opening. The outdoors, freedom, now lay just a couple of yards away.

A silhouette appeared. Then another appeared.

“It’s them!” one exclaimed.

“Come with us! Now!” the other shouted at them.

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Northfield had to shield his eyes from the brightness, so he still couldn’t see them very well. But they weren’t in Death Corps armor; that much he could tell. He didn’t need any more convincing.

He and Geralt crawled out of the darkness, into another world of chaos and violence.

52

4 Snow pelted his face in large clumps. The wind pierced his thin prison garb and gnawed right into his bones.

Breathing hurt his lungs; the cold air felt alien to his warm body. He could feel his temperature dropping precipitously.

The weather, however, constituted only a sliver of the chaos around him.

He couldn’t see much of it. No, he couldn’t see any of it. The sheets of snow rendered everything as a blurry haze.

Lights hovered in a neat line about thirty feet in the air. They were streetlights, he realized, with some of them having already been blown out from bullets or shrapnel or whatever the hell else.

More than anything, he heard the violence. Above the wind, above the ringing in his ears from the gunshots in the Hound, what he heard was all too familiar: the rattling of assault rifles, the crunching of grenades, and the droning of turrets.

He felt the sounds as much as he heard them. The instincts and intuitions of combat came back to him all too easily.

A hand grabbed his shoulder urgently; it was one of his rescuers, beckoning him forward.

“Come on, we’ve got to move,” he exclaimed. There were three rescuers in total, surrounding Northfield and Geralt in a triangle formation. They wore chest plates with winter gear underneath them, and ski masks covered their faces. The lack of cohesive uniforms told Northfield that this was a rebel force, not an official army.

He and Geralt obeyed without protest, remaining in the middle of their formation. They passed a body lying in the snow, 53

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dressed in similar combat gear. The man had likely died trying to save them.

Northfield couldn’t focus on the man, for danger lay ahead.

The foremost was two Hounds. Unlike the one he and Geralt had just escaped, these Hounds were very much intact. Death Corps soldiers surrounded them, aiming their rifles upward and out. The Hounds’ turrets, too, were aimed up.

Whoever was assaulting the Network caravan was doing so from the rooftops.

They weren’t the only danger. A fear ran down his spine, more chilling than the cold.

Soldiers in bulky armor trudged through the snow. Pipes coursed over their arms and legs marking their silhouettes.

The soldiers were wearing exoskeleton armor, which increased their strength far past normal human capabilities. Northfield had encountered these soldiers in Cumulus, and they had been dubbed ‘exo soldiers’.

The soldiers had terrified Northfield then and they terrified him now. Worse yet, the armor worn by the exo soldiers here looked more advanced than their counterparts in Cumulus.

Their armor plates were sleeker and their hydraulic piping less clunky.

Great, his enemies got an upgrade. That was the last thing Northfield needed.

The exo soldiers launched bursts of fire at the rooftops.

Unafraid, unfazed, they lugged their multi-barrel turrets of death like they were packets of Styrofoam. They were meteors already set on their courses, unable to be stopped, save for a planetary force.

Three standard soldiers materialized out of the white void.

They ignored the gunshots coming from the rooftops. Instead, their chins were tucked, their heads oriented toward one chief destination: Northfield, Salb, and their rescuers.

Damn it.

Northfield could see their destination; his rescuers were ushering him toward a large red sign across the street, which led to a dark alley.

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The Hound they had escaped from was in the middle of the convoy, which was not the greatest location for aspiring escapees to be. They were sandwiched by Death Corps soldiers. Clad in prison pajamas, with a couple measly rifles between them, Northfield didn’t have the greatest confidence in himself and Geralt, even with their rescuers’ help.

The snow was ankle deep, and Northfield had never felt slower in his life. It was like one of those nightmares where you could never seem to get your footing, no matter how hard you ran. Even though the alley was only across the street, it looked a hell of a lot farther away. Worse yet, they stuck out sorely in their orange jumpsuits.

The approaching Death Corps soldiers planted their feet and opened fire. One of them shouted something, but his modulated voice just melded into the steaming pot of violence and inclement weather.

“Stay low!” one of their rescuers screamed. Their rescuers returned fire, doing it more so to deter the Death Corps soldiers rather than actually hit them.

Incoming bullets exploded into white puffs near Northfield’s feet. Northfield sensed hesitation in their pursuers. The Network had preserved the prisoners this long, and they didn’t want them to die just yet. Then again, wouldn’t it be worse to let them escape?

Quickly, the soldiers decided yes. The trickle of bullets swelled into an avalanche. Northfield ducked his head, like it was really making his body all that much smaller, and he shot along with his rescuers.

No shots from either side hit, but the battle was still short.

An object flew through the air and landed at the Death Corps’ feet. The soldiers looked at the object and then ran, completely forgetting about their enemies.

A bright flash erupted, consuming their small part of the world. The soldiers were caught in its radius. They collapsed, blood spilling from multiple wounds.

The grenade had come from one of the nearby rooftops; a number of fighters protected Northfield, Geralt, and their rescuers.

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Despite this, the alley still seemed so distant. And the worst danger was yet to come. They had caught the attention of the nearest Hound. Its turret swiveled away from the rooftops and toward them.

What had Officer Colt said? That the turret could fire at 1800 rounds per minute? That was a royal screwing if Northfield had ever heard of one.

“Turret!” one of their rescuers shouted. They changed formation, with the rescuers putting themselves between the turret and the escapees.

The turret opened fire. The sound of bullets consumed everything else, and snow plumed everywhere around them. The very earth revolted in violence. The cloud around them was so all-consuming that they could only try to forge ahead and pray that their direction was true.

The turret spelled death. Their rescuers fell, ripped apart by the bullets, just as they reached the mouth of the alley. The turret stopped firing; it didn’t have sight of its targets anymore.

The cloud of upheaved snow dissipated, and Northfield saw their rescuers face-down in the snow, stains of red confirming their demise.

Northfield couldn’t pull his eyes away. He wanted to do something for them, anything, but what could he do? The debt he owed these strangers would go unpaid, forever.

Geralt tugged on him. “Let’s go!”

They pumped their legs furiously. For a few blissful moments, nobody had a line of fire on them, and they took full advantage of the peace.

His lungs burned. His lungs burned like a sonofabitch.

When we used to bike, Jess, you liked the flat ground. You liked pumping your legs at a steady, mechanical pace. I preferred the hills. Sure, getting up them was a pain and a half, but then I could sit on my rear and coast down. No pedaling, the wind whipping my face, letting me know I could rest easy.

Right now, the wind could sear my face off. But I’m still going uphill, and the peak isn’t in sight.

Something nailed him in the shoulder, hard. A hammer slammed into him without the slightest hint of mercy.

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His eyes widened, and his heart leapt into his throat.

My God, I’ve been shot.

He tensed up, expecting agony to follow in the next instant.

He expected the blood to flow.

But the pain didn’t come, nor the blood. Instead, arms wrapped around him. His feet lifted from the air as some mysterious force pushed him forward.

He abruptly started falling, like a sad little spaceship that hadn’t been given enough gas.

Right before his face collided with the snow, he put together what had happened.

Geralt just tackled me.

In the same moment that he had that realization, an explosion roared just above them. The shock wave slapped him, and he stopped, putting his arms up reflexively, as if his mere flesh and bone could stop shrapnel and gunfire.

The former Yellowback pushed Northfield into the snow, giving him his first whitewash in recent memory. If his five-yearold psyche had somehow bubbled to the surface, he would have been tearing up.

There were deep impacts behind them, created by debris from the blast. Had they landed a meter closer, the chunks of brick could have easily killed them.

Geralt shielded him with his body. When the debris stopped falling, he hopped to his feet and yelled, “Get up, Northfield. I’m not dying on account of you.”

He picked himself up and looked back. Four Death Corps soldiers stood at the mouth of the alleyway. The farthest back had a rocket launcher. Northfield could guess who had planted the little birthday present over their heads.

The other soldiers lifted their rifles, planning to shower Northfield and Geralt with gifts of death and destruction.

Northfield lifted his own rifle, putting himself between the soldiers and Geralt. His turn to be the protector. The alley wasn’t wide; he didn’t think he could kill them before they put him in the ground.

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In the next instant, gunfire rained down from the neighboring rooftops. Ushered in by Northfield and Geralt’s guardian angels, by the looks of it.

With bullets pounding the snow around the Death Corps soldiers, they had no choice but to fire back at the rooftops and force their attackers behind cover. Otherwise, they were targets plumper than turkeys.

Instead of joining in the fire, Northfield lowered his weapon and charged down the alley, keeping up with Geralt’s heels as best as he could.

Man, this guy can really leg it when he has to, can’t he?

They reached the alley’s exit, tearing around the left corner to get out of the Death Corps’ line of sight.

Circumstances didn’t look much better on the street they had entered. Another battle raged. A pack of Death Corps soldiers ducked behind parked cars, trading volleys of fire with at least four rebel fighters.

The rebels camped behind cars a couple of dozen yards down the road. The Death Corps were a hell of a lot closer, damn near straight ahead of the alley. If they noticed Northfield or Geralt, they would have a clear sightline to blast away.

Both he and Geralt were acutely aware of this fact. A parallelparked sedan sat a few yards in front of them. Like moths attracted to the last light they might ever see, they dove behind the vehicle.

Geralt cursed between deep breaths.

The cold’s bite worsened when Northfield stopped moving.

His prison jumpsuit didn’t protect him at all against the frigid temperatures. His teeth started chattering.

“Look at that,” Geralt said. Just a couple of yards from the alley’s mouth, two bodies lay against the wall: one man and one woman. Blood still leaked from the wounds that had killed them.

A bullet to the head for him, two shots to the heart for her. Rifles lay mere inches from their curled fingers. They wore beanies and coats, along with light combat armor. They had been part of the rebel forces, by the looks of it.

Explosions shook the rooftops. Northfield made an ugly prediction that their guardian angels wouldn’t be able to protect them any longer.

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His brain pivoted to action. He said, “We’ve got the drop on those asshats past this car. We could—” Geralt cut him off, shaking his head vigorously. “We’re getting the hell out of here. That’s what we’re gonna do.”

“We don’t know the first thing about where we are. The guys that sprung us—” “Are there.” Geralt pointed at the bodies aggressively. “That’s what’s happening to them. We can’t sit around, waiting for them to save us.”

Northfield frowned. “I don’t like the idea of leaving those that helped us high and dry.”

“If we start a fight here, we’ll be surrounded in no time. If these rebels really did wanna bust us out, they’re gonna be really pissed if we die like jackasses.”

He nodded. Geralt was right, no matter how crappy he felt about it.

Geralt sprang to his feet and crouch-walked to the bodies while saying, “Get their jackets.” He muttered, “They’re cold, with or without them.”

While they put them on, they searched for a way out of the hellscape of ice and flying lead. In the haze, they saw Death Corps vehicles speeding toward the rebels. They would be surrounded soon enough. No good.

He heard footfalls and shouts from the alley they had escaped.

That way was no good, either. And they couldn’t cross the street.

Otherwise, the Death Corps soldiers currently shooting at the rebels would see them.

The only avenue of escape appeared to be down the opposite side of the street. Even then, their odds didn’t look so great. In the distance, nearly smothered by the wall of snow, two cones of light abruptly swiveled in their direction. They belonged to a Death Corps truck turning the corner of some intersection.

It now barreled toward them. Wheels chomped savagely at the snow, eating it up bit by bit. He imagined their throats, crushed right under the treads.

Finally, he saw some hope. Just a block ahead of them, two cars had crashed into one another. An SUV and a minivan, both 59

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civilian vehicles. The accident had been mild, a couple of busted headlights and a bent fender. The drivers were nowhere to be seen.

The story appeared clear. Two drivers, minding their own business, had been caught in a war. Distracted, they had crashed, and they had wasted no time getting the hell out of Dodge.

When the cars crashed, they twisted in such a way as to block the road between two parallel-parked cars.

As such, the four cars created a makeshift barrier against the incoming truck. Would it stop the truck completely? Probably not. Would it slow the truck?

Well, Northfield and Geralt would have to hope so. He saw the path ahead. If they made it to the barrier, then cut across the street, they could vanish into a nearby alley. A thin alley, draped in shadows. For a pair of fleeing guys, nothing could look better.

If the Death Corps soldiers behind the cars caught wind of them, though, Northfield and Geralt would be sandwiched between them and the truck. Plus, if they ran behind the Death Corps soldiers, they risked getting nailed by the rebels’ stray fire, killed by their rescuers.

Now’s not the time for your divine irony, God. I’m not in the mood to die because you wanted to be clever.

Whatever the risks, going for it was sure as hell better than camping out on the sidewalk.

He pointed out the route to Geralt and said, “See it?”

The former Yellowback nodded gravely. “Don’t like it. But I don’t like snow, either, yet here we are.”

“Let’s haul it, then,” Northfield said.

He tried to keep his footfalls quiet. As his feet crunched against the snow, he reflected on the fact that he wasn’t doing a great job.

The Death Corps soldiers didn’t notice them yet; their attention remained squarely on the rebels. The rebels, for their part, stopped firing back. Whether this was because they saw Northfield and Geralt or because they simply had to reload, he couldn’t say. The soldiers saw it as an opening, and they unleashed volleys of gunfire on the rebels.

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As Northfield and Geralt ran across the open street, the truck saw them. The driver laid on the horn, trying to alert the preoccupied soldiers. The hopeful escapees uttered curses under their breath, lowered their heads, and pushed onward. The wind lashed into their legs. Northfield’s feet were numb, two stupid bricks that he could hardly balance on. With each footfall, he prayed that he would be able to pull his foot back out of the divot he made. And each time, miraculously, he did. Still, he felt less like he was experiencing good fortune and instead just delaying misfortune.

The fighting Death Corps soldiers finally took notice of the horn. They twisted around, saw the escapees, and shouted words the wind quickly killed. Northfield didn’t need to hear them, though. He knew that they were some variation of the same two fateful words.

“Get them!”

He and Geralt had crossed three-quarters of the street.

Just a handful of paces left. Just another handful of paces and they’d pass this damned street and cross the damned sidewalk and reach the next damned alley. They would have the shadows, which even the snow seemed reluctant to touch.

But when they reached the alley, what then? What then?

Now’s not the time to work your head, Northfield. Work your legs.

The soldiers rattled off shots, which whizzed past them or got swallowed by the snow. The truck didn’t slow down. No, by the looks of it, the driver planned to barrel straight through the wreck.

The rear windows rolled down, and soldiers poked their assault rifles out. Northfield shot a few times at the truck, but the effort was half-hearted. With his numb, slow hands, he didn’t feel confident in his aim. This time, his feet would have to do all the work of saving him.

He didn’t notice when he reached the sidewalk, and his foot stepped right on the damned lip. Caught off guard, he stumbled.

His eyes jumped open in panic, and he expected to fall, to bury his head right in the snow. A target, still and stuck, even for a moment, spelled death.

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He stumbled and stuck his leg out on pure instinct. Somehow, he caught himself, with his fingers merely scraping against the snow. With that, he was running again, as if nothing had happened. Geralt hadn’t even seemed to notice.

Yeah, I’ll give you that one, God. Put that right on the list of things I’m thankful for.

The soldiers stopped shooting out of the truck and slinked back into their seats. They prepared for impact as the truck rammed through the collision. Metal screeched and crunched, the fenders of each crashed vehicle facing another round of damage.

The crash didn’t instill the soldiers with the slightest hint of hesitation. They bounded out of the truck, the spring of the hunt in their steps.

Meanwhile, the other group of soldiers abandoned their fight with the rebels entirely, joining their comrades to chase down two men with nary but prison jumpsuits, bloodied coats, and assault rifles that bit icily into their wind-burnt hands.

Northfield and Geralt ran through the alleyway, sucking in gulps of air that stung like liquor. The buildings didn’t form a perfect grid, so the alleyway had a staggered zig and zag.

They broke line of sight, so the direct gunfire abated. Still, the echoes of battle reached their ears and rang with a hollowness.

A separation that grew as a product of each step, cutting the two men off from their potential saviors. Death Corps soldiers, increasing in number, formed a widening wall between them.

Two men, alone, out of breath, out of wits, hounded by the weather and enemy forces alike.

So far, Northfield was not a big fan of New Medea.

62

5 I remember reading a news article about freezing to death.

Apparently, it’s like falling asleep. Your mind enters a lull, and you drift off into the blackness. I don’t know how true it is. I mean, how do you verify something like that? Last I checked, the dead can’t give reports.

Either way, I sure as hell don’t feel cozy right now. In fact, I feel the furthest thing from peaceful. That’s a good thing, right? Means I’m not dying yet.

He stumbled, and he put his hand against the wall. His numb fingers barely registered the contact. When he inhaled, his lungs cried out in pain, and he couldn’t suck in anywhere near enough air.

Geralt didn’t look much better. Instead of chastising Northfield for stopping, he leaned against a nearby dumpster and gasped.

They had been running for what felt like a millennium. They snaked through alleys without a clue of where they were heading, save for that it was away. Away from guns and men with an itch to use them.

Only three factors kept them alive. First, the alleyways were a mess, a jumbled mess of buildings scattered like an angry fifth-grader’s play blocks. The Death Corps had a hell of a time following them, even with the footprints Northfield and Geralt left behind.

The second factor was the weather. Death Corps vehicles had difficulty getting through the snow. The soldiers, too, didn’t exactly have the speed of arctic wolves in their pursuit.

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Lastly, the rebels were still fighting the Death Corps. That took some heat off the two barely armed, barely functioning runaways, no matter how important those runaways were.

“Alright,” Geralt said between wheezes. White clouds escaped his lips with every exhale. Valuable heat lost to the frigid air.

“Break time’s over. We gotta lose these guys.”

Northfield nodded grimly. Unless they came up with something smarter than just running, the soldiers would keep coming. In their insulated suits, they had the stamina to outlast Northfield and Geralt.

Worse yet, the fugitives were running out of alleyways.

They could tell by the light that had started spilling through the openings, painting the snow all sorts of colors. The vibrance and the varying colors meant they were probably coming from some huge screens, the types that used to be plastered on the sides of buildings. Nobody would put big screens in some back alley.

The light came from multiple directions, too. The fugitives weren’t reaching a dead end in just one direction, but multiple.

If they didn’t do something, they would be cornered, with their only option being to run out into the open street.

Worse yet, Northfield’s uncooperative hands had dropped all of his spare mags while he was running. He only had what remained in his rifle. He wouldn’t have a last stand, at least not one worth a damn.

“I’m drawing blanks,” he said, “but let’s start moving. Maybe it will jog our brains.”

“Yeah, sure,” Geralt said with a cutting smile. Despite this, he had a stubborn look. He wouldn’t give in to being caught, even as the bars shut in on them. “After you, Mr. Lose My Mags. I’ll cover our asses.”

An especially strong gust of wind whipped through the alley, creating a loud howl only amplified by the close walls. He bore it and pressed on.

Red light showered the alley, spilling the snow with its blood.

It came from a giant screen on a building across the street.

Nothing else could scream danger so loudly, so desperately. Still, they kept on.

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Then they heard a deep, mechanical humming, something that chortled against the cries of the wind. A giant black mass moved into view, casting a shadow in the alley that drowned out the crimson.

It was a tank, Northfield and Geralt realized in horror.

The only mote of good news was that the tank hadn’t seen them. It kept rolling on, oblivious to the wreck it had inflicted on the hopes of the two men.

Their hopes were further dashed when three more vehicles rolled past. They were lightweight winter troop transports.

Soldiers hung out of the windows, guns at the ready.

He and Geralt dove to the ground, unable to do anything more than pray they wouldn’t be spotted. Evidently, God had decided to throw them a bone because nobody paid the alley any mind. Perhaps the soldiers’ primary orders were to deal with the rebels.

There was one more alley that branched off to their left. Since the street seemed about as appealing as a barbeque hosted by Satan, and backtracking wasn’t an option, the alley seemed like just about the only choice they had left. It was their last hand, and it sure as hell wasn’t pocket aces.

They darted into the alley, and they met a building complex on the other side. It was very wide, about the span of two or three normal buildings, but it was only five stories tall. The sleek copper windows glittered with the reflection of neon light from the street.

A banner of screens wrapped around the building, and advertisements scrolled across them. One flashed past that said, Hearforth’s mall expansion: new stores and restaurants coming soon. Below the words, he saw an array of icons for the various stores and restaurants that would come to populate the mall.

The building was under construction. Scaffolding circled the roof. The fifth floor was being built, along with a skyway crossing the same road the tank had rolled over. The skyway would connect the mall with an adjacent parking garage. A stillness surrounded the building. No signs of hustle and bustle, no silhouettes traveling past the windows.

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The mall was their only option open in this snowstorm.

“You thinking what I’m thinking, Geralt?”

“Yeah.”

They approached the poorly lit emergency door. Geralt examined it and said, “We’re in luck. Seen this type of lock before.

If we bust open the handle, I can get it open.”

“Will an alarm go off if we try?” Northfield asked.

Geralt gave an emphatic shrug. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

Northfield nodded. Geralt flipped his rifle around and tapped the butt against the handle. He reared back and clubbed the handle with all his remaining strength. The handle loosened but didn’t break off entirely. Geralt gave the handle another whack, which finished the job.

Alarms didn’t start blaring, which was a good start. The former Yellowback knelt and stuck his fingers into the handle’s opening. He shook his head and cursed.

Not what Northfield wanted to hear. “What?”

“The stupid door was already unlocked.” With a light shove, the door swung open.

Northfield could only blink. He couldn’t look for better evidence of how their heads were getting screwed off, one thread at a time. Neither of them had even thought about just trying to turn the handle first.

“Forget it. Doesn’t matter anyway. Let’s keep moving,” Geralt said.

They climbed up the stairwell. Northfield wished the mall was warmer, but their luck didn’t extend that far. At least the stairwell didn’t have wind gusts. For that, at least, he was thankful.

Geralt said, “We should check if this place has some grub. I’m starving.”

“No time, man.”

“I know that. Just let me fantasize about it for a minute, alright?”

The stairwell didn’t have roof access, so they exited onto the fourth floor.

The mall seemed even larger from the inside. The stores and restaurants expanded out endlessly. They were hibernating, 66

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however, with their lights off and their kitchens shuttered. Only light from the windows and exit signs prevented the mall from slipping into total darkness.

“Surprised they would shut a mall of this size down for the fifth-floor expansion,” Northfield mused. “That’s a lot of profit to throw away.”

Geralt said, “See how nasty the weather is? They wanted to finish construction before winter. Easier to do that when the whole building is closed.”

“Yet it’s winter, and still not done.”

“Welcome to construction.” Geralt chuckled, but he didn’t sound amused. “I don’t have any good ideas. We could hide.

It’ll take them a long time to comb this place. If we find a good enough place to squat, then maybe they’ll think we’ve kept on moving.”

Northfield shook his head. “I have an idea. We take the skyway.”

“The skyway? Yeah, I saw that, too. That thing didn’t look close to finished. Do you think it will take our weight?”

“It’s gonna have to.” He shrugged. “It’s either the skyway or your plan.”

“To hell with hiding. Skyway it is,” Geralt said. When Northfield didn’t start to move, Geralt exclaimed, “What the hell are you just standing here for?”

“We’ve been making snow tracks for them.” His finger traced the line of their footsteps. Small clumps of dirt and half-melted snow marked their way. “Even here, we’re making tracks. But let’s use them to our advantage.”

The former Yellowback nodded in understanding. “Give them a false trail.”

“Let’s keep them sniffing around here as long as we can. Once we lead them somewhere else, we’ll take off our shoes, prevent them from seeing our next steps.” He turned to the street-facing side of the mall. Light of all colors poured in from the huge screens. The silhouettes of scaffolding blocked some of the light and cast shadows. One of the windows had been broken, perhaps in some accident during construction, and it had since been 67

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boarded up. The board was fastened by tape that looked easy to take off. He pointed at the window and said, “We’ll go through the window. I bet the scaffolding will take us to the roof. Then just pray that we can make our way across that skyway.”

Geralt grinned. His nose and cheeks were beet red. “Alright.

Let’s do it.”

They stepped around the mall, making their false tracks. As soon as they took off their shoes, voices rose from the stairwell.

“In here! They came in here.”

Northfield and Geralt muttered curses, and they ran to the busted window. Thunderous footsteps came from the stairwell; the fugitives wanted no part in that storm. Northfield worked at peeling off the tape, but his fingers didn’t cooperate with his brain, and he struggled to pull off the corner. Geralt worked at the opposite corner, and he uttered curse after curse.

Finally, Northfield peeled off his corner and pulled back the tape, which helped Geralt pull off his end as well.

Despite how cold he was, sweat trickled down his brow. The clambering footfalls grew louder. They had to be passing the third floor, now. Any second, any damn second, their enemies would arrive.

Geralt stepped through the gap in the window. Northfield followed, and he worked at resealing the window. He pressed some of the tape back onto the window frame. When that didn’t work, he thought, Screw it, and he pulled the board back hard, hoping the tape would stick itself. When he stopped touching the board, it held. The seal was far weaker than before, but it would hopefully hold until somebody pulled on it.

The soldiers emerged from the stairwell, sweeping their weapons. Northfield and Geralt stayed still, perfectly still, behind the boarded window.

After putting their shoes back on, they began the worst game of red light green light they would ever play. The Death Corps’ soldiers had flashlights strapped to the ends of their rifles. The fugitives waited until the beams turned away from the windows.

Then they crawled across the scaffolding, heading toward a staircase fifteen yards away. Why did it have to be so damned far?

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Hand over hand, they pulled themselves forward, the distance only seeming to grow longer when they realized how slowly they were moving. A light flashed over to them, and they froze. The beam lingered, and Northfield felt sweat pooling on the back of his neck. The light faded, and no more flashlights turned their way; the Death Corps had traveled away, scouring the rest of the floor for them.

The fugitives reached the stairwell. A support beam on the other side of the glass shielded them from view. Neither man said a word. The Death Corps probably wouldn’t hear them, but they damn well didn’t want to test that theory.

They crept up the stairs. For once, the snow was a help. The stairs were metal, and on a normal day, their footsteps would have rattled like crazy. However, the snow muffled their movement, and they reached the top without any undue creaks or groans.

They had reached the uppermost floor, the one under construction. The skyway extended a handful of yards ahead of them, and it was mostly a skeleton of X-beams. They crouched behind a stack of rebar and surveyed their surroundings.

Northfield realized there was another skyway under construction. It extended from the mall in the opposite direction from which they had arrived. Good. It served as another dead end the Death Corps might chase down.

“Damn. Look at that.” Geralt nodded toward the neighboring rooftops that overlooked the mall.

Northfield had to squint to see through the snowstorm, but he saw what had caught the former Yellowback’s attention.

Soldiers walked on the rooftop ledge, next to a bright neon billboard that showed an ad for some type of red soda. The soldiers had rifles, but the weapons weren’t what struck fear into Northfield.

They didn’t wear typical Death Corps armor. The first difference he saw was the red and blue lines that glowed against their black silhouettes. Their standard armor had the same lines, but they didn’t glow.

Then he noticed that their figures were different. Their armor was bulkier, most notably around the calves, shoulders, and 69

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arms. However, the armor didn’t appear clumsy or heavy like exo armor. Instead, their gait exuded agility and power. They moved like lions, perpetually poised to jump after prey. Their helmets had a more angular shape, with four lights forming an X in the center.

Past those details, he couldn’t make out anything else. But he saw enough to know this armor was something new. Or at least nothing he had ever seen before. New Medea, after all, was entirely new to him.

He whispered, “They look like some sort of advanced troops.

Can you make anything out about them?”

“Not really. But we have to get the hell out of here.”

Northfield took a step forward. Then he mused, “Think they’ve got thermal vision in those buckets?”

Geralt scowled, clearly understanding why he had asked. If the soldiers could see in thermal vision while they crossed the skyway, Geralt’s and Northfield’s bodies would stand out like Christmas lights.

Geralt said, “Well, I’m going either way. Screw the midnight parade downstairs.”

Northfield scanned the rooftops above the other skyway, and he saw no signs of enemies. He felt a moment of relief. Perhaps they would have an easier time crossing over there.

But then he saw movement: the slightest whisper of a shadow skating across the white-capped roof, then the slightest—just the very slightest—flicker of those red and blue lights.

It was another one of this new type of soldier. He had no doubt that he and Geralt were the reason they were lurking around the mall.

He cracked a small, bitter smile. “If they do have thermal, maybe we’re so cold that we’ll just blend in.”

“That’s the spirit,” Geralt said. He balled his hands into fists.

“Alright. I’m goin’, Northfield.”

“Right behind you, man.”

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clutter the scouts would have to see past to make them out.

Unless those scouts had thermal vision. But then again, that wasn’t something Northfield could control. So no use worrying about it, right? Right?

Heh. Yeah. I think in all my years of trying that line of thinking, it’s never succeeded once in actually calming me down.

You knew that, Jess, much to your great annoyance.

They reached the skyway. Up close, the skeleton of support beams looked even more treacherous. Down the street, there was a Road Closed sign and orange warning cones. There was a gap in the center, where the cones were sprawled out. The Death Corps vehicles they had seen earlier must have just busted through them. Evidently, the path was quicker to the soldiers’ destination, and they didn’t have much concern over falling debris from the bridge.

Northfield and Geralt would have to make their way across the skyway with a combination of tightrope-walking and climbing. He had no idea whether its weight would support them. The beams looked sturdy enough. Then again, he wasn’t an architect, so what the hell did he know?

After all, he had seen news stories of complete bridges collapsing before. The thought didn’t help his nerves.

He whispered, “I’m not afraid to admit that I’ve got some butterflies right now.”

Geralt smirked. “Join the club, pal. Let’s get moving before our rooftop buddies get wise.”

Geralt went first, grabbing a diagonal support beam and stepping onto a horizontal beam. Northfield followed suit on the same side of the skyway. It was the side that faced the rooftop with the scouts. Support beams stood between them and the scouts.

On the other side of the skyway, their backs would have been exposed to the overlooking scouts, and they would have been easier to spot. They preferred the risk of adding more weight to the support beams.

He reached for another bar, but his fingers slipped. He pinwheeled as his body swung away from the bar, and he felt a deadly strain on his other hand, even through the numbing cold.

71

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His grip was slipping. If he let go, he would say hello to the far, far ground.

But his grip held, somehow, although his fingers screamed in protest. He clutched the nearest support. He made it to a crossaxis support beam, which was wider. It allowed him to stand with relatively less fear of falling. He let go and gave his fingers a moment of reprieve.

Geralt glared at him. “Swinging your arms around like that… might as well be shooting up fireworks for them.”

He ignored the scolding, instead looking back and assessing how much progress they had made.

They were only a quarter of the way across. He groaned and scowled. After this, he would have to buy his fingers some dinner.

He continued on. Meanwhile, he peered through the gaps to watch the scouts. Whenever they looked in the general direction of the skyway, he and Geralt halted, getting as low and close to the beams as possible. When their gazes turned elsewhere, the fugitives kept moving.

Then Northfield saw something that blew his mind. One of the scouts got a running start toward the ledge. Then he jumped.

Blue lights burst from his calves, and he rocketed into the air.

The scout landed on a neighboring building, farther than any human could leap. He slid to stop himself like a hockey player, sending up a plume of snow. He took up a position to oversee the mall, watching the back alleys. He held his rifle at the ready, prepared to blow a hole in anything not emblazoned in Death Corps gear.

Geralt had seen it, too, and he whispered, “If we get seen by these guys, we’re not gonna outrun them.”

He nodded. After what he had just seen, one part of him didn’t want to move and risk being spotted by the scout. The other part of him, though, wanted to get as far away as his weary body could take him. He listened to the latter impulse.

What had saved them up to this point was the mall’s size; there were so many ways two fugitives could slink out, and the rooftop scouts couldn’t watch every one of them at once. Since Northfield hadn’t seen these advanced soldiers before, he guessed the Death Corps didn’t possess many of them.

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“Northfield… look.”

He was really starting to hate when Geralt said that. He followed Geralt’s nod, which led him to all of the screens plastered on the buildings down the street. The red light spilling from them illuminated the falling snow, and the clumps looked like rose petals.

He saw a pair of familiar faces plastered on the screens: his and Geralt’s. The pictures had been taken while they were captives. Text scrolled just under their mugshots, which read, Fugitives wanted. Thought to be in the Avarii neighborhood. One thousand credit cards for information leading to their capture.

The picture of his face didn’t catch his best angle, to say the least. The sight of his own eyes turned his gut. They were wide, haunted, and watching, watching for the next fist to curl up and fly into his cheek. In them, he felt those feelings of imprisonment return. It was just about the strongest reminder he could get of how badly he needed to avoid getting captured.

Geralt’s picture looked a lot better. He had that smug grin he liked to adopt, and Northfield imagined he had just finished insulting the Death Corps guard holding the camera.

Northfield’s picture had been taken after he recovered enough from his injuries to be transported to the prison. The Death Corps hadn’t given him an easy time, even then.

But Geralt’s picture was taken on the night of his capture. The guards hadn’t got a chance to sink their teeth into him yet, and it showed.

The former Yellowback muttered, “We’re gonna have a hell of a time getting out of here.”

“We’re having a tough enough time crossing this bridge,” Northfield said. “Come on, my fingers feel like ramen.”

They drew nearer and nearer to the skyway’s end. The parking lot, entirely dark save for a couple of emergency lights, couldn’t have looked more comforting. Well, unless there were two kingsized beds. With thick, thick covers to boot.

Yeah, I don’t think that’s happening. God, your miracles are more of the bread and wine type of stuff. Haven’t heard of you materializing mattresses before.

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The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

They only had a few more beams to cross when they heard rumbling. Death Corps Hounds turned a corner and drove onto their street, sending jets of snow into the air. Bathed in red, the jets resembled a demon’s wings, belonging to beasts in the throes of the hunt.

They stopped at the mall’s entrance, and Death Corps soldiers spilled out.

“Not good, Northfield. They’re gonna wise up and sniff over here.”

“The mall is huge. Let’s hope they keep turning over stones, just for a little bit longer.”

They finally stepped onto firm ground, but neither man stopped to breathe. They beelined it to the far stairwell, on the opposite end of the street. They descended the steps two at a time.

The cold slowed his reflexes, and his legs felt numb. With each step, he wondered if he would trip on himself and tumble into Geralt. He’d become a bowling ball, set to wreck their little escape.

But his steps remained true, and soon enough, he was on the ground floor. They legged it through alleys and across streets, having to battle with the snow and their exhaustion.

With each street they passed, they saw more giant screens lining the buildings, all plastered with their faces. It was like some funhouse mirror maze mixed with Times Square.

Instead of another alley, at the next street, they were greeted with a wider pedestrian road. Trees, chilled to the bone and barren, lined both sides. An archway hung over them, with engraved letters that read, Octagon Market.

They could see part of the market, enough to determine that it was empty. The snow coated the ground with perfect uniformity; no footsteps had interfered with nature’s work.

Still, they peered down both sides of the street, assessing their other options. No good. The bridge to their left was completely exposed to all of the buildings around it. To their right, the road met a wide one-way street.

Going back didn’t cross their minds, not for a moment. They hurried across the street and ran under the archway.

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The market’s name was nothing if not accurate. Eight buildings sat around the market center, each housing a well-todo store of some kind. Models with blank, eternal faces peered at them through windows, bundled up in jackets and hats. The models sure looked a hell of a lot warmer than Northfield and Geralt. The lights were off in every store; so were the neon signs hanging over the front doors. Unless the fugitives fancied some breaking and entering, the nice gloves and hats were out of reach.

If doing so wouldn’t have risked setting off all manner of alarms, they would have considered it.

In addition, there were a number of smaller kiosks sitting in the market center. All of them were vacant, too.

The alleys between the stores provided them a number of options.

“Which way?” Northfield asked. He had spoken louder than he intended. The damn cold had struck again, fogging up his brain.

A rustling noise came from the kiosk next to them. Northfield and Geralt, startled halfway to death, pivoted toward the source.

Then they saw the footsteps leading in from the nearest alley.

They had been wrong about the square being vacant.

A head popped up from the kiosk. The stranger wore a colorful beanie and gaiter; nothing about their face could be seen except for a pair of brown eyes.

Eyes that widened promptly at the sight of their guns. The stranger flinched, but they didn’t duck out of view. Their eyebrows narrowed.

They widened again in recognition. The following voice was deep, a man’s voice. “Oh, man. You’re the guys on TV.” Neither fugitive saw a point in denying the allegation.

“Screw me,” Geralt muttered, spitting into the snow.

The man said to himself, “Yeah, yeah, there’s a big reward, ain’t there?”

“Quit your dreaming right there,” the former Yellowback warned. “You ain’t getting an award because you ain’t ratting on us. You hear me?”

“Don’t know about that one, pal. It’s a lot of money.”

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“Might as well be a billion credits because I could give a rat’s ass either way. You either get nothing or a bullet to the head.

How’s that sound?”

“Geralt…” Northfield said. He was eyeing Geralt and his rifle.

The stranger picked up a large backpack and slung it over his shoulder; he had been planning on sleeping there for the night, it seemed.

He wasn’t really listening to Geralt. He said to himself, “Man, I could get a… a boat. I’ve always wanted a boat.”

He started to climb out of the back of the kiosk.

Geralt barked, “I’ll put you in the ground, kid. I’ve put men down for less.”

The stranger turned his head and said, “Oh yeah? Then shoot me.”

Geralt looked through his rifle’s sights, preparing to fire.

Northfield swatted the barrel down.

“No way, man. No way,” he said.

The stranger stood there and blinked for a second, not believing his luck. Geralt lifted his gun again, but the stranger darted away, disappearing into the nearest alley.

Geralt turned his ire on Northfield. He shoved him against the wall, and he seethed, nearly on the cusp of shouting. “You happy, you damned pansy? How’s it feel to piss our lives down the drain?”

Northfield gasped for air; the impact had emptied his lungs.

Between breaths, he said, “You don’t think the Death Corps would hear the shot?”

Geralt pulled him back and rammed him into the wall again.

“There’s been a lot of shots tonight. I’d take that over some loser giving us up.”

“I’m not just gonna off a guy, Geralt,” he said. “Think for a second. We’re alone in this city. Neither of us knows head from ass. If word spreads that we’re killing people left and right, who’s gonna help us, huh? Who’s gonna give us the time of day?”

“I hope you feel just as good about this when they put a tarp over your head and line you up against the wall. I hope you feel really good about it.”

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“Hey!” Their conversation was forgotten, and they turned toward the speaker. There was someone at the mouth of the same alley the stranger had run into. It was a different man, however. He wore a hat and a long coat that concealed his features.

He extended a hand to them and asked in a low voice, “Do you want to live?”

Geralt answered quickly. “Hell yeah I do.”

“Then drop the guns and follow me.”

The consensus between the fugitives was immediate. Their rifles fell to the snow.

They ran to the strange man on a night equal parts strange and horrible. A bit of hope fluttered in Northfield’s heart. It was almost too painful to keep around, for fear that it would fly away.

Still, he would hold on to it, at least for a little longer.

77

6 They ran down the alley with the stranger. He said, “My name is Odell Barnes. You two don’t need to introduce yourselves, believe me.”

Now that Northfield was closer to him, he could make out the man’s features. Odell’s age hovered somewhere between the midfifties and early sixties, and he had wrinkles that undoubtedly held some stories. His gait appeared mostly normal, but age had begun to drag on it, if just slightly. His cheeks were high and full, giving his face a welcoming quality.

Well, maybe part of that observation was just him seeing a friendly face. Lord, it had been a long time.

“Are you with the rebels that sprung us?” Geralt asked.

“Stormrise? Oh, no. I’m with nobody. I just happened to be nearby. If I didn’t just bump into a man that was running away from you, I would still be on my way.”

The answer satisfied the fugitives. They were heading away from the Death Corps, which was all either of them cared about.

“Alright, first things first,” Odell said. “You two look cold.”

“What gave it away?” Geralt asked sarcastically.

“We ought to get you more to wear. Those prison jumpers under your jackets aren’t helping you blend in.” Odell stopped briefly at the mouth of an alleyway. They looked across both sides of the street. The snow was so deep now that only cars with snow tires or treads would dare ride across. Odell tapped a finger against the wall to his left. “There is a little charity that’s nearby, open for the holidays. Citizens drop off spare clothing there for people in need. I suppose you two fit that definition, don’t you?”

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Northfield and Geralt agreed it was a good idea. They struggled to keep up with Odell, despite his older age. Cold was the great equalizer, it seemed.

Oh, man. It’s December, and I didn’t even remember that Christmas is coming up. A decade ago, I’d be out shopping for you, Jess. I always aced the gift-giving game. I bet Christmas justified the other 364 days of putting up with me, didn’t it?

I could put my finger right on the pulse of what you wanted, even when you didn’t know yourself. But I’d act so damned clueless every year, and I’d surprise you all the more.

You started to wise up those last couple of years, didn’t you?

But you still managed to act shocked, so I’ll give you that.

They reached the donation zone, which was just a wide bin filled with trash bags overflowing with clothes. It didn’t look much different than a dumpster, save for the Donation Drop-Offs sign.

Northfield and Geralt rummaged through the bags, ditching their jackets and replacing them with better winter gear. When they were done, they were concealed head to toe; they wouldn’t be recognized by their faces or by the jumpsuits underneath their new attire. They stuffed their old, bloody jackets underneath the bin. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t exactly have trouble sniffing out the clue, but it was all they could do.

“Better?” Odell asked them. His shoulders hunched, and his hands sat firmly in his pockets. The cold had started to reach his bones, too.

“Worlds,” Northfield replied.

Geralt added, “I’ll never take a pair of gloves for granted again, I can tell you that.”

“Good. If you fellas don’t mind, then, I’d like to get a move on.”

“We’d like nothing more,” Northfield said.

Odell said, “We’re about to enter a neighborhood with a large homeless population. There will be more foot traffic, which should help throw the bad guys off our tracks. The people will mind their own business as long as we don’t give them a reason to do otherwise. Avoid acting suspicious, and we’ll get through just fine.”

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“Got it,” Geralt said. “Lead the way, boss.”

They crossed onto a wide street, and Odell’s words proved true. A whole host of tents littered the sidewalks. People wore coats so thick they looked spherical. Most were asleep, unperturbed by the violence a mile or two away, and they leaned against the walls of buildings in sore need of repair. The windows were either boarded up or had bars over them.

Still, a number of hole-in-the-wall restaurants persisted, showcasing a whole host of food types on posters as they passed.

Northfield’s belly rumbled violently. The restaurants were closed, but he could imagine the smell of food, and even that made him salivate.

There were also a number of pawn shops around. He wondered what knickknacks from before the war might be sitting on their shelves.

Disturbingly, missing-person posters littered windows, walls, signposts, and anywhere else that tape would stick. Worse yet, the posters weren’t just for a single person. He saw a variety of people with no discernible pattern between them.

Graffiti covered the walls. Notably, graffiti was sprayed over some of the wanted posters, deliberately. In all cases, it was the same word.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

The hunger in his stomach was swiftly replaced by nausea.

Odell had been right; nobody on the streets paid them any mind. The most attention they got was a couple of friendly nods from men and women they passed, along with someone asking them for money.

After they passed through the neighborhood, Odell said, “My apartment is a few blocks away. Since it’s in a quiet, unassuming area of town, I think we’ll be safe there. For a time, at least. And if not…” He chuckled softly to himself. “Well, then, we gave it our best go.”

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“Thanks for helping us,” Northfield said. “We would be screwed beyond words without you.”

“Hold off on the gratitude for now,” Odell said. “I’ve got no idea what to do once we get to my apartment. I may only be delaying the inevitable, for all I know.”

“One step at a time, then?” Northfield asked.

“One step at a time,” Odell repeated.

They reached his apartment. Fortunately, they didn’t have any doormen or receptionists to contend with. All that stood between them and Odell’s apartment was a key and lock.

His apartment was modest but welcoming. It had a gentle wood-green color scheme with brown furniture.

And it was warm. Heaven on earth, it was warm.

Odell opened a closet and dug out blankets. They were warm, thick, and fluffy. Northfield fought the urge to just wrap himself in one and fall asleep. Without missing a beat, Odell said, “I’ll get you both some new underclothes to replace those jumpsuits.

You’re both larger than me, but I’m sure I’ve got some baggier clothes that might do the trick. Give me a moment, please.”

With that, Odell darted down the hallway, which led to a single bedroom and bathroom.

Northfield took stock of himself and Geralt. Both of them still shivered and were nowhere near thawed out. Nonetheless, their teeth chattered a good deal less now that they were out of the cold.

Odell came back with a boulder of clothes in tow. He looked away as his guests stripped out of their prison jumpers and changed into sweatpants and sweatshirts.

Their host gestured to the living room, which had a couple of couches in front of a modest TV. “You two ought to get some shuteye. Get your strength up,” Odell said. “I’ll make breakfast in the morning.”

Geralt peered past the walls skeptically, as if he could see outside. “You sure we’ll be safe here?”

Odell sighed. “We’ll just have to hope so. Right now, I don’t know where else to bring you.”

81

The Northfield Saga: Stormrise

Northfield and Geralt exchanged glances. With their exhaustion, they wouldn’t be able to travel far, anyway.

Geralt frowned, but instead of replying directly, he turned to the TV and asked, “You guys got cable in New Medea? News stations?”

He chuckled. “Sure, there are news stations. Don’t know how much ‘news’ is going on, though.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’m gonna turn it on. I bet my sack they’re covering the manhunt. If they start sniffing around here, maybe we’ll get a heads-up.”

“Go right ahead,” Odell said.

Northfield doubted the news would help them much. If the Death Corps were worth their salt, which he knew they were, they wouldn’t allow the news stations to broadcast anything that would give him and Geralt any sort of edge.

Even if they did hear that the Death Corps were nearing the apartment, what then? Could they really outrun the soldiers in their weary state?

The screen flickered to life, and they were presented with a news broadcast. A square NMN icon hovered in the bottom corner of the screen, which he deduced stood for “New Medea News.” A large banner extended from the logo, displaying a headline in large words. Smaller text scrolled below it. The design resembled pre-war news stations, and he was transported to a world before the gas bombs.

He could feel the soft leather of his old couch, even through his numb fingers, and he could picture the evening news broadcasts he used to watch, back to the days when he could stomach the news, before things started to get real bad, before the incoming war’s ugly face crawled out of the dirt for everyone to see.

What reeled him right back into the cold present was the contents of the broadcast itself. The text on the main banner read, Fugitives Still at Large: the Hunt Continues.

Periodically, mugshots of him and Geralt flashed on the screen. Never in his life had he wanted to be famous, and this sure didn’t change his inclination.

The news broadcasted a helicopter view of a neighborhood, but the snow gave everything a dreary haze. He could see the 82

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warm glow of neon rising from the neighborhood, likely coming from similar screens to the ones on the buildings they had passed. Nonetheless, the neighborhood didn’t look familiar; he didn’t recall it being one they had passed through. Then again, the fogginess in his head didn’t help his memory.

“Odell, is this neighborhood close to us?”

“When I think of those helicopters, and those soldiers, everything seems too close,” Odell said. “But from the direction you were coming… I’d say it looks like they’ve veered off a bit.

The direction is a couple blocks east from where we left the Octagon Market. We went north.”

Geralt turned up the volume. The broadcast changed to show two reporters, a man and a woman. He wore a black suit with a cool red tie, and she wore a red dress that matched.

Both presented concerned frowns, but the worry didn’t reach their eyes. The expressions were the types that said, “Oh boy, it would sure be bad if the world was nuked. So awfully sad. But then again, aren’t you glad we’re here to tell you about it?”

They were attractive, but too much so. Whatever blemishes their faces naturally wore had been crushed into submission.

The man was shifted out of frame, and an on-the-ground reporter came into the split-screen view. The reporter in the red dress now conversed with her. The on-the-ground reporter was bundled up in enough clothing to make a mummy jealous.

She discussed the storm’s effect on the Network’s security cameras. The snow blocked many of them, and she described how that was making it harder for the Corps to track the fugitives.

Every time the reporter said “security camera,” she placed a whole lot of emphasis on the first word. It was vitally important for the audience to know that they were “security” cameras and that they couldn’t be used for any other reason. This clue was enough for Northfield to surmise that the cameras had another purpose that also began with an S: surveillance.

So the Network had surveillance cameras posted everywhere.

While the storm covering their tracks was good news, the surveillance was overall bad news. They would have to worry about digital witnesses, as well as the old-fashioned eyeballs of pedestrians.

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Additionally, the reporters only referred to the Death Corps as the Corps. The reporters emphasized this, too, just like they did with “security.”

He didn’t know what to make of that, and right now, the detail didn’t strike him as anything more than curious.

The broadcast shifted to the male reporter; he went on a diatribe about the “terrorists” that had saved Northfield and Geralt. Not once did he refer to the group by the name Odell had mentioned: Stormrise. The reporter railed against the property damage, the Death Corps lives taken, and the civilian lives lost.

No specific numbers were given about any of these. To be fair, that was probably because the situation was still ongoing and those numbers hadn’t been totaled yet.

A mugshot was then plastered on the screen, along with a name underneath it: Rayne Simpson. He had a stern jaw and deep forehead lines. He was in his early forties, by the looks of it. His brown eyes seemed to pierce through the screen.

The reporter announced that the Corps suspected that he was behind the attack on their convoy. At least five terrorists were confirmed to be on the loose. Since Simpson’s body hadn’t been found among the dead, he was suspected to be with them.

“This is good,” Geralt muttered. “This is really good. They’re not just hunting us. Their attention is gonna be split.”

The news cycled back to the helicopter broadcast and started to repeat itself. The same information about Northfield and Geralt was presented with slightly different wording. Without any breaks in the story, the news channel was treading the same ground.

Odell frowned at the TV. He said, “I’m going to bed. Hopefully my dreams will spark ideas on what we’ll do. Goodnight.”

“Odell, wait,” Northfield said, “You’re facing an insane amount of risk, sticking your neck out for us. I guess I just… I gotta know. Why?”“When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’re life becomes a long line of decisions. And you’ve got to live with them.” He averted his gaze from them. Regret seeped into his voice despite his attempt to hide it. “When you two came my way, a real chance to do something good, I couldn’t afford to 84

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miss it.” His tone became friendly, but it didn’t invite further conversation. “If you need anything, just knock.”

When his bedroom door shut, Geralt turned down the volume. He said, “It’s gonna be a hell of a time getting out of this city. There’s a good chance that our nuts are gonna get stuck in a vise.” The former Yellowback added gruffly, “If that happens, I meant what I said. I ain’t going back to a cell.”

Northfield nodded.

Geralt wrapped himself in blankets and lay on a couch. “Get your beauty rest, because tomorrow is gonna be a whole bundle of fun.”

Northfield lay on the other couch and stared at the ceiling.

Despite his tiredness, sleep wouldn’t come, not yet. The ceiling, white and perfectly flat, had nothing interesting for his eyes to latch on to. Nothing to distract himself.

The gravity of his predicament pressed down on him.

The city had, what, hundreds of thousands of people?

Millions? Most of them would send him down the river, either for a reward or out of fear or anger from whatever the news had said about him. And how did they play into Stormrise’s schemes?

On his side, he had a man who would have ordered his death without a second thought just a year ago. After all, Northfield had been a merc who caused Geralt’s organization a hell of a lot of trouble. Hardly the only thing he knew about the other person in his court, Odell, was his name. On the entire globe, these two were the only people he could consider allies.

You always had so many friends, Jess. They surrounded you and grew and lit up like wildfire. Even when you moved, a whole new set cropped up in no time. Ride or die type people, too.

I never had that talent. But people in this city have already died for me, haven’t they? Mere minutes in this city, and bodies already surround me.

I pray it’s not a trend, God. I pray with all my heart that it’s not.

85

7 “No, not her. Not him. Not her, either,” Odell muttered to himself, scrolling through names in a notebook as they sat around his dining table. His coffee had long since cooled, but he still timidly sipped at it.

Northfield’s and Geralt’s cups were steaming hot; they had each refilled theirs a couple of times. The snowy hell they had trudged through the night before hadn’t left their minds, and it wouldn’t easily. They might as well gulp down a bunch of hot liquid to prepare themselves for the cold.

They hadn’t slept long, but they had slept deeply. Not even nightmares could broach Northfield’s exhaustion. All things considered, it was the best night of sleep he could remember.

Considering how low the bar hung, that wasn’t saying much.

Nonetheless, his reluctance to get up in the early hours of the morning, when the sun’s glow only teased the horizon, was unmatched. His hesitancy wasn’t all due to tiredness. The world seemed anything but bearable today.

Their meal had been bread, frozen fruit, and some type of canned meat. It had vanished quickly. A mouse would have trouble scrounging up even a single crumb.

Odell shut his notebook with a decisive thwack, and he pressed the corner against the middle of his forehead. The notebook held all of his contacts. In his words, it was everybody who had given him a friendly glance before the bombs fell.

He muttered, “You know, I already looked through this book last night, after you boys went to bed. Looking through it again, well, I can’t say I’ve found anything useful.”

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“We’re in shit creek and nobody wants to hand over a paddle?

Can’t say I’m surprised,” Geralt said, then took a swig of his coffee.

He grimaced; it was still a bit too hot. Out of defiance directed at seemingly the world in general, he took another swig.

Odell didn’t respond, instead swirling the contents of his cup.

Geralt swung his mug outward, using it to point at the countertop. Near its corner sat a with its battery removed and lying nearby.

“Does that phone have the internet, cell service, the whole works?”

“Sure does. But it’s on a Network connection,” Odell said.

“You can’t whisper without agents picking up on it. They’ll see anyone you call and anything you search online.”

“Is there a way to go off-grid? You guys got a dark web in this city?”

He shrugged, then grinned wryly. He held up his little notebook. “I haven’t heard of anything like that. But I’m not Mr. Tech. I stick to pen and paper, when I can.”

“Northfield?” Geralt asked. “Do you happen to be a tech whiz?”

“That’s a no from me, Sarge.”

Geralt scowled. “Then we shouldn’t poke around online. If the Network does monitor everything, like you say, then we’ll screw ourselves over before we find a helping hand.”

“Agreed.”

Geralt kept staring at the phone, and he cracked a grin. “You know, I’m better off without one of those things anyway. Used to play that… What do you call it? Gem Rush.”

Northfield nearly spat out his drink. “You? You of all the people on this planet used to play Gem Rush? That stupid phone game?”

Geralt nodded and sipped his coffee.

Northfield shook his head in disbelief. “My wife played it whenever she had a couple free minutes.”

“I have a few vices, Northfield. Women. Booze. And Gem Rush.”

“Heh. I’ll be damned.”

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They sipped their coffee in silence as Odell gave his notebook another quick read-through. He tossed it on the table with disdain.

“No ray of light?” Northfield asked.

“No ray of light,” Odell said. “But there is one option we have.

I’ve been looking for alternatives, but there don’t seem to be any.”

“Oh. It’s that sort of option,” Northfield said.

“I know a woman who might be able to get us in contact with Stormrise: Aubrey Robinson. But we had a falling out.” Odell said the last sentence firmly, not inviting further questions. “I don’t think I can contact her over the phone. If I tried to leave her a message, she wouldn’t respond, especially because I can’t express the gravity of our situation over the phone. The Network is listening, after all. It’s been years since we’ve talked.” He furrowed his brow and looked down. “But I know her address.

Or at least the one that she gave me back then. Lord knows if she’s still there.”

Northfield said, “I think I’m following. You’re saying that our only option is to arrive at her doorstep. From there, we need to hope she still lives there and is in the mood to help us.”

Odell nodded and chuckled, but he didn’t sound amused in the slightest. “It’s far-fetched, but still the best option we have. I think there is a strong chance that she has ties to Stormrise.”

“You think?” Geralt said. “You don’t know?”

Odell pressed his lips together. “Not for certain. But I’m willing to bet on it. I’m willing to trek across the city, with the most wanted fugitives since Bonnie and Clyde, to find out.”

“You’re not coming with us,” Northfield said. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for us. You’ve put your ass right over the burner on our account, and that’s not something I can repay.

But coming with us… the danger you’d be in… I can’t in good conscience let that happen. Not when there’s no need.”

“No need?” Odell said. “Who’s going to convince Aubrey to help you?”

“You said your relationship with her is shaky. So she’s not gonna help us on account of you. If she’s affiliated with Stormrise, she would help us for political or moral reasons or whatever. I think Geralt and I can swing her around on that front.”

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“And what about getting to her?”

“I’m sure there’s a map somewhere we can use.”

“And if you come across any hiccups? You don’t want to monkey around with a map, getting lost when every second out in the streets is a risk for you.”

Geralt pitched in. “I vote that our new buddy comes.”

“You won’t go out there alone,” Odell said assertively and added with emphasis, “I can’t in good conscience allow it.”

Northfield thought about it, and then he said, “Alright, but you have to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to listen to what we say. If we tell you to turn heel, then that’s what you’re gonna do. Run like a spider’s crawling up your leg. No playing hero, no sticking it out with us.”

“I can do that. I’ve never had a knack for theatrics, anyway.”

“Good.”

There was a pause, after which Geralt said tentatively, “Odell.

You’re talking about treks across the city. And maps. How far away does Aubrey live?”

“On the opposite side of the city,” Odell said.

“Oh, screw me,” Geralt exclaimed.

With that, Odell finished the rest of his coffee. *** While they were talking, the news had been playing on the living room TV. After Odell tossed their cups into the sink, a new development caught their attention. In the biggest font the news station could find, a message scrolled across the screen. Breaking: Leaker Responsible for Terror Attack Caught.

Video played of a handcuffed woman being escorted out of an office building. They shoved her into the truck, not bothering to be gentle, as a male reporter spoke over the feed.

“An officer in the State Department, Veronica Pitt, has been arrested. From our sources on the ground, she provided classified information to the terrorists about the transport convoy. This information was integral in the orchestration of last night’s harrowing terrorist attack.

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“Another development is breaking. General Charles Arkland of the Corps will give a press conference in ten minutes.”

“The Corps,” Northfield observed. “They keep calling them the Corps, not the Death Corps.”

“Here in New Medea, they’ve been rebranding themselves over the past year,” Odell said. “In the chaos of the early apocalypse days, the name of the game was strength. Ruthlessness.

Intimidation. The ‘Death Corps’ fit that bill just fine. But now…”

He shrugged. “The name has outlived its usefulness. They’re aiming for something more… civilized.”

The reporters speculated on what General Arkland would say.

Their theories were so wild that Northfield didn’t draw anything beneficial from them. Clearly, the reporters didn’t know much, save for the fact that they loved to hear their own voices.

The clip of the arrested woman being shoved into the vehicle played over their conversation, intermixed with footage of the aftermath of the convoy attack. They saw wrecked cars and debris everywhere. And the bodies… Well, the news had no compunctions about showing each and every one of them. So much for thinking about the children’s eyes. Bullet holes riddled Death Corps helmets. The rebels’ mangled bodies couldn’t be easily identified.

Northfield asked, “What the hell did we get ourselves into the middle of, Odell?”

“Heh,” Odell chuckled. “Do you want the long political history or the short version?”

Geralt said, “Odell, here’s a fun fact about me. Before the bombs, I didn’t vote. Not once. I could give a crap about politics.”

Odell got the message. “Short version it is. I’ll try to keep it that way, at least. Around a year ago, the Network announced the Golden City Initiative. Its goal, they said, was to cut down on crime in New Medea. This was a head-scratcher right off the bat.”

“Why’s that?” Northfield said.

Odell shrugged. “Crime was already trending down in the city. Sure, there’s always going to be crime in some shape or form, but it wasn’t something the public was overly concerned about.

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focus on it, didn’t really register with me. At first, I thought it was a PR booster. Create an initiative for a nonproblem, do nothing, and then say you solved the problem.” His face darkened.

“Unfortunately, I was wrong. As a matter of fact, the Golden City Initiative created more crime.”

“More crime?” Northfield repeated incredulously. “What, did the Network take up train robbery in their spare time?”

“Death Corps soldiers arrested people for increasingly petty crimes. Public intoxication, traffic violations, loitering, all the way down the ladder. The Network added a curfew, just to arrest people for violating it. And the punishment was always the same.

The offender was carted off and never heard from again.”

He grimaced, bitterly, and said, “I need more coffee. Do either of you want another cup?”

Northfield said, “I’m good, man. I’ve got enough of the jitters already.”

“I’ll take one,” Geralt said.

The older man returned and passed a cup off to the former Yellowback. He took a sip from his own cup, then said, “At first, the Death Corps targeted bad neighborhoods. The types of places where people wouldn’t look too hard if someone went missing.

That worked for them, at least for a little while.”

Northfield, squinting as he recalled, said, “The neighborhood we passed through… I saw a lot of missing posters up. Are those Death Corps abductions?”

“Most, I suspect,” Odell said. “But once people started being taken, the monsters amongst us took advantage of the situation.

It’s hard to tell where someone’s loved one might be.” He took another sip to hide his grim expression.

He continued. “As time passed, the Death Corps broadened their enforcement. Meanwhile, public fear and outrage grew.

I would like to think these events happened independently.

That the public would’ve noticed, regardless of who was taken.

After the collective damnation we’ve all been through, we have an acute empathy for suffering. Then again, we all have a nasty habit of ignoring others down on their luck, don’t we? Especially these days. Especially in a city with so many people. What’s a few hundred, a few thousand, out of millions?”

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The news broadcast switched focus to the hunt for the members of Stormrise still on the loose, the members led by Rayne Simpson. For flavor, the news showed an aerial view of the city. The snowfall had died down significantly this morning, now merely a light drifting. They could see much farther into the distance, with better clarity to boot.

The skyways at the mall weren’t a unique feature; everywhere, Northfield saw skyways creating chains that linked nearly every building to one another. Similarly, the huge screens they had seen weren’t restricted to a particular square or neighborhood; they were spread across the city.

On the screens close enough to make out details, he saw advertisements for products he had never heard of. He picked out some sort of drink and a clothing line. In nearly equal number, though, he saw pieces of propaganda. Death Corps recruitment advertisements depicting soldiers adorned with all means of high-tech gear. Proud, powerful postures, with chests jutted out, awash in glowing red. It was the type of stuff that would attract anyone who was down on their luck or had been stepped on.

There were also recruitment ads for other Network positions.

Tech jobs showed off more cool toys to play with. Bureaucratic recruitment ads presented luxurious offices, dresses, and suits.

The city’s vegetation also stood out. There were so many trees that they covered the sidewalks and midsections of streets like blankets. The light from the billboards filtered through the barren branches, creating truly alien designs with the shadows.

What shocked him the most, however, was the city’s scale.

The metropolis spread far into the distance, bisected neatly by a wide river.

Peering at the vastness, he asked, “Nobody has a clue what the Network is doing with these people?”

Odell pointed at the TV. “See those giant buildings?”

Northfield didn’t have to look very far. Even in the background, five skyscrapers towered above their neighbors.

Silhouetted, they were demon claws, emerging out of the very earth. Since the buildings around them were also skyscrapers, he could only imagine how tall these five were. Clearly, they were 92

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unfinished. Cranes surrounded them, and their top floors were skeletal.

After he and Geralt nodded, Odell said, “They’re a part of the Network’s Great Restoration Initiative.”

“That’s a mouthful,” Geralt said. “Your Network really likes its initiatives, don’t it?”

Odell turned his coffee cup in his hand; already, it was nearly empty. “It does. ‘Initiative’ is one of the Network’s utility words.

It can mean so much yet so little at the same time. Anyway, the initiative’s official objective is to put more resources into the city’s technology and infrastructure. Big skyscrapers, more trees, opulent parks, and funding for the Network’s research and development department. See how they sneak that last one in there?”

Northfield rubbed his nose in thought, then said, “If resources are put into benefits that people actually see around them, they’ll care less about the costs dumped into R&D. Is that the read here?”

“Very good,” Odell said. “But the skyscrapers aren’t just a diversion. The Nexus genuinely wants them built. They serve as a monument to how good of a job the Chairs are doing. At least how good they think they’re doing.”

“You’ve lost me,” Geralt said. “What the hell’s the Nexus? And Chairs?”

Odell tilted his head. “The Nexus is the top of the Network’s power structure. Its members, the Chairs, are in charge. Don’t you have a Nexus in Cumulus?”

“No,” Geralt said. “In Cumulus, the Network tried to be as faceless as possible. Whatever doughfaces sat on its highest committee were easily shuffled around, with Joe Six-Pack not knowing jack about it.”

Odell said, “Interesting. I assumed it was the same there. I suppose, then, that I shouldn’t merely take for granted that you know things?”

“I won’t speak for Geralt,” Northfield said, “but you can assume I don’t know anything.”

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Geralt cracked a grin at that. He said, “I’ve never been one to get his pants twisted over being told too much. My ears ain’t rationing.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, then. Anyway, there are five Chairs of the Nexus, and they each control a certain aspect of the greater north-central region. In addition to the Chairs, there is also the general of the Death Corps, Charles Arkland. He’s somewhat of a satellite member. Not a full member of the committee, but sort of one.”

“What does that mean?” Geralt asked.

Odell shrugged, and he said with slight sheepishness, “I’m afraid I haven’t paid as much attention to the city’s politics as I maybe ought to. That’s just what I’ve heard.”

“That’s fine. My brain is already hurting as it is,” Northfield said. “Okay, back to the Great Restoration Initiative.”

Odell said, “On its own, nothing is too noteworthy about the initiative. So the Network wants to build up the city and do research for their army. Normal day-to-day stuff for any governing body.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but,’” Geralt said.

Odell nodded and said, “But the timeline is curious. The Great Restoration Initiative was announced two years ago. However, production really ramped up a year or so ago.”

Northfield saw the dots connect. “Right around when the Network announced their Golden City Initiative and people started vanishing. Pretty coincidental.”

Odell smirked and repeated, “Yes. Pretty coincidental.

Unfortunately, I don’t have evidence to verify it. I haven’t heard about kidnapped people being spotted working on construction for the skyscrapers or anything like that. So take an old man’s word for what it is. But I just can’t shake the belief that the initiatives are connected somehow.”

Geralt said, “I don’t give a damn about the Network’s inner schemes. So they’re building skyscrapers. And they’re abducting people. Fine.” He pointed at the TV, which was showing footage from the convoy wreck. “What I’m wondering is, how did things escalate to this?”

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“As I said, the scope of the kidnappings grew. Friends and family wondered where their loved ones went. Then they worried.

Then they became angry. Once they got angry, they gathered up other reasons to be mad, too. The Network’s surveillance state, the secrecy about other regions, such as yours, and a medley of other reasons. Churn all those around and you’ve got yourself a lot of ginned-up people.

“Political activists rose up and gave the anger a direction. The main ones were a set of twins. A brother and sister. I doubt their real names matter to you, and to be honest, I don’t remember them myself. But they became known as the Firebrands.”

“Firebrands. Hell of a name,” Geralt remarked.

Odell said, “The title didn’t come out of the blue. The twins were passionate. Persuasive, too. They built a base of support quickly. But as the name suggests, they were too incendiary. If I’m being charitable, you could say they were too courageous.”

Odell thought about that for a moment before he said, “No, they were incendiary. They called for the throat of each Nexus Chair.

I’m sure you can guess what happened next.”

When neither Northfield nor Geralt ventured a guess, the elder man continued. “They disappeared. The public was mad as all get-out, even those that didn’t support the Firebrands, and a standoff followed. Everyone was on the edge of the cliff, and it was up to the wind if we would all fall into chaos. The tension didn’t last, though. No strong, viable leaders stepped up after the Firebrands vanished, and the movement dissolved without direction. Of course, the discontent simmered.

“The Network stopped kidnapping people, which also did its part to loosen the tension. The few optimists in the city thought that things would return to normal. They thought the Network had pushed until it had found the people’s line, and it had learned its lesson.”

“Not so much?” Northfield ventured.

Odell said, “The Network was just biding its time, waiting for the tension to dissolve. Once it did, the Death Corps continued enforcing their unique version of the law. Of course, general fear and anger rose. But after one failed movement, people were reluctant to try again.”

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“Seeing how rebels just launched grenades at a Network caravan, they must have changed their minds,” Northfield commented.

Odell said, “Not immediately. Because the Network did something nobody saw coming.”

“Alright, now you’ve got me intrigued,” Geralt said.

“They announced another initiative: the Clear Skies Initiative. It was the most uncontroversial announcement of all.

The Network had developed a series of bombs with payloads that would neutralize the gas. They could wipe the gas away like a bad dream. The Nexus leaders announced a plan to fly planes and air-drop these bombs over the city and surrounding wilderness.”

Northfield reflected, Huh. Not once since entering the city did I really think about the fact that I can breathe normally. It went from miracle to forgotten in less than twenty-four hours. Is this why you don’t give us miracles more often, God? Because we just forget about them?

In my defense, I’ve had a lot of other things on my mind. Bullets have a way of drawing your focus.

Odell continued. “The Chairs didn’t sit on their laurels, either. Within weeks, the gas had been neutralized in the city, out to a hundred-mile radius. Everyone’s fantasy had become a reality within a month. Nobody really cared to question the Network’s motives.” Odell pondered that for a moment before he asked them, “When you were in Cumulus, did you know anything about New Medea?”

“No,” Northfield answered, “I just heard rumors about other regions existing, but nothing substantial.”

Geralt said, “I didn’t, but I wasn’t curious, either. Figured everywhere else was a craphole, too.” He looked around, as if observing the entire city. “You guys might have some flashing lights here, but I ain’t been proven wrong yet. No offense.”

“None taken,” Odell said. “For us New Medeans, the situation was about the same. We knew there was a central region, and that there was a city named Cumulus in it, but nothing more.

That changed one month after the gas had been cleared. We heard that the gas had been eradicated in Cumulus, too. Not due 96

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to the Network’s hand, however.” His eyes leveled on them, and he said, “We heard about you, Mark Northfield. And you, Geralt Salb. And the Yellowbacks. We learned how you had stormed the Network’s castle and rid the city of gas. You became heroes overnight.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Geralt said. “Why would the Network let that information get out?”

“The Network didn’t do so intentionally,” Odell said. “You can count on that. The Death Corps tried to clamp down on the rumors, but they were unsuccessful.”

“I don’t buy it,” Geralt said. “The Network’s kept a cap on info crossing between the regions for years. It’s been more airtight than a submarine. You’re telling me that, with the one secret that really should be kept, someone let the cat right out of the bag?”

Odell shrugged. “The story was big. People have trouble keeping their mouths shut, even Network employees. And the fact that the Network was trying to conceal it only managed to validate the story in people’s eyes. It sure as shooting did for me.

And lo and behold, with you two in my company, the story is proven true.”

Geralt tilted his head back and forth, considering what Odell had said. “Yeah, alright. Fine. As I’ve always said, the Network ain’t half as competent as it pretends to be.”

Northfield let out a small, sad chuckle.

“What?” Geralt asked.

“It’s just… Look, bear with me for a second. The Network in New Medea is more advanced than the Network in Cumulus, right?”

Geralt nodded along.

Northfield continued. “So I bet New Medea developed its technology to get rid of the gas before Cumulus. Based on how high-tech this city is, I bet a lot earlier. But they only utilized that technology a month before we set off Zeus’s Mercy.”

Geralt scowled as he understood where Northfield was going.

Northfield said, “I bet the Network here caught wind that Zeus’s Mercy was nearly complete. Maybe the New Medea Network was competitive—or instead scared. But they decided 97

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to put their technology to use before Cumulus could. I guess it worked out for them.”

Geralt shook his head and muttered, “They probably sat on the tech for a while. Just like the Cumulus Network planned to.”

“Okay,” Odell said. “Now you’ve lost me.”

“I don’t know exactly how friendly or antagonistic the Networks are towards each other, but they’re operating off some similar philosophies,” Northfield said. “So rumors about us spread. What happened next?”

“Well, the word about you didn’t have much effect at first.

At least it didn’t seem that way to me. Sure, it was a nice story. A nice middle finger to the big man. But with clean air, people were generally happy. Rebellion didn’t seem worth the cost.

“The Network couldn’t just let a good thing stand, though.

It couldn’t let any potential remain untapped. The kidnappings resumed in full swing. The Network didn’t bother with rhyme or reason this time. Sometimes, no accusations of crime were needed, not even flimsy ones. The Death Corps took people like a shopping spree, picking the strongest, the smartest.

“The Network overestimated the leeway people would give them. After the gas went away, the Network was seen as a savior.

But savior or not, if you kidnap someone’s child, expect their opinion of you to sour pretty quickly.”

He let out a deep exhale, and he glanced at the furniture longingly. “Boys, do you mind if we sit down? My legs don’t quite have the endurance they once did.” Once they sat down, Odell leaned in and said, “A protest was organized at one of the city’s largest parks. Petal Park.” His eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment, and he said, “The park is a sight to behold. The trees that blossom there… white and pink and the liveliest of greens. It’s truly—” He cut himself off, and he glanced at the TV. “General Arkland will speak soon. I want to hear what he has to say. Maybe we can draw something from what he says. So I’ll try to wrap this up quickly, okay?”

Northfield and Geralt nodded.

Odell said, “Petal Park is beautiful. Even in the winter when the sun shines through the bare branches. But I can’t stomach 98

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looking at it anymore. The protest… Well, anybody with common sense could have guessed what would happen next. It wasn’t hard to foresee. Not at all. But did those people in the crowd think they had another option? I don’t think so.

“Death Corps ‘peacekeepers’ commanded the crowd to disperse. It didn’t, of course. The Death Corps became agitated, and so did the protesters. The heat kept dialing up until the Death Corps opened fire. Nobody knows what, exactly, incited the first shot. But after that first shot, the floodgates opened.

“Every news network cut off their footage after the Death Corps started shooting, but it was too late. People had seen bodies fall. For many, that was too much.”

He lifted his hands, and he said, “After that, Stormrise came into the picture. An opposition to the Network, spearheaded by a woman named Anne Kaminski. I think she must have been working behind the scenes for a while before the massacre.

Laying the necessary groundwork. Stormrise was too organized from the outset to have been spawned purely by the tragedy.

“Stormrise didn’t present the ranting, froth-at-the-mouth attitude of the Firebrands. The organization presented a thesis.”

Odell pointed at them. “You two. The organization spread the word that they could do something beneficial, even against the odds posed by the Network.”

A lightbulb switched on in Northfield’s head. “That’s why we’re so important to the Network. If it executes us, in front of everyone, it would be a humiliation to Stormrise.”

Odell nodded.

They took in his words. Eventually, Geralt asked, “What do you know about this Kaminski chick?”

Odell frowned. “Not much. There are lots of rumors, conflicting ones at that. Either disinformation by the Network or the chattering of gossipers. Probably a bit of both.” He pointed at the TV and said, “But the man that freed you, Rayne Simpson, is rumored to be close to her. I don’t know much about him, either.”

“Hmm,” Northfield thought out loud, “Kaminski… how do we know she’s sincere? Stormrise could be nothing more than, well…”

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Odell finished for him. “A cynical power grab?”

“Yeah.”

Odell said, “I guess I don’t know. Most of Stormrise’s activity has been outside the city’s walls, attacking Network convoys and the like. That’s according to the Network, at least, so take it with a grain of salt. Finding Stormrise is hard, and getting into their ranks is harder. I think a lot of us in the city, the normal folks…”

He chuckled in a self-deprecating way. “We’re holding our breaths, waiting to see how things shake out. People don’t like the Network these days, but they don’t like uncertainty, either.”

Geralt said, “Frankly, I could give a crap if Kaminski and her merry band of rebels are the second coming or not. If they’re our only shot at unscrewing ourselves from this situation, then I’m gonna dive headfirst into whatever cave they’re squatting in.”

On the news, helicopters harassed the buildings like flies over rank pieces of meat. Trucks crunched through snow, and soldiers marched in unison. The killing squads hungered for a piece of action.

“Yeah,” Northfield muttered. “We’re in a mess, aren’t we?”

“The day is still young, boys,” Odell said. “We’ll give it our best go. Now, do you mind if I keep my trap shut until General Arkland gives his statement? My throat’s going to be sore tomorrow. I can just tell.”

So they sat, listening to the reporters in the throes of their excitement. The anchors sounded certain, just certain, that the fugitives would be caught, and it was just a matter of when and how. Their single fear was that the capture would be boring.

The reporters somehow managed to fit in some witty remarks between their grave pronouncements about the tragedy of the attack and the danger presented by the fugitives at large. Northfield might have even been impressed at their deft command of language if he wasn’t one of the very fugitives they ranted about.

Eventually, the broadcast cut to a room with a stage. Dozens of reporters were crammed body to body under the stage.

Cameramen joined them, shouldering their equipment. A simply designed podium, but clearly an expensive one, occupied 100

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the center of the stage. Death Corps soldiers loomed by the back wall, guarding a set of doors.

The words General Arkland to speak on the capture of traitor scrolled across the news banner.

The cameras flashed in a blitz. Northfield had no idea why the hell they were taking pictures before the general had even stepped foot on the stage. An empty podium wouldn’t exactly draw website clicks or newspaper purchases.

The doors swung open, and General Arkland graced the audience with his presence. The flashing cameras stopped.

The room darkened slightly from the lack of light, creating an eerie sensation that only lasted a moment, until the cameramen remembered what their jobs were. The flashes resumed.

At the sight of Arkland, the word that Northfield thought of was “gravity.” The general’s size played a part in that, sure. His muscles rippled, even through his shadowy uniform, a uniform adorned with a gauntlet of ribbons. His neck was thick, capable of bearing the world’s weight without popping a vein. Even when Northfield had only the podium to compare him with, he could tell the general stood a head taller than most men. His chest was the largest part about him. Muscles bulged through his jacket, showcasing a man that abided by an intense physical regimen.

In equal measure, his eyes evoked the word “gravity.” A pair of green eyes, paler and icier than any blues Northfield had ever seen, were framed by a square face. They had an intensity, a command of the environment, that could draw an entire room to him.

Clearly the reporters felt this; not a word was uttered among them. Their cameras were flashing again, albeit less frequently, as if the cameramen, with each press of the button, wanted to make sure the shot was damned worth it. In those periods of illumination, Arkland’s shock of white hair flared.

A single, dreadful thought sunk to Northfield’s stomach and sat there. This is the man who brought us to New Medea. The man with dark intentions for us.

He wondered how much his fear played into his observations of the general. But he couldn’t shake them.

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Arkland gripped the sides of the podium, and he declared, “I’m going to make this brief, and I’ll take no questions at the end.

As I’m sure you can see, we have a lot to do. There are fugitives at large, and the city won’t breathe easy until they’re captured.

“With that said, there has been a development. We have captured Veronica Pitt, a rogue operative in the State Department.

She leaked information to the terrorist organization known as Stormrise. Information crucial to last night’s attack.”

He leaned forward and said, “From what we can tell, she was a lone operative. I want to reiterate: this was an atomic event. We do not fear the State Department is compromised past her. That said, we are looking into a number of precautions to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

His eyes narrowed. “As far as I’m concerned, Veronica Pitt is just as bad as every other terrorist. She might not have pulled a trigger, but her actions cost more lives than the violent acts of any individual insurgent. Past that, treachery is on a rung of depravity lower than nearly anything else.

“That said, she will face justice. Tonight.”

A collective murmur surged through the crowd, and the cameras rapidly flashed for a handful of moments.

When they calmed, General Arkland said, “We were going to hold a Reckoning here for Mark Northfield and Geralt Salb.

Despite their escape, we are still going to have our Reckoning.

But it will be for Veronica Pitt instead.

“The law won’t be deferred. By doing otherwise, the law would be denied. Veronica Pitt will face her justice for the city to see.”’

The crowd had another outburst, which Arkland waited through, albeit impatiently. He tapped his finger on the podium until they were done, but he didn’t directly acknowledge them.

He said, “The Avarii neighborhood, the South Villa neighborhood, and the Montgomery neighborhood will remain on lockdown as we hunt for the fugitives. The rest of the city will proceed as usual. A day just like any other.”

He leaned back and stood taller. “These criminals want to upend our way of life. The best way to stop them is by not letting 102

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that happen. We’ve seen what chaos brings, and we reject it. For those of you who want to subject yourselves and your families to another half decade of torment, I suggest you reevaluate.”

His lips thinned, and he repeated, “I suggest you reevaluate.

We all remember the fate of Icarus. When you look at the sky and see the small distance you have yet to reach the sun, I’ll offer you this advice. Look down. See how high you’ve risen. Take in how far your labor has carried you. Then realize how far you could fall.”

He pushed away from the podium. “That is all. No questions.”

With no further ceremony, he left, the doors shutting behind him. The cameras continued to snap as the feed switched to two attractive reporters who would, no doubt, chatter about the general’s statement.

Odell turned the TV off.

Northfield asked, “This Reckoning, is it…”

Odell lowered his head. “A public execution. With some added… depravity, to use Arkland’s own word. That woman is not seeing another sunrise. That I can promise. Whatever Arkland does with her, people will remember it.”

He frowned. “Is there any chance that Stormrise tries to stop it?”

Odell said, “In no world do I see that happening. Stormrise’s attack to free you was courageous. But the security at the Reckoning will be second to none. It’s in the heart of the city, no less. A rescue attempt would be suicide. Plain suicide.” He added, “We learned one useful thing from that parade, however.

Only a few neighborhoods are on lockdown. If we get past their roadblocks, we’ll be in a lot better shape.”

“If we can get past them,” Geralt said. “With less area to cover, they’ll make a tighter perimeter. We ain’t gonna weasel past easily.”

“That’s true,” Odell conceded. “Which is why we’re getting help.”

Geralt said, “Aubrey Robinson? I thought she lived on the other side of the city.”

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“Reaching her is our ultimate goal. But there is another woman on this side of the lockdown who will help us first,” Odell said. “A woman who goes by Softball. She’s… Well, you’ll see for yourself. A bit of an odd one.” He tapped his skull. “And very smart.”

“Softball?” Geralt said incredulously.

“Of course, Softball isn’t her real name,” Odell said. “But it’s how she introduced herself to me. She’s a neighbor. In fact, she lives just a building over from here.”

“Is she a friend, then?” Northfield asked.

“I suppose. We’ve had some good conversations.”

Geralt chuckled spitefully. “Good conversations? That’s enough for this chick to risk a bullet to her head?”

“No. Not for free, at least.” He rubbed his chin and angled his head toward his room. “I hope I have enough saved up.”

Northfield waved his hand. “You’ve already done enough for us. I don’t want to fleece you dry.”

“What else am I going to spend the money on? A vacation in Cabo? Let me do this,” Odell demanded. Northfield was surprised by his defensiveness. In fact, he sensed a hint of desperateness from him, like spending the cards was a lifeline for him. Or maybe it was a lifeline for his soul. Odell said, “Now, aside from spending my credit cards, do either of you have an issue with my plan?”

“No,” Geralt said, “I ain’t planning on sitting around until another idea comes around.”

On TV, the news focused on the setup for the Reckoning.

Death Corps soldiers were putting up platforms and steps, creating a stage for whatever horror show would happen tonight.

“Let’s knock on some doors,” Northfield said.

Odell walked to his bedroom, and he said, “Follow me. I have some things for you boys.”

His bedroom managed to be even plainer than the living room.

There was a simple bedframe with a mattress and comforter that didn’t look particularly comfortable. Besides a closet, a dresser, and a nightstand with a stack of books, the room consisted of little else.

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Odell opened the walk-in closet, which was deeper than Northfield had expected. He shuffled through some racks and drawers, and he tossed out new winter wear for them.

“Best we change our appearance as much as possible. Throw them off as much as we can.”

They put on the clothing. Goggles, ski masks, and hats completely concealed their faces.

Odell beckoned them over and said, “Come in. I have something to show you.”

They stepped inside, and Odell opened a chest. Inside lay a number of pistols and a few boxes of ammo.

“You have a decision to make. Do you want to carry a gun or not? This year, the Network placed a ban on firearms in New Medea, which means if they find one on you, you’ll be detained.”

Odell tilted his head. “But if you’re found and don’t have a gun… well… running is all you’ll be left with.”

Geralt put it in other terms. “So if we have guns and we’re searched, we’re screwed. But if we’re found out anyway, we’re screwed without guns.”

Odell nodded. “I’m not sure which is better. So I’ll follow your lead.”

Northfield and Geralt exchanged glances. Geralt’s eyes hardened; he had already made his decision.

“I ain’t gonna get caught. No matter what happens, I ain’t getting caught.” He picked up one of the pistols and slid it into his waistband.

The pistol’s silver barrel glimmered, highlighting the danger it presented. It was the glint of a predator’s eye, a predator nested in the shadow of its lair.

If I bring a pistol, what sort of violence will I bring in my wake?

Who might die as a result?

Well, what are my alternatives? Geralt is bringing a gun, and I don’t think I could convince him otherwise. If the Death Corps catch wind of us and I’m not ready to defend us, I could cost Geralt his life.

Members of Stormrise died for us. I owe it to them to get out of this. Otherwise, their sacrifice was for naught. I can’t lay down my arms, not yet.

105

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Northfield picked up the weapon and holstered it. He said, “Odell, you remember what I said about listening?”

Odell nodded quizzically.

“If you’re coming with us, you’re not carrying a gun.”

Geralt said, “Why? The hell’s wrong with more firepower?”

“Because if Odell doesn’t have a gun, there’s a chance he can get off the hook. Say we get to some checkpoint and we’re searched. Then, Odell, you don’t know Geralt and me. If we end up in some standoff at a house, then you’re our hostage. You might be able to get out that way.”

Geralt said, “We’d have to be pretty damn lucky. What if they catch the three of us red-handed, running through some stupid alley? Don’t think he could lawyer his way out of that.”

Northfield said, “Yeah, maybe. But if there’s a chance, Odell, you need to try. There’s no reason for you to die with us.”

Odell shut the chest. “Fine. I’ll agree to that. As I said, I’m not into theatrics. No Custer’s last stand for me.” He put on some new winter gear, too, and he said, “You boys ready to go? I don’t see any use waiting.”

“Neither do I,” Northfield said. “We’re following you.”

They went to Odell’s front door. The older man wrapped his hand around the handle, and he turned back to them. “Keep your chins down. Today’s supposed to be a cold one.”

Odell’s breast pocket bulged slightly from all of the credit cards he had stuffed in them. A savings, maybe years’ worth, that he was about to blow on two strangers. Two strangers he planned to walk into the abyss with.

Regardless of what compelled Odell to help them to such lengths, Northfield admired him.Hey, God, I bet it was a pain to figure out who would die when the apocalypse hit. It was easier with the flood, I bet. You shoved two of each creature on a boat, and you just hit the delete button with the rest.

With the apocalypse, a lot of people died, but a lot survived, too. I bet that took a number of spreadsheets to parse out. If you have a secretary, I can’t imagine the headache that was. Hope you got her a bottle of brandy when the job was done.

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It was a big ordeal. A lot of good people died. I don’t know if that was meant to be, or maybe some of those spreadsheet numbers got fudged.

All those good people are gone. It just… It makes me wonder, God. It makes me wonder, when I ask you to protect Odell, whether you’ll listen.

Jess liked Matthew 7:7, though. “Ask and ye shall receive.” So I’ll ask, anyway.

Keep this man away from a fate he doesn’t deserve.

Odell twisted the handle and pushed against the door. He had to put his shoulder into it, as the wind rushed into the opening with a loud hiss.

And just like that, the city awaited them, with all its skyways and multicolored lights. With all its hunting eyes and well-armed soldiers.

Odell was right. The cold passed right through his jacket.

107

8 Softball’s building was short, only three stories tall. The stairs to reach the second and third floors were on the exterior of the building. That meant all of the apartment doors could be accessed from the outside, for which they were grateful. They didn’t have to deal with apartment lobbies, which meant no receptionists with an eye for the bounties on their heads. The weather did a bang-up job of icing over the stairs, so they proceeded carefully to the second floor.

Odell led them down the walkway until they stopped in front of a room. He cupped his gloves and breathed into them. Steam swirled out from his fingers like steam from a freshly poured cup of tea.

He said, “This is it. I can’t promise that this will work out.”

“None of us are in a position to make promises right now,” Northfield said.

Odell shrugged and rang the doorbell. They waited, but they heard nothing from inside.

“Maybe she’s not home,” Northfield suggested.

“Would have been nice to use your phone. You could’ve texted to see if she was home,” Geralt muttered.

Odell scoffed. “If I would have done that, and linked her to us explicitly, she would have turned us in herself. Besides, I left my phone at the apartment. If we turned it on, the Network could have tracked us.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Geralt said. “Still would’ve been nice, is all I’m saying.”

Odell said, “Guess I’ll give it another go, then.”

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This time, they heard a response immediately. A woman yelled, “Alright! I’m coming, jeez.”

She opened the door and examined them quizzically. A fluffy robe, slippers, and hair matted on one side indicated that she had just woken up.

“Odell? The hell are you doing here? God, it’s… What time is it?”

“About nine.”

“Nine? It’s the weekend. This couldn’t have waited an hour?

Hell, two hours?”

“I’m afraid not,” Odell said.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe.

“Fine. You mind telling me what this is about, then?”

He glanced back and forth, and he said, “It’s not something for strangers’ ears. Could we step inside?”

She turned her focus to Northfield and Geralt. With their faces entirely concealed, her suspicion was warranted.

“Who are you two? Rejects from the North Pole?”

“They’re friends, Softball,” Odell said.

“Didn’t think you had many of those.”

“Well…” Odell started to say before he trailed off. He took off his hat and thumbed his fingers on the rim. “This conversation can’t go on out here.”

“Well, attorney, you make an excellent case,” she said sarcastically. She pursed her lips and added, “I’m getting an unsettling feeling, Odell. It’s not the type of feeling I’d expect to get from you. After all, you’re about as dangerous as a jackrabbit.

I don’t like it.”

“I’ll be frank with you. I am bringing danger. But I have compensation for you.”

Her eyebrow arced. “This gets more interesting, doesn’t it?

Well, if I’m going to die, it’ll be due to my curiosity. I’m catlike in that way. Alright, you can come in.”

“Thanks, Softball.”

They followed her in. Immediately, the smell of trash hit Northfield’s nose. After one quick glance around the living room, the source became apparent. Her garbage can was overflowing, and worse yet, another filled garbage bag leaned against it.

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They had to watch their step; the floor was littered with stuff, which was a nice word to describe the clutter. Lots of clothes were scattered across the hallway and living room, along with papers and wrappers and empty cups.

When they sat at the dining table, the junk was piled so high they had to sit up straight to see each other.

Softball didn’t sit; she crossed her arms and leaned against an empty chair. “You’re in an urgent spot. But will two minutes kill you?”

“No, I suppose not,” Odell said.

“Then I’m gonna get some clothes on.” She turned away and added sardonically, “Make yourselves at home.”

When she left, Geralt glanced around and said, “We should just hide here. The Death Corps would never find us in this junk.”

“Yes, well…” Odell started to say. His eyes drifted until they landed on the trash bin. “That really needs to be taken out.”

“Keep your credit cards close. Last thing we need is to lose them in the mess,” Geralt said.

Back in the old days, I could be pretty messy, couldn’t I? Jess, you’d always have to rein me in. You’d come to my apartment and wouldn’t leave until I had cleaned things up.

Oh, imagine if I let my place get this cluttered. The fit you would have thrown… Man, that would make a nuke sweat. Maybe I should’ve done it, just to mess with you.

Nah, not worth it. I knew better, even back then.

Softball came back, wearing excessively baggy sweatpants and a crop top. She slid into the last empty chair and eyed the two strangers around her table. “Aren’t you warm in here? The hell are you still wearing those facemasks for?”

Odell nodded at him and Geralt. “I think we’re okay. You can take them off.”

They pulled down their masks and took off their goggles.

Softball tilted her head before her eyes snapped open. “Holy…

It’s you. The guys they’re putting up on every damn screen they can find.” Her astonishment quickly turned to anger. “Odell, what the hell? Did you crap out your brain? Why in God’s name are they in my apartment?”

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“Softball…” he started, putting his hands up.

She leaned forward, thumping each of her elbows on the table for emphasis. “If you haven’t noticed, I don’t like being on the grid. And this…” She pointed at Northfield and Geralt. “This is about as on the grid as you can get.”

“Who else would I turn to, Softball? I think you know what we need. I’m not a man with many connections in your… area of expertise.”

Her scowl gave way to the hint of a grin. “You mean someone with a liberal interpretation of the law?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of someone who selectively breaks the law.”

She laughed. “I like that even better.” She drew back. “Just because I might hold your only life raft doesn’t mean I have to pull you in. Hell, the Death Corps might axe me just because you came here.”

“I have money,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. The stack of credit cards landed on the table with a decisive thump.

“Pass them over.” While she thumbed through the cards, her mouth practically salivated. “You don’t mess around, Odell. I’ll give you that.”

He held his hands out and gave her a smile that betrayed just a bit too much tiredness. “I’m afraid I need those cards back, Softball. Until we strike a deal.”

Reluctantly, she handed them over. She asked, “So what deal are you looking for?”

“Do you know anybody in Stormrise that we can connect with?”

“No. I try to stay as far away from those people as possible.

They attract attention, and I can’t have that.”

“Shoot,” Odell said. “If you did, it would have made things much easier for us. That brings us back to our original plan, then.

We want to go north and get past the Network’s perimeter.”

“North?” she said, aghast. “That’s heading into the city, not out of it. Where the hell are you going?”

Odell started to speak, but Geralt put his hand out and said, “Hang on there, Softball. Jesus, do I really have to call you that?”

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“Better than being called Dickhead, which I’m sure you get a lot.”

Geralt grinned and pressed his tongue against his bottom lip.

“Heh. You ain’t too bad.”

“You’d be surprised how many exes of mine have crawled back with that line. Anyway, what was your point?”

“If I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t wanna know more than I had to for this job.”

“Guess not.” She picked up a wrapper and wrinkled it in her hand, unwrinkled it, and wrinkled it again. She did this over and over as she thought out loud. “North. You’re going north.

Idiot move. Then again, might not be so idiotic. The Network will expect you to head south and get out of Dodge ASAP. So you might have an easier time going north. But how will you get through?”

She tossed the wrapper into the ether and picked up another one. After crumpling and promptly throwing two more of them, she snapped her fingers. “Alright, I think I’ve got something.” She snapped a few more times, and she said, “Yeah, I’ve got it. I’ll be right back. Let me get some stuff.”

She beelined to her room, gliding past the piles of junk expertly. It was an adeptness born from years and years of practice, it seemed. They heard her rustling through what sounded like a mountain of stuff. When she returned, she held a briefcase in her left hand. In her right, she had a rolled-up sheet of paper.

When she sat down, she haphazardly tossed the paper onto the floor. Northfield felt himself leaning toward it, afraid it would get swallowed by the surrounding clutter. Softball forgot about it entirely; her focus rested solely on the briefcase.

Its two latches clacked open enthusiastically, and she threw open the case, revealing its contents. Inside lay an inconceivable number of identification cards.

She dug through them, regarding each one, discarding most of them back into the pile as quickly as her eyes moved. On some of them, she paused a moment longer before they met the same fate.

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“Both of you, lean closer to me,” she ordered Northfield and Geralt. When they did, she muttered, mostly to herself, “Close enough resemblance, but not too close. That’s the key. That’s what we’re looking for. A face near enough that they think it’s your card, but far enough that they won’t instantly think of all those billboards plastered with your faces… You aren’t making this easy on me. No, you aren’t.”

She handed Northfield a card first. He read the name “Rob Fitzgerald” and studied the accompanying photo. The man had a jawline and cheek structure similar to his own, along with matching blue eyes. However, the man’s hair was a deep, almond red.

Northfield’s eyes flicked up to Softball, and she said while digging through more cards, “Just say you dyed your hair blond.

Shouldn’t be too hard of a sell. And for you…”

She handed Geralt a card. He studied it for less than a second before protesting, “No goddamned way. See how soft this guy’s chin is? My chin ain’t soft like that.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Mr. Russo there is clean-shaven.

You’ve got scruffle. Nobody’s gonna notice the different chins.”

He opened his mouth to protest further, but she held her hand up and said, “Sorry I don’t have the likeness of every person in this city at the ready. You’re gonna have to deal with it.” She slammed the briefcase shut, and she regarded Odell. “I’m assuming that I heard you wrong earlier.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you were talking about going north, you said ‘we.’ I assume you meant an emphatic ‘we.’ You know, like when a coach says ‘we gotta play defense’ to his team. But he’s not actually stepping on the field to play defense.”

Odell tilted his head.

She clarified, “As in, you’re not actually going with them.”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’m afraid that I am, Softball.”

“Why?” He shrugged. “They need help.”

“How the hell did you get mixed up in this?”

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“I was going on a walk, and I ran into them. Crossed paths, I suppose.”

She stared at him for a good, long moment. “Alright, Odell.

Fine. Have it your way.” She reopened her suitcase and dug through it. She held out an ID for him. “Take it. That way, if the Network puts two and two together and starts looking for you, you might have a chance.”

“Thanks, Softball.” He reached out for it, but she didn’t let go.

She eyed him intensely. “I need to stay out of this, alright? If you get caught, my name doesn’t get mentioned, not once. Even if they cut off your balls and shove them down your throat. Am I clear?”

“Crystal.”

She looked at Northfield and Geralt, and she repeated herself, “Am I clear?”

“Yeah,” Northfield said. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think they would give us leniency for information on you anyway. You know?”

Geralt chuckled and kicked back in his chair. “Definitely not.”

She released the ID and said as she dug around for her map, “Good. Just needed to make that clear. Now where the hell… Oh, found it.”

She swiped her hand across the table, shoveling off a heap of junk to clear space for the map.

The map depicted a grid. It didn’t take a genius to realize that they were looking at a street layout of New Medea. Some areas had neat grid layouts, while others had slipshod messes of crossing, swirling streets.

She uncapped a red marker and drew an outline around the Avarii, South Villa, and Montgomery neighborhoods, creating a malformed circle. All three neighborhoods belonged to the area of less-organized streets on the map.

“This is where we are. The lockdown zone.” She tapped the inside of the circle. “And this,” she added, tapping north of the perimeter, “is where you need to get to unscrew yourself. At least temporarily.”

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Her pen tapped on an empty spot on the map, a place nearly touching the north rim of the circle. The roads curved away from the spot; it appeared to be some sort of large building.

Softball declared, “This here is a CDZ. A Corps Domestic Zone. It’s a headquarters for the Death Corps in the city, where soldiers are dispatched to deal with the citizenry. Pretty much a police station. Lawbreakers are detained there, too, at least until they’re jettisoned off to whatever prisons or slave camps the Network has outside the city.”

With her bloodred marker, she highlighted one of the streets that emerged from the lockdown zone and ran alongside the police station.

“This is how you’re getting out. Right under their big fat butts.”

“Are you kidding me?” Geralt exclaimed.

“Unless you have a better idea, this is what’s going to happen.”

When Odell frowned, a deep crease ran across his cheek. “I just don’t know about this, Softball.”

She gave a wry smirk. “Tell you what. If you get screwed and somehow make it back to me alive, I’ll refund half your cards as an apology.”

115

9 Softball went over her plan with them at length. When they still hadn’t been fully convinced, she pored over her design again.

Sure, the plan made sense on paper. However, when they thought about actually going through with it, their stomachs turned.

Every new idea they had come up with was profoundly worse.

Softball had managed to poke enough holes in them to deflate the Hindenburg, so they eventually came around to agreeing to her plan.

Hours later, they waited out in a cold alley for their contact to show, rubbing their hands together to scare away the numbness.

Northfield’s heart threatened to crawl out of his chest.

“So cold,” Geralt muttered, puffing out a cloud of mist. “Why’s it gotta be so cold?”

“You don’t get used to it,” Odell said. “It breaks you down, little by little, every year.” He smiled to himself and looked down.

“Or maybe that’s just me getting old.”

Northfield said, “I always wondered about going south.

Figure there are some nice vacant beach houses in Florida.”

“Nah. I don’t like it down there, either,” Geralt said. “Too humid. Every day is like being at a damn waterpark.”

“You just like to complain, don’t you?”

He grinned slyly. “Maybe I do.”

“Hell, so do I. These days, it’s as good of a hobby as any.”

A pair of headlights flooded the alley. The chortle of a bulky engine bounced off the walls as the vehicle approached them.

The vehicle’s familiar jet-black paint job marked it as Death Corps property, no doubt about that. Smaller than the Hound 116

Calvin B. Fisher

they had traveled to New Medea in, and sporting a set of sirens on its roof, the vehicle resembled a patrol car from before the apocalypse. With Death Corps soldiers operating as the city’s cops, the car couldn’t have been a better choice.

Once the bumper came within a couple feet of them, the vehicle stopped and the lights flashed off. The blacked-out windows revealed nothing about what lay within.

Northfield stomped down his fear and unease.

We’re alright, Northfield. We’re alright. The sirens aren’t on.

This has to be our guy.

Sure, we’re okay right now. But what about in ten minutes, when this plan gets under way?

The fear bubbled right back up.

The door swung open, and out stepped a Death Corps soldier. In his armor, he was indistinguishable from any other man among their ranks.

“You’re late,” Odell said.

“Yeah, well, I’m really sorry,” the soldier said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. His helmet modulated his voice, giving it the weird double-voice effect characteristic of Death Corps soldiers. “Things are insane around here if you haven’t noticed.”

Odell ignored his sarcasm. “Before we get along with this, you have to take off that bucket. We need to make sure it’s you.”

“Really? Do you know of any other soldier in this city that wouldn’t drag you by the balls into custody right now?”

“Just need to make sure. I’m sure you can understand where we’re coming from.”

“Come on, asshat. Off with it,” Geralt said.

The soldier glanced around suspiciously. “I know how to pick the jobs, don’t I? I just know how to pick them.”

He pressed a combination of buttons just under the right corner of his chin. His mask popped open like the cork of a bottle. He removed it and frowned.

Softball had given them a description of Elliot Williams. He had light brown hair swept in a bowl cut that would have been kicked out of the eighties for looking dorky. His jaw was squarer than square, and a scar cleanly divided his chin in half.

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This man was a dead ringer.

“Satisfied?” he asked. Not wearing his helmet clearly agitated him.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Williams,” Odell said, extending his hand.

Williams didn’t reciprocate. Instead, he put on his helmet.

“Yeah, that’s me. But from now on, it’s ‘no, sir’ and ‘yes, sir.’ I don’t want to hear the name ‘Elliot’ or ‘Williams’ from any of your traps. Got me?”

No objection rose between the three of them. As long as this man got them past the blockade, they would call him whatever the hell he wanted.

Williams put his hands on his hips and shook his head slowly.

He muttered to himself quietly, which sounded really warped through his mask. Evidently, the helmet’s designers hadn’t put much thought into people using soft voices. The buckets were made for yelling.

“A mile away, Elliot. You should be a mile away from this job, Elliot. Analise would kick my head off if she knew I was… Ah, hell.” He said to them, “I’m a man of my word, so we’re gonna do this. I’m just that wholesome of a guy. But listen to everything I say. Hang on to every order like gospel, got it?” He turned and faced the mouth of the alleyway. A couple of blocks farther lay the blockade. “After this morning’s news about the double agent, the soldiers posted on the line are going to be suspicious, even of me. So you sit in the back and stay still. Don’t give them any reason to look at you twice.”

“We’re not going to do anything stupid,” Northfield said.

“Take a deep breath, man. There’s a lot of things to worry about with this job, but we’re not one of them, alright?”

Williams remained still for a couple of moments. Northfield couldn’t tell for sure, but he indeed seemed to take a deep breath.

The Death Corps soldier emphasized, “Just keep your mouths shut. Come on. We need to get a move-on. Hand me your IDs.” Williams flipped through the IDs, and after he finished, he grunted. “I can work with these.”

“Good,” Geralt said. “Since we weren’t planning on turning around.”

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“Smart guy, huh? You’re the last thing I need right now. When we get to that checkpoint, if I hear one sideways word from you, I’ll put a bullet in you myself. Got it?” Williams twirled his finger, ordering them to twist around, and he said, “Okay, boys. Cuff time.”

After he slapped a pair of handcuffs on each of them, he opened the back door of his car. Odell slid in, followed by Northfield and Geralt.

Williams slammed the door shut, and Geralt whispered to Northfield, “Think this guy’s gonna send us down the river?”

He shook his head. “See how nervous he is? He wouldn’t be that nervous if he was working with the Death Corps.”

“He could be a good actor.”

“I sure hope he is one. To get us through the checkpoint, he needs to be.”

Williams slid into the driver’s seat, and he wasted no time backing out of the alleyway. If they were indeed on their way to their deaths, their escort didn’t seem interested in dwelling on it.

Glamorous windows and neon-dripped signs passed by, one at a time. Northfield ran through Softball’s plan again and again.

Sure, he didn’t gain any revelations from doing so. It sure did beat the alternative, which was obsessing over what would happen if they failed.

The neighborhoods on lockdown were a decent chunk of the city, with populations to match. The areas couldn’t shut down entirely; some traffic still had to pass into and out of them. One type of traffic included prisoners. In the chaos that followed the convoy attack, individuals with ill intentions had sought to take advantage, engaging in looting and other crimes.

The Death Corps rounded them up. The nearest Corps Domestic Zone, the one Northfield and his allies were currently driving toward, was on the other side of the perimeter. Unless the soldiers planned on keeping the prisoners in their squad car, or executing them, they had to get the prisoners across the perimeter to the CDZ. When Softball had been explaining this to them, Northfield ventured a question. When the Death Corps were forming the perimeter, why didn’t they include the CDZ inside of it?

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A six-way junction with three levels of ramps lay on the other side of the CDZ. In light of that, the Death Corps decided to just put the perimeter in front of the CDZ. By their estimation, it was far easier to control entry and exit out of a checkpoint than contend with guarding that jumbled mess.

The buildings opened up, and the blockade came into full view. As they approached the perimeter, they could see the streets across it. Vehicles of all means populated the line.

Hounds spewed black smoke into the ether. The patrol cars’ lights flashed in a colorful display that would have been pretty in another circumstance. In the skyways that crossed the blockade, Northfield could see the silhouettes of exo soldiers manning the entrances with heavy weapons.

For good measure, a number of scouts patrolled the rooftops, wearing the same advanced armor he had seen at the mall.

The only good news was that the walkway spanned a significant number of streets. Because of that, although a verifiable army watched over the entire perimeter, some entries and exits had only a couple of patrol cars to hold the line. The distribution of resources, even at a passing glance, appeared to be logical.

The darker, shadowy regions, the areas with numerous ways for fugitives to cross, had more eyes on them. More guns, too, in case somebody needed to be shot.

The checkpoint they approached had its share of protection, as it controlled a fair amount of outward traffic to the CDZ, which Northfield could now see. The CDZ was a wide brown building, inconspicuous except for its size, which could easily accommodate hundreds or even thousands of Death Corps personnel. Although the building loomed just across the street, the checkpoint seemed so imposing that it might as well have been a thousand miles away.

Four patrol cars watched their passage. Two of them were parked horizontally across the road, directly obstructing it. Atop a makeshift tower behind the cars, an exo soldier stood guard.

His minigun was mounted on the wall, its barrels staring at them.

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round, creating an unintelligible blur from which bullets would roar at impossible speeds. For now, the minigun remained still.

And even then, if somebody tried to break through, the Death Corps could call on all those personnel in the CDZ. After all, they were just a football field away and therefore capable of responding at a moment’s notice.

Williams stopped in front of the patrol cars and rolled down his window. One of the officers approached with a casual slowness; evidently, the sight of a Death Corps vehicle didn’t overwhelm her with concern. This was her domain. The world would shake under the Death Corps’ boots and no one else’s.

Williams stuck his ID out the window. The soldier grabbed it without a hint of politeness, scanning it over.

She tilted her head to the back seats. Although Northfield couldn’t see the officer’s eyes, he could feel them prodding him.

“Officer Williams, I take it you followed the updated protocol and acquired the suspects’ identification?”

“Yes, ma’am. I did. Mind if I reach for them?”

She nodded. He handed over identification for his prisoners.

One by one, she shuffled through their respective cards, taking her time and scrutinizing every last digit.

Geralt glanced at Northfield. Even though he couldn’t see the former Yellowback’s expression, he could still understand his sentiment, because he felt it himself.

Those damn IDs better be the real deal.

She glanced up from them but didn’t hand them back. She wasn’t satisfied. Not yet.

“Officer Williams. These prisoners of yours… what did you bag them for?”

He cleared his throat and pressed his thumbs against the steering wheel. Hard. Williams, clearly, had hoped they would just slide on by, and the question had sunk its way right under his skin. Northfield prayed the officer scrutinizing them hadn’t noticed or at least didn’t put much stock in the nervous tic.

“Them?” Williams gave a dismissive glance backward in a display that was only half-convincing. “Oh, you know. The usual stuff. Out drinking, tossing their bottles on the street. Thinking our streets are just a giant garbage bin.”

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Her modulated voice gave no indication of where her mind lay. “Then I take it, Officer Williams, that you’re heading to the CDZ.” “Yep,” he said, exhaling in an attempt to convey the tiredness of a day already eight hours too long. “Processing them, the whole nine and a half yards. Then shuttling home and letting the big brains decide where they go. Then, if you ask me, it’s a couch and frozen dinner.”

“I didn’t ask for your life’s story. I’ve got better things to do, alright?”

He shrugged, trying to be casual, but his forearms trembled.

She hovered there, staring at him through her opaque mask. On the bright side, Northfield supposed, she couldn’t see Williams’s face, either.

Her head turned back and forth, between the prisoners.

Northfield kept his gaze down, and he stared out the side window. By doing so, he tried his best to come across as a man that didn’t really care which way their conversation went, since he was heading for a cell in the CDZ either way.

Everything seemed still. Deathly still. Even the wind had gone on an afternoon break. The passage of time was only marked by the beating of his heart against the drone of the car engine.

He steeled himself, more and more, preparing for her to say the fearful words that sat atop his mountain of dread.

Come on, let’s get those masks off you. Let’s see your faces. Let’s see that you’re the men that are emblazoned on every screen for miles and miles.

Those fateful words seemed more inevitable every time his heart rocked against his ribcage. From there, well, his fate was sealed. To make things worse, he was already handcuffed. Half of their work was already done.

The idea seemed so dumb, now. So incredibly dumb. He wanted to kick himself, but one thought stopped him.

What the hell else could we have done?

He felt Geralt tense up beside him. The former Yellowback might have been dead set on avoiding capture, but with them locked in a patrol car, already handcuffed, that would be a hell of a feat.

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The officer squeezed the IDs, bending them slightly back and forth. Then, in a gesture that might as well have been a lightning bolt from the heavens, she stuck them back out to Officer Williams.

“Get these lowlifes into a very cold, dark cell, Officer.”

Williams forced the relief out of his voice, and he sounded stilted as a result. “I intend to. Quickly. I have that TV and couch, remember?”

He laughed, but he couldn’t muster any humor behind the noise.

She turned and signaled to the patrol car on the right side of the barrier. The car reversed, opening a path for them.

Officer Williams wasted no time stepping on the gas. He offered a paltry wave to the officers as they passed through. None waved back. The minigun in the tower didn’t track them, however, which was a far greater comfort than any human gesture.

Northfield scrambled to fathom how they had passed through.

For a decade, everyone had been forced to wear masks.

Even when someone needed to verify their identity, they often couldn’t take off their mask. As such, the person validating the identification had to do so while the person in question still wore a mask. That reality had been scalded into everyone’s heads, and habits like that didn’t fade after a couple months of free air.

Plus, since they were handcuffed, she would have had to remove their masks herself or ask Williams to. She might not have wanted to deal with the hassle, in light of how close they were to the CDZ. After all, she probably didn’t seriously expect fugitives to cross at her checkpoint. Her post was, for all intents and purposes, just needed to hold together the metaphorical fence around the perimeter. No gaps and all that, no matter how unlikely the threat at her location was. Odell wasn’t wearing a mask, which could have disarmed her, too.

He could reason his way through why they weren’t headed to the CDZ for real right now. In retrospect, sure, it made perfect sense.

But it could have gone the other way. It could have easily, too easily, gone the other way. One day, inevitably, it would.

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Is that why you created gravity, God? To show us that the other shoe always drops?

They all watched the CDZ building pass by in all the glory of its sanitized administrative exterior. They let out a collective sigh.

Officer Williams said, “Look at what we did, huh? That was pretty badass.”

“Well done,” Odell said. His voice was shaky. “I hope Softball is paying you a good portion of our fee.”

“Not nearly enough, I can tell you that,” Williams said, exhaling deeply again. “Alright, where am I dropping you off?”

“I hope you don’t take offense,” Odell said, “but we’ll let you know street by street. We’re operating on a strict need-to-know basis, for everyone’s sake.”

“Sure,” Williams said with a shrug. “Suit yourself.”

“Good,” Odell said. “Take a left up here.”

“You got it.”

Geralt remained wound up, with his legs ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. He craned his neck, keeping a vigilant eye on the rearview mirror. Their smooth passage through the checkpoint had been just a little too perfect for him.

Northfield felt the same way, but he couldn’t give a reason why. Maybe he was just absorbing Geralt’s skepticism. Or perhaps the unease in his belly came purely from his own jaded mind.

Either way, he found himself watching the back window as well.

As they neared the intersection, just one or two hundred yards away, they saw something that lent weight to their fear.

“A patrol car just peeled out of the CDZ,” Northfield said.

“It’s the CDZ. Patrol cars leave all day and night,” Williams countered. But he sounded nervous. He was trying to convince himself more than them.

“Did you hear him?” Geralt said. “That car didn’t just pull out of the CDZ. It peeled out. It’s in a hurry.”

Williams sounded more nervous. “The city is big. The car could be headed almost anywhere in a hurry.” They reached the light. Williams shook his head and groaned. “Alright, well, we’re

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turning left. Before we get our underwear twisted, let’s see if the patrol car even goes the same way.”

“Fine. In the meantime, pass us the key to these handcuffs,” Geralt said.

Williams said as he spun the steering wheel, “Not yet. In our story, you’re my perps, and—” Geralt interrupted him. “Newsflash. We just passed the damn building you would have tossed us in. Our story’s worth a pile of cow dung now. Pass the key. I’m sick of my hands cupping my ass.”

After a moment of hesitation, Williams tossed a keyring back to them. One by one, they uncuffed themselves.

Northfield recalled telling Odell that if they were found out, Odell should claim to be their hostage. But Odell had been seen in handcuffs alongside them, clearly part of the plot to smuggle the fugitives out of the city. The lie wouldn’t be viable for him, now.

Williams muttered to himself, “Idiot for taking this job. I’m an idiot.”

“Save the whining,” Geralt said. “I’d listen to a soap opera if I wanted to hear it.”

The passengers kept watch on their rear. One second passed, then five, then ten.

The patrol car behind them turned left. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, another car followed suit.

“Bad news,” Odell announced to their driver. “I see two cars now.”

“Maybe they’re…” Williams trailed off uneasily. “Ah, hell.”

Everyone in the vehicle shared that same sentiment as they reached the same conclusion.

They were being followed.

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10 “But they… they let us through the checkpoint,” Williams said, speaking frantically. “How did they make us so fast?”

“You’re our escort. How about you tell us?” Geralt said.

“Easy,” Odell said. “No sense in jumping down each other’s throats.”

“I’m not jumping down anyone’s throat,” Geralt said defensively.

Northfield said, “The cars pulled out after we passed the CDZ. It happened right when it became clear we weren’t actually heading there. I bet they were in communication with the checkpoint. Think about it. Why didn’t the officer at the checkpoint bother going through the hassle of checking our faces? Why could she afford to be lazy? Because she wasn’t the last line of defense. There were more officers checking to make sure we went to the CDZ.” “You know, that makes sense,” Geralt said. He stared at Williams accusingly. “How didn’t you know about this?”

“The Death Corps aren’t a hive mind. I don’t know everything.

I’m a low-ranking officer, for God’s sake.”

“I can tell why you weren’t promoted.”

“Easy, Geralt,” Odell warned.

The former Yellowback leaned back, seething in frustration.

“Well, we have to figure this out, stat.”

Northfield watched the cars following them, and he observed, “They’re keeping a healthy distance, and their sirens are off.

They’re following us, but they’re not chasing.” He narrowed his eyes, and he added, “More patrol cars are getting in a position 126

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to cut us off. That way, once the sirens turn on, we won’t have a chance of escaping.”

“You’re right,” Geralt said. “If we don’t shake them now, we’re screwed.”

“We’re almost at the junction,” Williams announced. “Which way do we turn?”

In another block, the road split off three ways. The left lane passed under an intersection. The middle lane ascended high above the pile of roads, turning gently right. The last ascended, but less so, and it curved hard to the right.

The intersection was an unintelligible mess. Northfield wasn’t sure he could have understood its layout even if he had a top-down view to study. Perhaps there had been an unavoidable collision of streets when developing, or redeveloping, the city after the war, and planners had no choice but to create a ghastly solution.

They approached the bed of snakes, unsure which one to step on.

“Why are you asking us?” Geralt said. “We’re new to this city.

Might as well ask the nearest pigeon.”

Williams said to Geralt, “Shut up. Just shut the hell up.”

Odell jutted in, “Right. Take the right lane.”

Williams listened to him. He stepped harder on the gas, going as fast as he could without alerting their pursuers that they were onto them.

Sure enough, their followers merged onto the right lane and climbed the same ramp.

The road took them around the junction. Below, cars swirled around on the roads. The scale of the junction, despite its messy layout, was a sight to behold. Maybe Northfield had been wrong.

Maybe the junction hadn’t been created as a compromise to misplanned streets. Instead, the junction could have been a monument to the Network’s love of scale.

The road spat them out at a T-intersection. After so much turning in the junction, his bearings weren’t quite with him yet, and he couldn’t exactly place which direction either road headed.

However, he felt fairly sure that neither would take them back to the lockdown zone, which was good enough for him.

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They didn’t have an option of turning left or right. As soon as they reached the intersection, a pair of Death Corps patrol cars turned onto the left street, bearing down on them.

“If they want to trap us, let them try,” Williams said. He slammed on the gas and spun the wheel hard to the right. The tires screeched, a battle cry to all of their pursuers. Sure enough, their lights turned on, and scores of sirens flooded the streets.

Geralt pulled out his pistol. He kept it low, not displaying it to their pursuers but holding it ready all the same.

Out of frustration, Williams yanked the wheel left, taking them down another street, and muttered, “‘Elliot Williams was an idiot.’ That’s what my tombstone is gonna read. ‘Elliot Williams couldn’t just let be with what he had.’”

“Go straight a couple blocks,” Odell said. “We need to turn left on Leetsdale.”

Williams nodded. The car roared as he slammed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The light ahead turned red. Not for an instant did Williams consider slowing down. He plowed through the intersection.

A horn shrieked loudly to their left. A van, rusty as all hell, was about to collide with them. Williams turned the wheel slightly. At their speed, the car felt close to tipping over.

The bitter cry of burning wheels rose to match the horn. The van’s bumper kept hounding them, even though the driver inside tried his best to halt.

The van hadn’t hit them yet, but the curb approached quickly, and an unflinching metal post stood beyond it. Williams pulled the wheel in the opposite direction, righting the car on the road.

By just a foot—hell, maybe even inches—they had pulled around the van, unscathed.

The van screeched to a halt. Its driver stepped out immediately and volleyed all sorts of verbal venom at them. Every word was well-deserved.

Thank you, God, for not putting his death on our shoulders.

The disgruntled driver stopped yelling. He turned, mouth agape, and watched a swarm of Death Corps cars approach. They went around the van, their focus entirely consumed with their prey.

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Williams cursed. Eight blocks ahead, four squad cars turned onto the road and barreled toward them. With pursuers in front and behind, they had to turn. Otherwise, they would be pinched.

Williams slammed on the brakes, slowing down just enough to make the next turn he saw.

Northfield said, “This is a losing game. They’ll keep coming from every direction until they trap us. That, or we crash into something. We need to ditch the car.”

“And legging it would be better?” Geralt said skeptically.

“Mark’s right,” Odell said. He rapped his knuckles against his forehead, trying to spawn a thought. “We won’t outrun them, not on the streets. We need to outwit them.”

As if to accentuate his point, a deep thumping noise came from behind them. It grew louder—very quickly.

Geralt swore. “It’s a chopper.”

“Turning,” Williams announced. They braced as the car swung sideways.

“I see it now,” Geralt announced, cursing again.

Sure enough, a black helicopter flew just over the skyways. A cone of light from the vehicle snaked across the ground until it eventually landed on their patrol car.

“I’m with you guys, now,” Geralt said. “We need to ditch the car.”

Odell snapped his fingers. “Hyde Plaza.” He repeated, with more energy, “Hyde Plaza. Williams, that’s where we need to go.”

“There’s gonna be a crapload of people there,” Williams said.

“Including Death Corps soldiers.”

Odell said, “It’s close. We can get there before our pursuers get us. It’s our best shot.”

Williams grumbled, but he didn’t offer an alternative.

Hurriedly, Odell told Northfield and Geralt, “Hyde Plaza is one of the city’s largest shopping centers. Skyways spread in every direction. There’s a park north of it, too, that people love visiting. All that together, it’s a place swarming with people. So we’ll ditch the car under the cover of the skyways and blend in with the crowd. And then pray we find a way out before the Death Corps get us.”

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“Good thinking, Odell,” Northfield said.

They approached another intersection. Northfield glanced out the right-side window, and his eyes widened.

“Williams! Car!” Those were the only words he was able to get out. Williams glanced over, saw the danger, and tried to react. He yanked the wheel but failed to get them fully out of the way.

A Death Corps car rammed them, just behind the backleft wheel. Their vehicle spun like mad. The world through the windows was a blur, and the screeching of tires filled their ears.

Their car stopped spinning when it rammed into a fire hydrant.

Small snakes of smoke drifted up from the burnt wheels.

The road had black circles, marking the journey of their crash.

Northfield’s head refused to stop spinning. His neck would be sore for a good week, if he made it that long, but otherwise, he was okay.

He asked, “Everyone alright?”

Before he got a response, they were interrupted.

The helicopter hovered nearly on top of them, its spotlight blinding. Speakers on the helicopter bellowed, “Surrender now.

Step out of the car, unarmed, with your hands behind your head.

Lie on the ground and wait for Corps officers to apprehend you.

This is your first and only warning. Failure to comply will result in lethal action.”

“Heh. As if we can get off on parole,” Geralt said bitterly. He held up his pistol.

An officer stepped out of the Death Corps car that had crashed into them. He moved slowly, slightly dazed from the crash. He took cover behind the door, holding up his rifle.

“Williams?” Odell said. “Williams?”

Their escort shook his head slowly. “Yeah… Yeah, I’m here.

Ow, my head…”

An army of sirens boomed louder. Ahead of them, four squad cars took up every lane of the street. Their sirens illuminated the windows around them, creating a red and blue wall of light. The wall came closer and closer, threatening to crush them.

“Get us out of here,” Geralt said.

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Despite Williams’s grogginess, he didn’t need to be told twice.

The car lurched, gurgling in an unwelcome way, but it managed to pick up speed. Some car fluid trickled out from under them.

“They’re gonna take this out of my salary,” Williams said, attempting to lighten the mood. Immediately, his brittle levity collapsed, and he said morosely, “We’re so boned.”

“Just keep driving,” Northfield said. “You’d be surprised how many bad scraps I’ve gotten out of. I don’t plan on making this an exception.”

If only you felt half as confident as you sound, Mark.

Williams turned left and sped down the road. He asked Odell, “I’m headed in the right direction, aren’t I?” “Yes,” Odell said. “Go straight four more blocks, then turn left on Ham Avenue. Take the next right. Then we’ll be there.”

“Okay,” Williams said, breathing out. “Okay.”

He followed Odell’s directions, all while the helicopter’s beam focused squarely on them.

Aside from the thunderous rotors, the helicopter remained eerily quiet. Instead, the pilot was likely focused on radioing their position to the pursuing squad cars.

If anything, Odell had been underselling Hyde Plaza.

Thick buildings encircled the central shopping area, with advertisements sticking out from them every which way.

The center area, composed of slabs of gentle gray stone, was a misshapen hexagon, fully conforming to the buildings around it.

Skyways didn’t merely connect buildings; they stacked on top of one another, creating a multilayered web around the plaza.

At the far end of the plaza, a set of stairs, as wide as a fourlane street, ascended to another road. Past the road, Northfield could see the canopy of trees, just barely. He figured there lay the park that Odell was talking about.

The plaza was filled to the brim with people; they practically spilled out of the shop and restaurant doors, forming long, snaking lines. In the center, there was a lot of movement as people window-shopped or joined one of the giant lines.

Three Death Corps soldiers patrolled the area, casually keeping the peace.

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The multilayered skyways concealed the fugitives from the helicopter, while the horde of shoppers hid them from their pursuers on foot. Furthermore, since the plaza had a multitude of entries and exits, they had options of where to run.

“Good pick,” he said to Odell.

“Yeah. Maybe we have a chance, after all.”

Their arrival, announced by the thumping helicopter and the blaring of sirens, attracted the plaza’s attention. Nearly all the heads in the plaza turned in their direction. Most of the civilians tensed up, agitated by the commotion. The Death Corps vehicles, approaching in a horde, could only spell bad news. Some of the civilians, on the other hand, seemed curious, craning their necks to see what was happening.

The Death Corps soldiers reached for their weapons.

Williams pulled the car under a stack of skyways, and the spotlight on them vanished.

“This is our shot,” Geralt said. “Everybody out.”

In unison, they cracked open the doors and leapt out.

Northfield, Odell, and Geralt raced toward the plaza. Geralt held his gun but kept it pointing at the ground. The pedestrians they passed offered no resistance, nor did they try to capture them.

The weapon was persuasive.

Williams didn’t follow them. He stood still, his glance turning toward the approaching sirens.

“Williams!” Geralt yelled.

“I’m not coming,” he said. “They’re after you. I won’t stay in your goose chase.” He stared to his right. Past the sidewalk, an alley led to a dead end. There were, however, some dumpsters he could hide behind.

Northfield saw his plan. He would hide until things settled down, then try to blend in with the other Death Corps soldiers.

Northfield truly hoped it worked out for him.

“No time to argue,” he said. “We gotta go.”

Geralt grunted in approval, and Odell nodded. With that, they split ways with Williams, entering the heart of the plaza.

The three Death Corps soldiers in the plaza continued shouldering their way through civilians. Their heads remained squarely fixed on the fugitives.

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“They’re gonna be a problem,” Geralt said.

“Let’s hope they’re slow,” Northfield said. The soldiers chased them from the right side of the plaza, so he scanned each of the four exits on the left side. Three of them were full streets, while the farthest from them was a smaller pedestrian walkway, able to fit three or four people shoulder to shoulder.

The nearest exit would spit them out in a direction not very different from the one they were fleeing. So unless they wanted to waltz right into their pursuers’ clutches, the exit was no good.

The second exit looked more promising. It was at a ninetydegree angle from the way they had entered, meaning the exit would certainly lead them to a different street. In fact, from this angle, he could see just a sliver through it. In the distance, there appeared to be a road running over the next street. That would provide concealment from the helicopter.

As the helicopter’s spotlight found them again, that observation seemed more like a blessing. Here they were, the stars of a show the Death Corps hoped would close with their blood dripping down the curtains.

Behind them, squad cars pulled up on the road they had ditched the squad car on. Officers stepped out, brandishing their rifles.

The last two exits were, realistically, too far for them to reach before the soldiers caught up. Which was just as well, since the second one seemed so appealing.

“There,” Northfield said, pointing at it. He didn’t need to say more. Geralt and Odell agreed, racing toward their new destination.

As he sprinted himself, feeling that all-too-familiar burn starting to alight in his lungs, he allowed himself a glimmer of hope. The belief that maybe, just maybe, they would get out, as easy as that.

Just as his heart lifted off the ground, the Death Corps shot it down.

The three soldiers that had been chasing them abruptly stopped, their heads tilted, and then they glanced at one another.

It was apparent that they had received a message through their helmets.

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Meanwhile, the fugitives continued making their way through the crowd, beelining toward their coveted exit.

The helicopter’s beam unrelentingly followed them. The hot white glow marked them for death, and unless they could escape its sight, the mark would be fulfilled.

The three soldiers nodded at each other, coming to a consensus. In unison, they lifted their rifles, aiming at the fugitives.

There were at least a dozen, possibly two dozen, people standing between the soldiers and the fugitives. A bullet couldn’t hope to pass all the bodies and hit one of them. A snowflake would have an easier time staying intact in July.

Their fingers moved over the triggers. Nobody really noticed, save for the pedestrians closest to them. Everyone else focused on the fugitives, who were cast in an illuminating glow, pumping their legs with every fiber in their bodies.

Northfield glanced back continuously to keep tabs on their pursuers. Through the crowd, he could pick out their helmets.

There were so many people between them, but the soldiers didn’t care. A stiff crack ripped through the plaza. A gunshot. As soon as Northfield registered the sound, an onslaught of bullets followed.

The crowd roared in response. The civilian’s screams were shrill, deep, and everything in between, loud enough to have been deafening under different circumstances. The gunfire drowned them out.

Amidst the shouts, amidst the dropping bodies, most people couldn’t tell what in the hell was happening. The instinct of most was to run away from the spotlight, the center of attention, which either had to be the source of the danger or its target. Regardless of which was true, they wanted to get as far away as possible.

For an unlucky portion of civilians, however, their flight led them straight toward the Death Corps soldiers.

No. No, Northfield thought, blinking rapidly, his eyes drinking in the images like burning liquor. He prayed this was some flashback, some blend between his imagination and reality, creating a perverted scene from the darkest depths of his mind.

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No. God, no.

Bodies fell in waves that spread from the soldiers. Mists of blood exploded, one after another.

“Goddamned psychos,” Geralt yelled. He let Odell pass in front of him, shielding the elder man, and they sprinted for their exit.

Before Northfield could move, a woman ran into him. She had been so focused on fleeing that she hadn’t noticed him.

Before either of them realized it, they were falling, tangled in a mess of limbs. Bullets cut through the crowd between them and the Death Corps.

Northfield’s tailbone hit the ground hard, but he hardly noticed the impact. She was on top of him, but she hardly moved.

She remained there, trembling, unsure of whether to get up again or just stay as low and flat as possible.

Odell and Geralt turned, seeing him down.

The former Yellowback uttered a litany of curses. He pushed his way back through the crowd, and Odell followed.

Northfield wedged a hand out from under her, and he waved them back. He screamed as loud as he could, “Go!” Geralt hesitated before he turned away. Odell lingered until Geralt shoved him, forcing the elder man to move, too.

“Get up,” Northfield urged the woman. Anywhere was safer than right on top of him; that he knew for certain. “Come on, you gotta go. You gotta go.”

She started to get up, and he helped steady her, pivoting to put himself between her and the shooters. He pointed her in the opposite direction of the one he intended to go. She ran, and he prayed that bullets wouldn’t hit her.

The bullets meant for him. Or were they? This was madness.

He faced the shooters. The crowd between them had thinned greatly. At least fifteen, maybe twenty—or, Christ, even more— bodies lay between them. Most of the survivors had escaped the firing zone. However, there were still around ten people running away from the line of fire, having been either tripped by or stuck behind other fleeing civilians.

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The shooters were still firing in his direction, but their attention was only on him vaguely. They were shooting at him, sure, but their barrels also diverted, if only slightly, to pick off runners close enough to them.

His adrenaline-addled mind couldn’t figure out what, in the name of hell, they were doing. Maybe this was part of their orders.

Or maybe the extra killings were bloodlust. Or the soldiers were simply carried by the inertia of their actions, unable to stop what their hands had begun.

He felt for the pistol on his waistband without really thinking about it. The reality of the weapon, and what he was thinking about doing, hadn’t impressed itself upon him until his fingers wrapped around the grip.

He didn’t have a shot. But he could get into a position where he had one. The Death Corps soldiers would have a bead on him soon. There were only so many more people that they could shoot through.

He could surrender. He could try stopping this bloodbath by putting himself on a spear. But even if they put a bullet through his heart, Lord, he had no idea if they would stop shooting.

If he started shooting, well, he could miss and hit civilians.

There were fewer people behind the Death Corps soldiers, as they had had an easier time fleeing. But still, the risk was there.

If he did nothing, the Death Corps would keep killing. Every instant he wasted deliberating, another person got put into the ground.

An abrupt silence changed everything. The gunfire had stopped, and he instantly figured out why.

Their fingers had been shooting with abandon. Just mow, mow, mow. If they hit a civilian, so be it. If they hit one of the fugitives, even better. They hadn’t been staggering their fire to switch off reloading.

Their magazines were spent. He had a couple of seconds where they were defenseless.

He bull-rushed forward. When he got a clear line on the soldiers, they had already put fresh magazines in their rifles.

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All they had left to do was pull their charging handles and start blasting away.

Northfield put two bullets through the first Death Corps soldier. Center mass, the first just below the left collarbone. The second hit his heart. The soldier fell on top of the pile of bodies he had created.

The second soldier managed to pull his charging handle.

He lifted his rifle and got halfway to pointing it at Northfield. A bullet hit his jugular.

The last soldier got a couple of shots off. His aim was wild, though, maybe due to the sight of his buddies dying next to him.

The automatic fire went a foot and a half over Northfield’s head.

He put three rounds into the last soldier. All center mass, all mortally wounding. He was dead in seconds.

Northfield looked around the plaza, and his stomach turned in on itself. They had arrived at the plaza, what, a minute ago?

A couple minutes ago? Less than that? His sense of time was completely nonfunctional. Everything felt slow and warped and wrong.

However many minutes it was, it hadn’t been long. It shouldn’t have been long enough to cause this level of catastrophe. So many bodies. So many damn bodies. Belonging to people whose sole crime was being in the way.

The nausea in his stomach worsened. He very well might have vomited, had he not looked back.

There was a row of Death Corps squad cars. No, there were multiple rows; he saw at least two of them. Soldiers stepped out of the vehicles. Their rifles had never looked more ominous.

There were still so many people in the plaza, some even running toward the newly arrived soldiers.

He couldn’t stay here.

He pivoted on his heels and ran, wanting to put as much distance between him and this death zone as possible.

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11 He scrambled to figure out his next move. He ran as fast as he could without tripping over bodies. Every averted step was a reminder of what had just happened in the plaza. Each one was a reminder of the soldiers giving chase.

Geralt and Odell should be hauling their asses right now. Can I catch up with them? I hope they haven’t been waiting for me. I hope they’re gone from here. I hope they’re gone.

The pursuing soldiers hadn’t opened fire yet. The reason why not, he could only guess. They were farther away than the nowdead soldiers had been when they had opened fire. Since he was sprinting perpendicular from their perspective, they would have an even harder time hitting him before he reached the alley.

Still, they clearly had no compunctions about shooting through innocent people. So why the hell wouldn’t they just pull the trigger and see if anything stuck? Maybe they still possessed some level of humanity and saw that discarding lives on the off chance that they would hit him was stupid.

A chilling thought occurred to him.

What if whoever ordered them to open fire had also told them to stop?

He wasn’t prepared to contend with the thought. So he continued pumping his arms, not bothering to glance back at his pursuers. A numbness pooled in the soles of his feet. He felt only the impact of his feet against the ground through the jolting in his hips. His stomach roiled and crawled to the back of his throat, threatening to double him over.

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He tried to shrug the feelings off and center his focus on the alley. Once he reached it, he didn’t have a clue of what he would do, but that was future Mark Northfield’s problem. As of now, he just needed to get one foot past the other and not stumble.

As the alley loomed larger, any warmth of its embrace abruptly faded. The chompy chatter of assault rifles came from its depths. The shots were coming from the alley, but not many escaped into the plaza. Whoever was shooting, probably Death Corps, was aiming at something inside the alley. The bullets weren’t directed at him.

Kiosks, dumpsters, and stairways cluttered the alley. He took cover behind the nearest kiosk, a necklace stand. He hoped the seller wasn’t cowering inside. The thin wood walls wouldn’t block a bullet.

His time was in short supply; soon enough, the soldiers behind him would get to an angle where they could start shooting. The only choice he had was to forge ahead. Better to take a bullet in the chest than the back.

He peeked over the kiosk. Past the alley, the overhanging road would conceal him from the helicopter.

At the mouth of the alley, two Death Corps soldiers fired intently at something behind a concrete stairwell about fifteen yards ahead of him. He couldn’t see what lay behind the stairwell because another kiosk blocked his vision. There were four kiosks in total, zigzagging across the alley. A couple of dumpsters loitered around for good measure. Death Corps soldiers lay in the center of the alley, dead. Their blood funneled into the nearby drain.

Someone popped up and shot back at the soldiers. Through the gaps in the kiosk, Northfield could see that it was Geralt.

Relief flooded through him before he looked down.

The necklace seller indeed hid inside the kiosk, lying as flat as possible and shaking in fear. Keeping low, not being a hero, the man was doing everything he should to weather the storm.

Despite that, the storm was now on top of him.

Mark, how much collateral is your ass worth?

He didn’t have the luxury to opine further.

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“Geralt!” he yelled. The former Yellowback peeked up and saw him. Odell, too, rose and hazarded a glance. Good. They were together and still in one piece. What had happened appeared obvious. The Death Corps had put men on the exits to form a perimeter. Geralt and Odell had run into them.

The fugitives had to act quickly, and they had to act perfectly.

They were in a Death Corps sandwich, and they didn’t want to be crushed by them.

Knowing that his yell would attract the soldiers at the end of the alley, he darted to the next piece of cover, a dumpster. Bullets bit into the ground around him.

From behind the dumpster, he could see Geralt and Odell more easily. The former Yellowback had an assault rifle; he had picked it up from one of the dead soldiers. He had passed his pistol to Odell.

Northfield only had his pistol. He cursed himself for not picking up an assault rifle after he killed the soldiers in the plaza.

So much for acting perfectly. They could really use the firepower right now. An assault rifle lay next to one of the dead soldiers, but it was plain in the open. It wouldn’t be smart to go for it.

Geralt pointed at the end of the alley with his gun. The message was clear. They had to make their break.

A fact punctuated by a bullet that cratered into the dumpster, half a foot from Northfield’s head. It came from the plaza’s direction. A group of Death Corps soldiers leveled their weapons, firing while keeping their approach.

With that, Northfield rounded the corner, pistol raised.

Geralt and Odell did the same. The soldiers at the end of the alley, whose rifles were mounted on their parked squad car, opened fire. At the very same time, so did the fugitives. Bullets flew in every direction, tidal waves that were violent and unpredictable.

All Northfield could do was keep pulling the trigger until the slide of his pistol fell back. He crouched and sought out the next kiosk to hide behind.

He reloaded, assessing his friends. Odell’s gun was empty, too.

He put new rounds in his revolver, slowly, the shakiness apparent in his wrists. Geralt stormed ahead, throwing a magazine out of 140

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his rifle and shoving in another. His movements bubbled with aggression, with rage.

Bullets kept coming from behind them. Now there was more cover between them and the plaza to block the shots, but the pursuing soldiers were getting closer. There were more of them, too, second by second.

Northfield pivoted around the kiosk, his pistol up. They hadn’t hit either of the Death Corps soldiers behind the squad car. With Geralt laying fire on them, drawing their attention, Northfield sensed an opportunity. There was a half second as one of the soldiers pivoted away from Geralt and toward Northfield.

His rifle swung around, an arc of death.

Only the soldier’s head and arms were exposed, so Northfield took aim at his head and shot. The shakiness in his hands betrayed him, but only slightly. The shot was low, hitting the soldier’s shoulder instead. He fell.

He couldn’t tell the quality of the shot past contact. The soldier could be mortally wounded or just have a scratch. Either way, he turned his attention to the other soldier, who continued firing at Geralt. The former Yellowback fired back, unflinching.

Odell shot at the remaining soldier as well. He shot more timidly, unsure of the gun in his hands.

One of their bullets hit the soldier; his head rolled back, and he fell behind the squad car. Despite this, they felt no less safe, as the gunfire behind them picked up considerably.

They crouch-ran to the end of the alley, praying the kiosks and dumpsters behind them would protect their asses.

They made it to the end of the alley without taking a bullet.

They rounded the squad car, guns up. It was a good thing they did, as the soldier Northfield had hit had his rifle up, ready to fire. Blood spurted from his shoulder, but not profusely; the wound must have just been flesh-level. The soldier couldn’t fire fast enough, and Geralt put a bullet through him.

Northfield picked up his rifle and stuffed a couple of magazines into his waistband. His pistol was nearly out of ammo, so he discarded it. Geralt did the same.

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In a small, fleeting moment of bliss, Northfield realized that the helicopter’s beam no longer shone down on them. The road above them indeed provided cover against those all-watching eyes.

To their left and right, civilians flooded the street. Those that had managed to escape the plaza were trying desperately to get as far away as possible. Because the road was so congested, cars had trouble crossing the one-way street. A dump truck, from a construction zone on the opposite side of the street, blared its horn furiously at the swathes of people.

Death Corps vehicles would also need to fight through the pedestrians to reach them. The soldiers at their backside still needed to get through the alley. The kiosks and dumpsters between them blocked the Death Corps’ line of sight, and they had a complete blackout, with no Death Corps eyes on them.

They crouch-ran horizontally to get out of the alley’s sightline so the pursuing soldiers wouldn’t see them.

“Hide your weapons. The crowd won’t pay as much attention to us,” Geralt said. He and Northfield stuffed their rifles into their jackets. The rifles’ outlines showed through, but since the jackets were thick, the bulges weren’t noticeable unless someone closely studied them. In either case, it was better than running with them and scaring the crowd.

They started to run across the street. The crowds didn’t pay them any mind. Their focus was on getting the hell out of Dodge, not spectating.

Odell asked, “Where do we run?”

Northfield said, “We have a few options.”

He pointed to the construction zone. A banner strewn across its entrance showed that it was for an apartment complex. The place had a big U-shape, with lots of scaffolding and noise.

“We can head there. There might be a spot to lie low, or maybe even an exit.”

Geralt shook his head at the construction zone and said, “Ain’t a good idea. We’d corner ourselves.”

Northfield then pointed at one of the masses of people fleeing the plaza. “We can try blending in. See if we can just shuffle our way out.”

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Odell pointed at them and said, “I don’t think blending in is an option.”

Northfield looked down. His clothes had bloodstains. Odell was right.

The older man pointed across the street and said, “What about that?”

They followed his finger, which led to the transfer dump truck still furiously honking.

Odell said, “Looks like it’s hauling out debris from the construction site. We could hide in there and hope the truck takes us somewhere safe.”

“Would hiding there corner us even more than the construction site would?” Northfield asked.

“At least we’ll be moving,” Geralt said. “I like it. Let’s do it.”

Northfield and Odell nodded. They didn’t have time for a more spirited debate.

The truck was in the farthest-left lane of the one-way.

Scaffolding for the construction zone extended to the sidewalk next to it. The driver’s side faced away from the alley and the pursuing soldiers.

Northfield said, “Let’s hop in on the driver’s side. The construction scaffolding will conceal us.”

They reached the truck. The driver continued to blare his horn at the crowd of people blocking his way. The honks became increasingly prolonged, but nobody in the crowd paid him any mind.

At any moment, the driver could see them through his side mirror. Conversely, however, they could see him through the mirror as well.

The man at the wheel had round cheeks that were redder than red, a mix of cold and rage. A scowl threatened to tear his jaw from his head, only intensifying as he slammed on the horn.

Since his attention was so drawn to the crowd, now seemed as good a time to move as any.

Northfield kneeled and offered his hands to Geralt as a lift. The former Yellowback obliged. Working together, Geralt managed to hook his fingertips onto the lip of the truck bed, and he climbed into the truck.

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“I’m going to need some help,” Odell said.

Northfield gave Odell the same lift, while Geralt helped him up from the other end. After Odell got into the truck bed, Northfield climbed up with Geralt’s assistance.

The bed was filled about three-quarters of the way with dirt interspersed with concrete and rock chunks. The debris was distributed unevenly, with a large mound in the back-center of the bed. If they positioned themselves in the lower areas of dirt, they could crouch without their heads poking above the top.

“Now we’re eggs in one basket,” Geralt muttered quietly.

“This better end well.”

The horn kept going off without a disturbance in its rhythm.

“I don’t think the driver noticed us,” Northfield whispered.

“That’s a good start,” Geralt whispered back.

Odell said, “We ought to bury ourselves in the dirt as much as we can.”

In the darkest corners of the flatbed, they lay as flat as they could and shoveled dirt over themselves with reckless abandon.

Sirens approached ever closer, and distressed cries from civilians accompanied them. If Northfield had to guess, the Death Corps’ patrol cars were pushing through the crossing civilians. Since the shouts sounded more alarmed than horrified, he hoped the Death Corps weren’t running them over.

He also made out the barks of Death Corps soldiers, if not their words. The soldiers from the alley were now on the street.

They would commence their search, and there was no telling how long it would be until they reached the truck. That everfamiliar pressure of incoming danger sat on him heavily.

And the truck still wasn’t moving. Not even an inch. As the honk droned on, Northfield could empathize with the driver’s frustration. The pedestrians’ presence on the street, which had provided the concealment they needed to reach the truck, now worked against them.

Their truck needed to move. It needed to move, move, move.

The sirens blared louder. The Death Corps barks grew thunderous.

The sand in their hourglass drained perilously thin.

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Jess, remember that time we were at the beach, not long after we started dating? I tried to be a good boyfriend and surprise you with ice cream. Mint chocolate chip. Vanilla and chocolate seemed too boring. I thought that mint chocolate chip was a safe choice but a little more exciting. Dairy-free, too. I even remembered that you were lactose-intolerant.

A minute after I gave you the cone, you “accidentally” dropped it into the sand. I offered to get you another one, but you felt so bad, apparently, that you wanted to buy it yourself. So you went off to the shop and came back with cookie dough.

I didn’t find out until a year later that you hated mint chocolate chip. Hated it with a fiery passion.

You never admitted that you dropped that cone on purpose.

Not once.

Whenever I see you again, I’m gonna make you fess up. You better believe it. The number one thing on my list.

Well, maybe after saying I love you.

He looked at the mound of dirt his hand sat in. His mind flashed to the people in the plaza. Would they be buried or cremated?

Dust to dust. That’s in your book, God. But the people in the plaza, shopping, eating… It didn’t seem like their time. What part did I have to play in that?

The engine grumbled and the truck bed jolted; their vehicle was moving. Slowly, but it was progress nonetheless. The driver, in all likelihood, had reached his limit of his patience with the crowd and was slowly pushing through.

Northfield clenched his fists.

Please.

The truck turned left and abruptly picked up speed. The sound of sirens faded. His body remained tense, as he expected the whine of danger to spawn behind them again.

The thumping of helicopter blades also faded but then abruptly grew louder. There was another helicopter, he realized.

There had to be a few of them in the surrounding area by now, scouring for the fugitives.

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His stomach hollowed as he spotted a black blot in the sky.

It was the helicopter, swinging its searchlight back and forth, inching closer and closer to them.

Then its light was on them. The white-hot glow bathed him, and his heart rattled around his chest like popcorn in a microwave.

The light lingered there. They needed to move. They needed to leap out of their truck. To hell with the fact that it was blazing down the street. They needed to run into the darkness of an alley and pray their luck carried them from there.

Yet something compelled his body to stay still, to tamp down the trembling in his hands and resemble the stones around him.

In a move that seemed impossible, the beam drifted away. On its way to search another truck or alley or road.

For now, they were okay. However, “for now” had never been a more brittle sentiment.

146

12 “General Arkland, the Nexus has ordered you to speak with them. They’re going to call in two minutes,” Jane Sloan said.

General Arkland nodded, tapping his fingers on his desk. Of course, he had expected the call. There could have been no other outcome after what happened at the plaza.

He knew what he had to say. The issue, as always, was saying it in a way that would make the Nexus listen.

“Would you like my counsel, General?”

Arkland said, “You know it’s always welcome, Sloan.”

She said, “The Nexus is going to feel agitated. Each Chair is going to feel like they have a million better things to do in response to the plaza event than disciplining you.”

Arkland said, “So you’re suggesting I push the issue. Be assertive.”

“Exceptionally so. Frankly, you have nowhere to go but up.

Just play to their strengths and weaknesses, as always.”

“Agreed,” Arkland said. He pressed his lips together and squinted. “You’ve handled the media?”

“The news networks and websites have their scripts, sir. I checked the broadcasts before entering the office. They’re doing as you command.”

“Good,” Arkland said. His desk had three computer monitors.

On one of them, he pulled up the most prominent news website, and he scanned through the leading article. “We’re ready to go, then.”

Sloan nodded and said, “Best of luck, sir.”

“Good work, Sloan. You’re dismissed.”

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After she left the room, a notification popped up on one of his monitors. It was the Nexus. He answered the call, and the Nexus’s faces filled his monitor in a gallery.

“You’ve screwed up, Arkland. You’ve screwed up beyond words,” the Chair of the Network said, not bothering with formality. His face was alight with rage. Indeed, so were the others’ faces. He went through the list. “You ordered the Corps to fire on civilians in the plaza. Then, after that travesty, you ordered your soldiers to hold back. And for all of that, the fugitives got away. You put a PR crisis on our laps, made us look incompetent, and have nothing to show for it.”

The Chair of State dogpiled. “Your orders reek of inconsistency, Arkland. They reek of incompetence.”

The Chair of the Network said, “An order like that, Arkland… you either commit or you don’t. You shouldn’t have sent the order in the first place. But my God, if you decide to start shooting, you better shoot through every damn civilian in order to catch them.”

The Chair of Outreach pitched in. “This is going to create fear in the general populace. It will instill a feeling of instability and make people think that Stormrise is a bigger threat than it actually is. This is exactly what we were trying to avoid.”

The Chair of State was going to speak again, but Arkland asserted himself. “You’re all missing the forest for the trees. We got what we needed out of the plaza event.”

The Chair of State laughed scathingly and repeated, “‘What we needed’?”

The Chair of the Network cried to the others, “He’s delusional.”

The Chair of Research and Development, ever the curious one, said, “I want to hear what he has to say.”

The Chair of the Network said, “I don’t have time to listen to his litterbox of excuses.”

The Chair of Resources tilted her head skeptically. Her face had the typical veil of fake emotion, one that only scarcely hid her mind’s only functions: analysis and self-interest. “You understand, Arkland, that it is very difficult to see how any part of that debacle was beneficial.”

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“I do. Which is why you should give me the opportunity to explain. If you don’t, you’re letting an opportunity fall out of your laps.”

“You’re a hell of a salesman, I’ll give you that,” the Chair of Research and Development said.

“I don’t think we need to hear your opportunity. I don’t think we need to hear it at all,” the Chair of the Network said.

“Fortunately for me, your opinion isn’t all that matters. The Nexus decides on majority.”

“I know how the Nexus works,” the Chair of the Network said. “Don’t treat me like a toddler, General Arkland. That’s a swift downhill path for you.”

“I meant no offense,” Arkland said. “But my point still stands.

Why don’t we have a vote?”

The Chair of the Network continued to fume. He looked like he wanted to counter Arkland in some way, just for the sake of it, but could find no reason to rebut what the general had said.

“Fine. Let’s have a vote. Who is in favor of hearing Arkland out?

Raise your hands.”

The Chair of Resources lifted her hand. The Chair of Research and Development’s hand rose, too.

Two. He had two of the five.

Then, tentatively, the Chair of Outreach raised her hand. She wore an uncertain frown. The type you’d give an unfamiliar dog that had slipped off its leash.

He had his majority, even if it was by a slim margin.

“Fine. Go ahead, Arkland,” the Chair of the Network said.

“I was notified as soon as the fugitives were spotted, and I oversaw the manhunt personally. At first, our primary objective was capturing them. We didn’t know which of the fugitives we had, since they were wearing masks and using fake identification.

They could have been Mark Northfield and Geralt Salb or Rayne Simpson’s men. From our pursuit of the former after the convoy attack, we know they had been separated from Stormrise, at least for a little while.

“But circumstances changed when the fugitives reached Hyde Plaza. One of them had a gun out. He didn’t point it at 149

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anyone, but it was in plain sight. We later discovered that this fugitive was Geralt Salb.”

The Chair of State interrupted, “Hang on. You discovered that one of the fugitives was Geralt Salb?”

The Chair of the Network cried, “And you let him get away?”

Arkland dismissed their critical tones and said, “Yes, we learned he was one of the fugitives we were chasing. Along with Mark Northfield and a still-unidentified third man. I’ll get to how we identified them later.

“But first, I want to reemphasize what I said. Geralt Salb had a gun out. In a crowd with civilians. Would he fire on any of them, even to shoot a Corps soldier? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the crowd didn’t know.”

The Chair of the Network said, “So you ordered your soldiers to shoot and re-create the Petal Park Massacre.”

The Chair of Outreach said, “The Petal Park Massacre is exactly what started this whole mess.”

Arkland said, “Yes, but this situation was different. The Petal Park Massacre was one-sided. Nobody was armed, at least in any real way, besides the Corps. That was a screw-up, plain and simple.” He glanced at the Chair of State, who scowled. “The situation was black and white for anybody looking at it.

“But at Hyde Plaza, both sides were armed. The crowd plainly saw the fugitives’ weapons. Then a gunfight breaks out and kills some civilians. Who’s to say which side shot first? Sure, some will say the Corps, but it’s irrelevant. The fact is someone associated with Stormrise was brandishing a gun around law enforcement, and people died as a result. That makes Stormrise look bad, any way you slice it.”

The Chair of Outreach said, “But it makes the Corps, and the Network, look bad, too. Maybe even worse.”

“Your focus is in the wrong place. The public’s perception of the Network is secondary.”

“Oh, really?” the Chair of the Network said. “Since we have an uprising in our midst, it seems pretty damned important.”

Arkland shook his head, tamping down his frustration.

“You’re trying to do two things: boost public perception of the 150

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Network and also ignore Stormrise. That strategy will get you nowhere.

“It’s a losing battle on both fronts. Stormrise can garner goodwill a hell of a lot faster than we can. We have a history of bad PR moments. The type that any organization our size has. Nonetheless, Stormrise can use it against us. Besides, who doesn’t sometimes feel dissatisfied with their government? Well, Stormrise offers a new possibility, and they can make all the glittering promises that we can’t.”

He eyed the Chair of Outreach, who was the expert on PR, and he asked, “Am I wrong in my assessment?”

She shook her head.

He continued, “Ignoring Stormrise won’t work, either. If we try to, every second that Stormrise sticks around, it legitimizes itself—and delegitimizes us. Suppressing rebellions isn’t a quick process. If we tell the public that Stormrise is an insignificant threat yet we can’t neutralize it quickly, we’ll look weak. If we look weak, people will be more willing to stand against us. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“If we paint Stormrise as a big threat, won’t that also be legitimizing it?” the Chair of Resources asked. She sounded more curious than skeptical.

“You’re still approaching this problem the wrong way,” Arkland said. “You’re thinking about positive PR. About showing that we are stronger. It isn’t the race we need to be worried about.

We’re not looking upwards. What we should be concerned about is the race towards the bottom.”

The Chair of Outreach nodded, albeit with a grim frown. She understood, but she wasn’t entirely on board.

“Explain,” the Chair of the Network commanded.

The Chair of Outreach answered for Arkland. “He’s saying that our primary objective should be tanking the public’s opinion of Stormrise. Even if it means lowering the public’s opinion of us, too.”

“I don’t like that idea. Not in the slightest,” the Chair of the Network said.

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Arkland said, “If we make the people hate Stormrise, then it doesn’t matter what they think about us. Even if they hate us more, they won’t risk their lives, and their families, for a cause that they also despise. Breeding distrust in Stormrise will breed apathy. Apathy brings about inaction. And a public not willing to act is exactly what will starve out the insurrection.”

The Chair of Outreach said, “Hence your order in Hyde Plaza.”

Arkland said, “Yes. The results were even better than I could have imagined. Now, I need you to oblige me for a moment.

Please pull up the Medean Times on your computers.”

Their eyes uniformly averted from Arkland as they brought up the news article on their secondary monitors.

The Chair of Outreach had an immediate reaction, one far stronger than the others.

“You had no right, Arkland. You didn’t have the authority to do this.” She then said to the others, “This article wasn’t authorized by me. Arkland did this without going through me.” She glared at him and asked, “Is this on all the other news stations as well?”

“You know how it works,” Arkland said. “I gave the story to a few outlets. The others, without scoops of their own, copied the story. It’s spreading across the stations as we speak.”

She glowered more intensely. “Why didn’t you reach out to me?”

Arkland said, “There wasn’t time. It was a newsworthy event in a populated area, and word would get out no matter what. The media had to publish right away, and every outlet needed to say the right thing.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make, Arkland.” Her voice rose in anger. “You should have at least reached out to me.”

“Again, there wasn’t time. Cameras were broadcasting the manhunt live. I acted with prudence.”

The Chair of Research and Development interrupted them and said, “In this case, I can accept that General Arkland needed to act.”

The Chair of Outreach countered, “Easy for you to say when it wasn’t your authority that he breached.”

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The Chair of Research and Development ignored her comment and said, “What I’m concerned about is whether he acted correctly.”

General Arkland pounced on that opportunity. “After our soldiers started firing, Mark Northfield ran towards them.

Judging by how he moved, he wanted to get in a position where he could shoot our soldiers while minimizing civilian casualties.

Look at the picture we took.”

On the article he had pulled up, the picture he referenced sat just under the bold headline. In it, Mark Northfield stood over the bodies of Corps soldiers, his gun pointed at them. Around them lay the bodies of civilians.

Arkland said, “How we should handle this is clear. We twist the narrative. Mark Northfield and Stormrise were the aggressors. They shot and killed good soldiers as well as innocent civilians. People died because they just wouldn’t surrender. We need to pump this story out to all our outlets, again and again, ad nauseum. Drill it into peoples’ heads.”

The Chair of Resources said, “In light of the Petal Park Massacre, I’m concerned that the populace won’t buy the story wholesale.”

“That is irrelevant. We’re in a game of attrition. We need to plant seeds of doubt and keep planting them. Given time, a garden will grow.” Arkland leaned forward and said, “After we captured this image, I ordered my men to ease up and avoid more casualties. I wanted their focus to be on helping civilians.

Although the fugitives escaped, they left more soldiers’ bodies in their wake.

“Think about how that PR story will play out. The fugitives shoot their way out, while the Corps is helping people. That’s water for our seeds. It’s more than worth the fugitives escaping our grasp for now. Remember, we’re playing the long game.”

The Chair of Research and Development nodded and then chuckled. “You know what? I like it. I didn’t think I’d leave here with my mind changed. But you managed it somehow.”

The Chair of Outreach had a distant look on her face, her concern apparent. He knew exactly what she was thinking about.

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She was stuck on the general’s breach of her authority. However, what concerned her more than the fact that he would was the fact that he even could.

She was horrified that he had contacts in her department who were more willing to follow his orders than hers. Right now, she was calculating just how far, just how deep, his tendrils of influence went.

He doubted that she would bring it up in this meeting; he suspected that she would call another meeting with the Nexus, excluding him. That meeting wasn’t something he had any concern about. They wouldn’t curb his power yet, not while the fugitives were loose in the city.

Time was all he needed.

The Chair of Resources broke the silence by asking, “I want to hear what the Chair of Outreach thinks about this.”

She cleared her throat and said, “I think we go with Arkland’s plan for now. It does hold some merit.” She added with a touch of bitterness, “And he’s already oriented our PR strategy in that direction.”

The Chair of Resources said, “There is one last piece of information you haven’t given us, Arkland. How did you discover the identities of the fugitives?”

General Arkland said, “Through the man that helped them pass our security checkpoint. Elliot Williams, officer in the Corps State Patrol.” He glanced at the Chair of State again. Prior to his commandeering of all Corps forces, her department helmed the State Patrol. “He was trying to escape the scene, separately from the other fugitives. After we captured him, he talked immediately.

He identified Mark Northfield and Geralt Salb, although he didn’t know the name of the last member of their party. He didn’t know where they were headed, either. Officer Williams has no affiliation with Stormrise. He committed treason for the money.

The job was set up by a handler, Jessica Li, who goes by Softball.

Also no affiliation to Stormrise. We are searching for her now, but she appears to have packed her bags and split.”

The Chair of Resources said, “And what will happen to Officer Williams?”

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“He’ll be executed. Quietly. No use muddying the message tonight with another public execution. Since he cooperated so readily, his family will be left alone.” He addressed them all: “Anything else?”

The Nexus was silent. He had satisfied them, for now.

The Chair of the Network said reluctantly, “Fine. The way I see it, General Arkland, your actions have produced viable results.

You’ve demonstrated that your actions have been calculated, at the very least. Unless any Chairs have an objection, you are permitted to continue your operation unabated.”

He paused, waiting for an objection. The Chair of Outreach glared at the general. Any concerns would be raised in their following meeting, he suspected.

The Chair of the Network continued. “You wiggled your way out this time, General. But I want you to keep one thing in mind.

We don’t take your breach of authority lightly. I advise you to be very, very cognizant of what would happen if you were to make such a move again and not produce the results that you anticipated.” After another pause, he added, “We expect to see your best performance at the Reckoning, General.”

With that, one by one, the Chairs left the video call. When the general was alone, he ordered Sloan into his office.

“How did it go, sir?”

He said, “In the Chair of the Network’s words, I ‘wiggled my way out this time.’”

He pulled up another file on his computer. An audio recording of their meeting popped up. The general scrubbed through the file and made sure every word of the meeting had been captured.

Recording the Nexus’s meetings was strictly forbidden. In fact, the Nexus tried to hold all its meetings in person to avoid such risks. However, given the urgency that Stormrise’s presence had created, the group didn’t always possess the luxury of time to congregate, and virtual meetings had become a necessity.

“Is there anything useful within the recording?” Sloan asked.

“Yes. Yes, there is,” the general said.

The Nexus could have all the meetings it wanted without him. The Chairs wouldn’t be able to hurt him. He would make sure of that.

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13 The fugitives ditched the truck as soon as possible. There was no telling when the truck would dump its junk or if it would be stopped and searched by Death Corps soldiers.

So when they passed over a bridge where shadows dominated, they hopped out. They abandoned their rifles, as the weapons made them far too conspicuous.

The snow decided to start up again, slowly for now, but the wind was picking up speed. The temperature was free-falling.

The men huddled in the overpass, caked in dirt and snow and blood. The protection of their winter gear faltered against the intensifying cold, and they started to shiver.

“That couldn’t have gone worse,” Geralt declared, rubbing his shoulders.

“We’re here, at least,” Odell said. “We could have been arrested at the checkpoint. Or shot, for that matter.”

“I’d hold my breath on that one, pal,” he said.

Northfield couldn’t stop counting the bodies. Every one of them he saw in the plaza, one by one.

And that might not even be all of them. How many deaths did I miss?

“What do you think happened to Williams?” Northfield asked.

“He’s in a gutter or a cell right now,” Geralt said. “No way he just walked out of that.”

“The odds aren’t good for him,” Odell agreed.

“Ah, hell,” Northfield said.

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“I won’t waste sorrys on him. He knew what would come down the pipeline if we got made,” Geralt said.

Northfield didn’t feel like arguing that point. He said, “What about Softball?”

Odell said, “Her sense of self-preservation is acute. I’m sure she ran as soon as the news hit. Hopefully, she’s safe.”

Northfield said, “We shouldn’t have gotten out of that scrap.”

“Maybe. But I ain’t gonna complain about it,” Geralt said.

“Something about it seemed off,” Northfield said. “Their pursuit was weak. You’re telling me that they’re willing to shoot through civilians and then don’t put much effort into nabbing us? It just doesn’t add up.”

“They could be tracking us,” Geralt said, “hoping we lead them to Stormrise.”

Northfield shook his head. “It’s possible, but I don’t think so.”

Odell said, “We have a long way to go, unfortunately. But that means we have time to notice if someone is tracking us.”

“We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” Geralt said.

A pair of headlights flickered down the road; a car was driving toward them. They kept low and turned away. The headlights washed over them. The car didn’t slow, nor did it speed up at the sight of them; it passed them without issue. The fugitives hoped it meant that its driver hadn’t paid them any mind.

Still, the lights reminded them that they weren’t safe.

“Odell,” Northfield said, “this is the time, if any, for you to get out of this.”

He shook his head adamantly and said, “I’m not going to do that. Especially not when I have a plan.”

“Plan? Now that’s the word I wanted to hear,” Geralt said.

“But there is one wrinkle,” Odell said. He dug around in his chest pocket and pulled out his wallet. He picked out a credit card and displayed it for them to see.

The card was shiny black, with red and blue lines running across the center. Along with a sixteen-digit number, the front of the card had a small stamp in the top right corner. NexCard.

“Just a single credit card?” Northfield asked. He didn’t know the exchange rate in New Medea, but a single credit card wouldn’t do much for them.

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Odell shook his head. “This credit card isn’t a token of exchange, like the U.S. dollar was. This is a NexCard, issued by the New Medea Network Bank. It works like a credit card of old.

You swipe it, your credit card bill goes up, and you pay that bill.”

“So in New Medea,” Geralt said, “people use some credit cards like paper dollars, but they use other cards like actual credit cards.”

Odell nodded.

Geralt started, “If that ain’t the most confusing, asinine thing I’ve ever heard…”

Odell said, “Yes. But the Network is trying their best to phase out credit cards being used as tokens and get complete adoption of the NexCard.

“When the world fell, we transitioned to credit cards as currency for a few reasons, as I’m sure you know. After so many people died, there was too much paper money lying around.

You’d practically need a barrel of cash to buy a loaf of bread.

By contrast, there were fewer credit cards. So a desperate world latched on to cards as a means of payment. Besides, a credit card felt a lot more solid, a lot more stable, in someone’s hand, and people liked that. The cards worked for a while. Then came the development of New Medea.”

He looked around, and he said, “As you can see, the world has changed a lot, even in these last couple of years. Television, internet, and cell service are back. Society is closer to what it used to be, or it at least feels like it. People have been accumulating wealth again, too. That means more cards for them to lug around.

While cards were once seen as sturdy, now they’re seen as bulky.

People don’t want to deal with it. We’re in a ‘civilized’ society again.”

He chuckled at that last part, and he said, “So in comes the New Medea Network Bank, with their shiny NexCard. A single card to handle transactions, instead of a whole heap. As you can imagine, the adoption rate was high.”

Northfield said, “I’m guessing the NexCard didn’t come for free.”

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“You’re exactly right,” Odell said. “The card is another means to monitor everyone, like the Network’s support of the internet.

The NexCard enables the Network to watch people’s transactions.

If the Network doesn’t like somebody, they can freeze their accounts. Likewise, if a man flagged by the Network tries to buy something with his card, the Network can pinpoint his position.

“In the organization’s effort to phase out normal credit cards, certain things can only be purchased via the NexCard. One of them is public transportation. Notably, buses and the tram system.”

Odell put the card away, and he said, “I wanted to avoid using the card by any means necessary. If I do, our location will be marked. If the Network finds out I’m with you boys, they could use the card to track us. My accounts might even be frozen. But at this point, I see no way to reach Aubrey other than by public transit. We might just have to risk it.”

Geralt said, “We can’t avoid risks at this point. Lead the way.”

Northfield said, “I feel the same way. So are we going on a bus or train, then?”

“Bus,” Odell said. “They present less risk of a stop-andsearch.” He waved the card, and he said with a grin, “You need a NexCard to buy a bus ticket. But you can buy multiple tickets with the same NexCard. Kids don’t have NexCards.”

“You have a shrewd mind. Did you know that?” Northfield said.

“It’s come with age. With my bad back, I don’t know if it’s worth the price.” Odell chuckled to himself. He glanced at their dirty clothes. “First, we need to make a stop.”

They navigated through a narrow set of alleyways arranged in a rigid grid. They passed people down on their luck, wrapped in raggedy shrouds and huddled around fires. When the fugitives walked by them, the strangers couldn’t have given less of a damn, despite the fugitives’ dirty, disheveled appearance.

They reached the end of an alley, which expanded to a sixlane street. Cars zipped to and fro. Pedestrians on the sidewalk tried their best to hurry and beat the cold. Giant billboards cast down neon light.

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Odell held out a hand to stop Northfield and Geralt, and he said, “Stay in the alley. I’ll get us new clothes. If you hear sirens, run. Don’t wait for me.”

Before Northfield or Geralt could say a word otherwise, Odell stepped out of the alley.

He flagged down a woman who was crossing by. Tentatively, she stopped. With his dirty coat, she probably assumed he was a homeless man.

“Hello,” he said. “Do you know where the nearest clothing store is?”

“Oh, uh, sure,” she replied. She pointed backward and across the street, and she said, “Just around the street corner.”

“Thank you very much,” Odell said. With that, he and the woman parted ways.

Northfield and Geralt backtracked, taking position behind a large dumpster. Now, all they could do was wait and hope that Odell’s mission was successful.

Northfield leaned against the wall and did his best to ignore the rotting smell from the dumpster. The steady ache throughout his body was particularly strong around his old wounds. Despite his efforts to regain strength in prison, his time on the run was really the first time he had pushed himself since his injuries.

He rolled his shoulders around, seeing if he could work out some of the kinks. The effort didn’t produce results; if anything, he only felt sorer.

He looked over to Geralt, and he thought about the Yellowbacks, the bandits Geralt used to lead. Before battle, Yellowbacks would strap oxygen tanks to their backs. Instead of breathing through filters like the rest of the world, they believed that the “clean air” in their tanks would invigorate them and power up their bodies.

He asked, “How does all the running and fighting feel without an oxygen tank?”

“What? Oh,” Geralt said, rolling back his shoulders. “Ever since the gas was wiped out of Cumulus, the Yellowbacks have eased up on the tanks. When the air’s clean, there ain’t a point in having more clean air. Right before my ass ended up in the can, most Yellowbacks stopped wearing tanks.”

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“Oh, that makes sense. Didn’t think about it much, I guess.”

Geralt shrugged and added, “Always thought the tanks were bogus anyway.”

“Really?” Northfield asked, surprised out of his gourd. “You? But you founded the Yellowbacks, didn’t you?”

“Damn right I did. Even started the oxygen tank crap, too.”

“You’re kidding. Yet you think it’s bogus?”

“Back in the early days of the gas, when people didn’t know jack about it, the Network experimented with a lot of ways to protect against it. One of those experiments was to see if increased oxygen intake created any sort of protection against the gas. Longer survival times, that sort of stuff.

“When the Yellowbacks started off, we weren’t much more than a gang. Fifteen or twenty of us, maybe. We raided one of their trucks, which had a load of oxygen tanks for their experiments.

Network reinforcements came fast. We got surrounded in their truck. The situation looked dicey.

“My guys were panicking. I needed to find something, anything, to help them get their balls back. I suggested we all inhale some oxygen from the tanks. I was thinking of that one effect… you know, the medical one. Hell, I can’t remember the name…”

“The placebo effect?” Northfield ventured.

“Yeah! The placebo effect. And sure as can be, it seemed to work. Against all odds, we fought our way out. After that, every one of my guys swore by it. And as we grew, that’s how we promised we’d protect people. By the strength those stupid tanks gave us.” He asked, “Have you ever been a leader?”

“No, not really,” Northfield answered. “Never been my calling.”

“Well, when you lead, you learn that crap can get away from you. And the oxygen tanks were one of those things. Sometimes a wave will just roll over your people, and you ain’t got a choice but to ride it.”

“Huh.” Northfield smirked behind his mask and said, “You know, I always thought the whole tank thing was insane.”

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Geralt shrugged and said, “The tanks grew us to the secondmost dominant force in the region. Maybe they’re dumb, but they’re also not. Things are like that sometimes.”

They both pondered that for a moment. Then Geralt changed the subject by saying, “Getting out of the plaza… you did good.”

Northfield frowned. “It was messy.”

“Yeah, but you’re a hell of a good shot. I get how you survived the raid on Little Empire. Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

Northfield put his head against the wall. He watched the clouds bubbling and frothing and hanging too close to the earth.

“My dad loved to hunt. Every part of it, too. Getting up at the crack of dawn, lying in wait, securing the kill. Me, less so. I was too soft-stomached, you know? I hated waking up early, too.

Man, I really hated that.

“But I liked the shooting part. I can’t say why, exactly. Always sort of came naturally, so maybe that was the reason. But I did competitive shooting through my school years.” He shrugged. “I did get sick of it, though. Didn’t pick up a gun for years. Not until the war, when I signed up for Raven 404.”

“Those guys?” Geralt said. “Hell, I know them. Everybody does.”

Northfield said, “That was right before the war hit stateside.

When everything was ramping up. The outfit needed more guys, desperately. I could pass the physical tests and aim well enough, so they took me.” He batted away the incoming memories and said, “Just wanted to defend home, you know? Thought Raven 404 was the way to do it.”

After a silence, he asked Geralt, “What about you? You’re no slouch with a gun, either. Did you have prior experience, or did you pick that up after society fell apart?”

“Before. I was mixed up with a bad crowd. Did bad things.”

Geralt chuckled, and he said, “I was out on bail when the war came. My prospects weren’t pretty.”

“You got off easy, then,” Northfield said good-naturedly.

“I did. It’s a habit of mine,” Geralt said. His voice became distant. “Nate despised it.”

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was followed by another of Elena and John and the others that had died during the raid on Little Empire.

The fact that Northfield was still here, aching body and all, astounded him.

Inevitably, the time for all of us comes. What would we do if we could see how much time we all had left?

What would I do? What if the amount was years? What if it was hours?

Would knowing then have changed what I did in the plaza?

Would knowing now make me regret it any more or less?

Questions, along with old memories, gnawed at him for a couple more minutes. Then a figure appeared at the mouth of the alley, its shadow cast across the expanse.

“Mark? Geralt? Are you boys still here?”

They stepped out from behind the dumpster. Odell had large bags of clothing in each hand. With a shrug, he said, “Well, my account wasn’t frozen, and I haven’t heard any sirens yet. I take them as good signs.”

“Any sideways glances in the store?” Geralt asked.

“None that I noticed,” Odell said. “It’s funny. I used to hate how wrapped up in themselves everyone in this city can be. It’s like there are a million individual worlds all orbiting each other.

But in our circumstance, it’s handy. Everyone minded their own business. The cashier wanted nothing more than for me to get out of her sight. My dirty coat didn’t bother her. If it had blood on it, like yours, it might have been a different story.”

He lifted one of the bags in the direction of the dumpster, and he said, “I have fresh clothes for us. New coats, pants, hats, face masks, and shoes. All different colors, too. Am I forgetting something? Oh, yes. Gloves. What do you say we change and get on our way?”

With that, they changed behind the dumpster, and they stashed their old clothes among the sea of trash bags. Northfield had to hold his breath, and he wiped his hands off in the snow.

“Someone threw something noxious in there,” he muttered.

“Yeah, I’m ready to get out of this place.”

Geralt gestured for Odell to lead the way.

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“Okay,” Odell muttered, adjusting his fedora. The hat, when paired with his long black coat, made him look like a pulp detective. The only thing that ruined the image was the colorful scarf he wore up to his nose. He pointed out the alley to the right.

“There’s a bus stop three blocks that way. We can buy tickets there.”

They exited the alley. Northfield felt cagey under the scrutiny of the neon lights and the pedestrians. The chatter of paranoia went back and forth in his head, but he tried to silence it.

I’m gonna give you another suggestion, God, for whenever you get around to making another universe. I know you’ve been taking very detailed notes of all my complaints up to this point. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, right?

You want us to put fear aside and have faith in you. Be unconcerned like the birds and all that.

I get it. I do. But you made fear too damn powerful. Maybe turn the knob down on that next time? I think a mild worry is all that any of us need.

In their new gear, they were back to being just three anonymous men, bearing down on the cold just like millions of others. Any glances their way were fleeting and disinterested.

Northfield devoted his energy to spotting any potential tails.

If they were being tracked by the Death Corps, he wanted to find out as soon as possible, though if he did spot a tail, he had no idea what they would do about it.

He scanned the streets and the alleys, but he didn’t see anything of note: no Death Corps soldiers and none of their vehicles. In addition, he looked for unmarked vehicles, but he didn’t find any of those, either.

With a start to his heart, he remembered the advanced scout soldiers he and Geralt had seen at the mall. With no shortage of trepidation, his eyes drifted to the rooftops and skyways.

After a thorough scan, he didn’t see anything. If the scouts were watching, they were either well hidden or had some sort of cloaking technology.

Cloaking? I wish I hadn’t thought of that. Can they do that?

The Network made suits that can withstand bullets. They made ones that can prowl rooftops. At this point, anything’s possible.

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You know, God, the abilities you gave animals are so cool.

Flying. Climbing walls. Camouflage. I always wondered why you didn’t share the love with humans.

With these exo soldiers, I see why. We already have an easy enough time killing each other.

The plaza afflicted his brain again. All those bodies. Civilians.

Death Corps. The smoke wafting from his pistol.

His face contorted into a grimace.

We sure do…

They reached the bus station. Seven other people were waiting: two women in one corner, a family of four in another, and a man by the automated kiosk that sat in the center. Odell bought their tickets from the kiosk.

“It’s going to be a long ride,” Odell said. “I hope you’re looking forward to seeing more of the city.”

“Heh. I can’t say that it’s left the best impression so far,” Geralt said.

They stood in a corner of the station, as far away from the others as they could get. Northfield said, “I don’t think we’re being followed.”

“Are you sure?” Geralt asked.

“About as sure as a couple of fugitives running from a hightech military can be.”

“I’ll take it,” the former Yellowback said.

Their wait for the bus was blissfully short. A double-decker pulled up to their stop, honking obnoxiously. The driver didn’t have patience for lollygagging.

They boarded and inserted their tickets into a reader. When the ticket was cleared, the riders could board. The first deck was full, so they ascended to the second deck. The second-to-last row was open, so they sat down there. Geralt and Northfield took one side, and Odell took the opposite aisle seat. The bus gunned its engines, and they were off.

Northfield drew in everything he could from outside. After all, he had nothing to do, and there was always the off chance some nugget of information he gathered would be useful in the future. But more than that, he did have a genuine curiosity about 165

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this strange city they had been plopped into. This city that tore further at the seams with every step they took.

Periodically, the bus would stop to pick up and drop off passengers. Each stop was greeted with held breath as they watched for any Death Corps soldiers that might board and search. Every time, they sighed with relief, as the stops had only citizens. In a city so large, with so many buses, the odds were small that their bus would be searched, unless they tried to cross a checkpoint.

They passed a great many advertisements, which were impossible not to see. They loomed high on rooftop billboards and spanned skyways. Posters and signage populated the street level. Even when Northfield looked straight at the ground, their neon light reflected off the snow and pavement.

There were ads for big-ticket items like TVs and computers.

A new and improved blender was advertised on an almost laughable number of buildings. It really must have been new and improved.

The grocery stores advertised fresh fruit and vegetables.

He had never been a superfan of celery, but its greenness and lushness on the billboard made him salivate.

Entertainment products were present, too. A video game about blowing up asteroids as a future Corps astronaut looked admittedly fun.

All of them were things that Northfield, not even once, had ever envisioned seeing advertisements for again. Not in his lifetime, at least.

They all communicated the same message. Hey, you remember that thing you liked from the old world? The thing you really missed? Well, we brought it back, better than ever.

Among them were ads for the Death Corps, which now went only by the Corps. All of their cool toys were on full display, including the new scout armor. Raid armor, they called it.

The Corps ads, when placed in such close proximity to the other ads, had another message that lurked just under the surface.

Do you see all this great stuff we brought back? Do you want it to go away? If not, you should defend it by joining the Corps.

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A burger joint caught his eye: Burger Sons. Its neon green and blue color scheme, and its two-cheeseburger logo, were dead rip-offs of an old-world burger chain, Burgerville. Burgerville would have a clear-cut copyright infringement case. If, of course, it had still existed.

They passed one Burger Sons joint. Then, a mile or so later, they passed another one. It seemed that Burger Sons was a chain of restaurants, too.

Now this, above all else, I never thought I’d see again. A burger chain. Wow. He had to admit, the city’s allure was strong. After all, who the hell didn’t want all these things again?

He sure as hell did.

Burgerville was just about my favorite restaurant ever. Its low quality and all. If I got the number one combo with medium fries, drink, and Saucy Sauce, then I was set.

I tried to limit how often I had it, but I don’t think I did a very good job.

You contributed to that, Jess. If you knew I had a bad day, you would come home with a bag of Burgerville in hand.

The thought hit him hard in the stomach, and hollowness followed.

Out of all the things you’ve done for me, Jess, out of the mountains you’ve moved, this is what I get worked up about. A fast-food meal you’d bring me. How stupid, huh? How absolutely stupid.

Promptly after that, they encountered another thing that he hadn’t imagined experiencing again. This thing, however, he hadn’t missed. Not in the space of a breath.

Bumper-to-bumper city traffic. Yeah, that could go screw itself.

The traffic seemed particularly bad for the day because one of the passengers ahead of them exclaimed, “Oh, for God’s sake.

We’ve sure got shit luck, don’t we?”

The neighboring billboards and signs explained why. A mile and a half ahead of them was the square where the Reckoning would happen. The signs pointed out a number of parking lots 167

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for attendees. He saw five parking lots on a billboard, each with a status: FULL or EMPTY. Two of the lots were full already.

There was a big audience to watch the execution of Veronica Pitt, the officer who had provided Stormrise the intel it needed to spring Northfield and Geralt.

His stomach turned.

He was thankful when the driver turned at the next light and dropped off more passengers. His route took them north, away from the square. Although their route was still congested, it wasn’t as bad as the roads heading toward the square.

They continued north for another two miles, making stops every five blocks. As they left downtown, the buildings got progressively smaller, with fewer skyways connecting them.

While advertisements were still around, they decreased in number, as well.

Although the buildings were smaller, they by no means decreased in quality. Instead of skyscrapers, they saw creamof-the-crop apartment buildings. Beautiful red brick combined with sleek glass and steel architecture that gave them a futuristic feel.

The trees, even in the winter, appeared exotic. Their branches spread with splendor. In addition, red and blue lights wove between them. The lights weren’t on, but he could tell that the sight would be beautiful at night. Lots for decorative fountains and pools sat just past the sidewalks; in the winter, of course, they were drained. Lines of nice cars were parked on the sides of the street.

Most appealing of all for them, the Death Corps’ presence appeared to be lower. They hardly saw any patrol cars.

He didn’t need to be told they were in a nice area of town.

The bus made fewer stops; in this area, people didn’t take public transportation as much. Because of this, the bus moved a lot quicker through the neighborhood.

The bus turned west, and they left the fancy neighborhood.

They entered an area that looked decidedly more middle class.

The brick buildings didn’t look as red, as vibrant, and they lacked 168

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the futuristic glass-and-steel architecture. Trees still lined the street, but they were smaller. Their branches didn’t dare stretch out too far.

In addition, a lot of the buildings had an industrial, factorylike appearance. Nearly every building had giant boxes attached to its exterior walls. They were the carcasses of filtration systems that were no longer needed but hadn’t yet been removed.

There were a lot of bars and pubs, Northfield noticed. A lot of them resided underground, with their neon signage being the only indication that they existed.

The Death Corps’ presence had picked up again.

“The Old West neighborhood. Also called the Wild West neighborhood,” Odell said. “This is our stop. Aubrey’s apartment should be only a couple of blocks from here.”

“Hallelujah,” Geralt said.

They disembarked from the bus. Odell stuffed his hands into his coat and looked around. “This neighborhood has a lot of atmosphere. Friendly people, too. You know, I wish I would have come up here more often. It’s hard to get out of your rhythm and just do it. Inertia, I suppose. Anyway,” Odell said, pointing off in the distance, “if we turn right at that intersection, and then make another right, we’ll reach her apartment.”

They followed Odell’s directions. While they walked, he said, “Just to warn you, she may be a bit hostile with me. But she’ll come around for the sake of Stormrise. I’m sure of it.”

“We’ve come this far,” Geralt said. “She’ll have to pry me off her property with a spatula.”

“This is it,” Odell said, pointing at a five-story brick building.

Undoubtedly, it was plain, and it didn’t stand out from any of the other buildings. In light of their predicament, Northfield appreciated the building’s unassuming nature.

They ascended the staircase that led to the front doors. After all the crap they had gone through, each step felt monumental.

An intercom system was mounted on the wall next to the doors. The building didn’t have a lobby or a receptionist. All of the apartment numbers and last names were listed on the intercom system, with a buzzer next to each. To get in, you had to buzz a resident who would unlock the doors for you.

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Odell traced his finger down the list. It stopped over a name and number. Then it began to tremble.

“What is it?” Northfield asked.

“Her number is 416. Right? It has to be,” Odell mumbled to himself. “Could I be misremembering?”

His finger trailed over all the names and rooms. “No, it’s 416.

It is.”

“You’re making me jittery, Odell,” Geralt said.

Odell ignored him, and he looked over all the names again.

“No, no, no.”

He pounded his hand against the wall. He leaned against it, sighing. Then he turned to them. He said, with rising desperation and panic, “Aubrey doesn’t live here anymore. She moved. I have no idea where she is.” He looked back at the intercom, and his head drooped. He repeated, softly, “I have no idea. I’m sorry.”

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14 Geralt said, “So our plan went ass-up. Now we pivot. Let’s go through our options. Option A: we find her. Option B: we find someone else to dig us out of this hole. Which is it?”

Odell shook his head. “She’s the only person I can trust who has a chance of getting us out of this mess. It’s her or nobody.”

“Okay,” Geralt said. “Then what I need you to do is brainstorm.

See if you can figure out a lifeline to find her. In the meantime, we need to figure out what to do.”

“There are a lot of inns around here,” Odell said. “We could rent one for the night using my card. But it’s risky. We’ll be in one place, somewhere that the Death Corps could potentially track us to if they find out I’m helping you. I have to use my NexCard.

I don’t have enough cards on me otherwise.”

Northfield said, “I think an inn is a good idea. Despite the risks a hotel might have, I don’t think it’s a great idea to wander around the streets, especially at night. Not with the Death Corps patrolling.”

“A bed and rest might help jog your brain, too,” Geralt said to Odell. “That’s our first step. Can you lead us to one of these inns?”

“I can,” Odell said, sounding slightly more encouraged.

“There are a few inns that wouldn’t look at us too closely.”

They followed Odell. The wind blew softly, taunting them.

They reached a stoplight and had to wait. Odell said, “I’m sorry. I brought you all the way across the city just for a dead end.”

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Northfield put his hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. Not for a second. We owe our freedom, every minute of it, to you. Don’t forget that, alright?”

Odell nodded, but he still appeared troubled.

The inn was a dull brown color, with dark green window frames surrounding it. The inn didn’t really match the design of the surrounding buildings, but due to its brown color, it failed to stand out, either. A neon-red sign, which didn’t go well with the other colors, read, The Old Eight Ball Inn. “Old is right,” Geralt muttered.

The lobby matched its dullness. The green carpet had shapes that Northfield couldn’t really make out. Recently, the walls had been repainted an unflattering cream-brown color.

The receptionist hardly noticed their approach. Her focus was set on a little TV on her desk. She didn’t seem to mind the white static haze over the screen.

“Yeah?” she greeted them, not looking up.

“Could we get a room?” Odell said.

She let out a great, deep sigh, and she swiveled over to a computer on the opposite side of her desk.

“Is a two-bed fine?” she said. “I only have two-beds available.”

“That would be just fine.”

“Are you paying by standard cards or NexCard?”

“NexCard,” Odell replied.

“Alright.” She sounded pleased, probably because handling the NexCard would be less work for her. She finished processing them and said, “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Their room had the standard two beds, a couch, and a TV. It wasn’t anything to write home about, for either good or bad reasons. No penthouse suite, but no cockroaches scuttling about, either.

The room was really hot. They took off their heavy coats, which felt just about as good as anything could.

Geralt turned on the TV. One of the Network’s news channels flashed on. A reporter was bundled up against the cold, with a city square behind her. It was the same city square that had caused the backup in traffic while they were on the bus.

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A horde of onlookers filled the square, threatening to break through the barriers set up by Death Corps soldiers. A rainbow of hats, scarfs, and puffcoats was more visible than the faces of the people wearing them. Neon light from massive digital screens plastered on the buildings bathed the citizens in a mild glow that mimicked a distant sunrise. The snow, which consumed their clothing inch by inch, only amplified the colors.

In the distance, a podium was on an elevated platform surrounded by a ring of stairs. Guards stood watch on or around the steps, scanning the crowd behind their knightly faceplates.

The headline at the bottom of the TV screen read The Reckoning: General Arkland to speak.

Geralt turned up the volume. The reporter’s eyes widened with excitement, and she said, “Hang on… Yes. General Arkland is taking the stage.”

The camera changed, and they were presented with a frontand-center view of the podium.

Behind the podium, six chairs were arranged in a semicircle.

The Nexus Chairs sat in five of them. They possessed an air of arrogance. They seemed to levitate above the crowd; they wouldn’t dare let the hordes touch their feet. The sixth person, a man wearing a military uniform adorned with medals, stood up from his seat.

General Arkland took to the podium. He gripped it like a man whose hands could shake the very world.

In the back corner of the shot, blurred and out of focus, three prisoners were on their knees, chained, with Death Corps soldiers looming behind them. *** Despite the size of the crowd, silence dominated the square, save for the snowstorm’s howl. The Death Corps soldiers posted around the square with their litany of weapons might have had something to do with the quiet.

General Arkland didn’t think it was the main reason. These people were here to watch a Reckoning, and fascination gripped them.

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The Chair of Outreach had fretted about gathering a big enough crowd. After the violence in Hyde Plaza, she worried that people would be too scared to show. Arkland told her not to fear.

Human beings’ fascination with death, even after they endured the apocalypse, managed to be unerringly predictable. The dark part of the heart that delighted in watching someone fall on the sword lived eternal. One of many glitches in the construction of man, he supposed.

Below the platform, cameras fought to catch his best angles.

The lighting was carefully arranged by the Chair of Outreach herself, crafted to not let the neon light from the digital screens mess with their shots.

The digital screens all morphed from whatever advertisement or news they were showing to a jet-black logo, one that every person in New Medea recognized.

The logo of their Network. An N, portrayed at an angle, with a line crossing the ends to form an aslant infinity sign. Behind each logo, a bright red light pulsed like a heartbeat.

The crowd’s attention fell from him to watch the spectacle, and some murmurs arose. Then their attention snapped back to him, more intense than ever.

The Chair of Outreach thought of the screen idea, and Arkland admitted it had quite the effect. He could practically feel her smirk behind his shoulder.

He flashed a grimace, and he glanced down for effect. Then he began.

“The wolves are at the door.”

He let the declaration sit for a moment.

Then he repeated, “The wolves are at the door. Last night, a Network caravan was attacked. Ten of our soldiers were murdered. In return, the attackers stole two prisoners.”

He paused for effect and then said, “Then today, only a couple of hours ago, those very same prisoners shot their way through Hyde Plaza while running from authorities. They were in a crowded area, but they didn’t care. They shot anyway.”

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Corps soldiers, with his weapon aimed squarely at them. The bodies of civilians surrounded him.

The general let the image linger just long enough for the stillness to become uncomfortable. Then he continued. “I want this image burned into your heads. Because it’s indicative of what we face. These terrorists are not happy with how the city is run.

They want to change that. And they’re willing to burn it down.

They’re willing to spill blood to see their dream of the future fulfilled.”

He shook his head and continued, with extra gravel in his voice. “Dreaming. It’s an attractive thing—no doubt about that.

But dreams aren’t free. Those men and women that died from the caravan? Their crime was guarding prisoners. The men and women at the plaza? Their crime was shopping. A death sentence is a hell of a punishment for either.” He sneered. “A hell of a punishment. One that isn’t just dealt to them, either. Each of their families feels the pain of loss. Their husbands, wives, and children.”

He said, “The trend with Stormrise and its followers will only go one way. If they’re allowed to flourish, if they’re allowed to grow, they’ll make war. They’ll cast us into the same hell we’ve spent the last decade crawling out of. Your children will be given a rifle and sent off to kill someone else. For a better future?”

His sneer deepened. “They call themselves Stormrise. The name has caught on here in the city, too. But I don’t like the name. A storm implies inevitability—something rolling over the horizon that you can’t stop. Stormrise isn’t that. Not by a long shot. They’re wolves at the door. They can be driven back. They can be killed.”

He gestured to the members of the Network. “We’ll stamp them out. With certainty. From now until the deed is done, it’s our number-one priority. We’ll divert as many resources to the Corps as required. There won’t be an expense spared.”

With that, the screens switched to a new image: a recruitment ad for the Corps. In the image, a Death Corps soldier stood proudly on top of a hill. A tank sat behind him, and its turret shot a beam of gold into the air. The image was entirely red and black, aside from the beam.

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Text shimmered above the image: The Corps: Strongest for the One. Join today.

Addresses of recruiting facilities scrolled across the bottom of the image.

Once the crowd stopped gazing at them, he said, “Join the Corps. No matter who you are, we’ll find a place for you. For the next week, we’re offering fast-track placement, as well as promotion opportunities for our enlisted soldiers.”

He glanced down solemnly before returning his gaze to the camera. “‘Strongest for one.’ It’s a phrase some find ambiguous.

What does ‘one’ stand for? I’ll tell you. ‘One’ is what we have here. Our home. What we’ve built over the past decade. In this wrecked, broken world, it’s all we’ve got. We don’t have another, and we won’t get another. We have to protect it. At any cost. And now, more than ever, is the time to join.”

Some murmurs rose from the front of the crowd and spread back. General Arkland hardly noticed; he was focused on the Chairs behind him. He didn’t need to look back to know that they were squirming and trying to hide it from the cameras.

He had gone off script. The Nexus had never agreed to give the Corps as many resources as it required. The Chairs hadn’t given him a license to divert from their departments without authorization. Him stating so was a usurpation of their power. It was a violation, and they knew it.

The crowd watched him intently, and he thought about the Nexus’s fear that a Stormrise assassin would make a move. All of the Chairs, and the general of the Corps, outside and in one place, was a prospect that would make Stormrise salivate. One good rocket placement and an attacker could take them all out.

Of course, their security had taken this into account, making such an attack, with Stormrise’s given strength, nearly impossible.

The Chair of the Network was especially uneasy about the situation, but Arkland had convinced him to come. The unity demonstrated by all the Chairs’ presence would make his speech go over well with the crowd.

The Chair of the Network, now, might be regretting how well it was going over.

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It was time to move on to the next segment of his speech.

His thick eyebrows narrowed. Two steel axes, slicing into a tree stump.

“Now, let me address those who threaten us. Stormrise.”

He gestured to the clouds. “Think back ten years ago, when the world was first suffocated by the gas. When all of us were nearly starving to death and praying that thieves wouldn’t take our crumbs. Put yourself back in your old shoes. Did you ever dare imagine that we would reach this point? Running water, electricity, food. Skyscrapers, television, even the internet? In the space of a decade, no less.”

He let the question linger, let it float over the crowd. “You’re not happy with everything the Network’s done. Fine. We’re not perfect. But nothing’s perfect.” He emphasized, “Nothing’s perfect. You see some dings in the paint and want to tear the walls down. Do you truly believe the ceiling won’t topple on you?

You chase perfection, and you’re willing to spite everything in its pursuit. Well, God help you if you ever got the keys to the kingdom. I put my money on you burning the place to ashes rather than improving it.

“But no matter how well I say the truth, you’ll be deaf to it.

This isn’t a lesson you’ll learn by words alone. That’s one of the reasons we’re here today.”

He cocked his head toward the three bound prisoners. His soldiers, on command, pulled the prisoners to their feet. One was a young woman, another was an older man, and the last was an older woman. Each had a gag in their mouth, and as they tussled with the soldiers, nothing could escape from their mouths, save for gurgles. The young woman struggled the most, before an elbow to her neck put an end to her resistance. She was pulled to her feet. The older prisoners screamed at the sight of this, but only a soft murmur could be heard through their gags. They, too, were pulled to their feet.

The soldiers dragged them in front of the podium, halfway down the wide steps. Each step was around five feet wide, so there was plenty of room for the prisoners and their Corps escorts to stand. More soldiers followed, until ten encircled the prisoners.

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Their placement was deliberate: to provide the cameras with good shots.

One of the soldiers carried a hunting rifle in addition to an assault rifle. The hunting rifle, with its wooden stock and bolt action, looked archaic. It stood out among the Corps’ jet-black weaponry.

That, too, was deliberate.

Arkland gestured to the prisoners, now below him.

Specifically, he pointed at the younger woman. “Her name is Veronica Pitt. She leaked intelligence to Stormrise. The very intelligence used by the terrorists to attack our convoy. The intelligence they needed to kill good soldiers.”

He regarded her harshly. As the snow whirled around him, one was left to wonder whether he or the storm was colder.

“She needs to face justice. But that’s the trick with fanatics.

Most of them relish the chance to be a martyr. They relish the chance to stand in front of a stage like this, in front of all these cameras, and die a death of glory.”

His lip flicked up, flashing a snarl.

“It’s unacceptable. She needs to understand the blood on her hands. So do all of her allies. They need to see in a way that will get through their thick skulls. Because of that, we have to do some unpleasant things. But they are unpleasant things that will prevent Hell from manifesting.”

He declared, “The two people by her side are her parents.

Her punishment will be to kill one of them. The blood will be on her hands, after all. After she does so, we’ll kill her. But her other parent will be spared.”

His soldiers turned the woman and pulled her hair back so she couldn’t help but look up at Arkland.

They glared at one another. She had a beautiful set of eyes, Arkland had to admit. The stare she bore into him was so cutting that a diamond couldn’t stand its blade.

His voice dropped precipitously, and he warned, “If you refuse, or try to rebel, all of you will die. When you feel the cool butt of that rifle against your shoulder, keep my warning in your mind.”

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A Death Corps soldier undid her binds, while another handed her the rifle. Two more had their rifles trained on her the entire time.

She stood there, holding the rifle, pain threatening to split her face apart. The pain was partly physical, he suspected. The wood was very cold, and it burned her in the numbing way that only cold could.

She stared at the ground directly between her feet, her shoulders shaking. She didn’t look at her parents; she couldn’t bear to.

Tears fell from both of her parents’ cheeks. Their bodies trembled, especially their hands. Arkland wondered how much was due to fear and how much to sorrow. A worse nightmare for two parents could hardly be imagined.

Veronica Pitt finally met her parents’ eyes. Doing so seemed to truly make clear the reality of their situation. She flinched back, as if a metal bar had dropped onto her shoulders.

She either said or mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.” If she had vocalized them, the wind had drowned them out.

She took a step back and pulled the rifle up. Her mother howled. Watching her struggle against her bounds in the snow and darkness was pitiful, and it all seemed like an ugly joke.

Veronica Pitt, the double agent, the betrayer, held still. The rifle hovered in perfect stillness, unaffected by the snow or wind.

As the hesitation lingered, General Arkland set his jaw and locked himself steadily in place. She was going to act exactly how he wanted. She was going to act predictably.

He didn’t dare flinch. Not even a twitch of an eyebrow.

In a single violent motion, Veronica Pitt pivoted on her back leg. Her rifle swung around, away from her parents, and toward the podium. Dead toward Arkland’s chest.

While turning, she tried to scream something. A loud gunshot cut her off swiftly. She collapsed on the steps, half of her head gone, the rifle clattering beside her. Blood stained the snow and ran down the steps.

General Arkland’s soldiers were trained. They were lethal.

They were loyal. And they had done their jobs, just as he had expected.

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Both parents collapsed, burying their cheeks in the fresh snow. The father fainted, the shock of the moment too much for him to withstand. The mother remained conscious, screaming and howling, staring at the remains of her daughter.

Arkland remained in place. He hadn’t flinched. His lips remained ready. He held his stare at the crowd until every person in it understood that he could not be moved.

At last, he shook his head grimly. In a way that said more than words could, in a way that said his point was proven.

Two more gunshots rang out. The parents would mourn no longer.

General Arkland swept his arm in an arc. As his hand passed each digital screen, its image changed back to Mark Northfield holding his pistol over the Death Corps soldiers.

“Stormrise, and any who support it,” he started. “They don’t care about you. They’re willing to spill your blood to bring their grand future to fruition.”

He glanced down to the fresh bodies on the steps. The cameras didn’t pan back down to them, but they captured the general’s glance.

He continued. “Even their own families’ blood. So, you tell me. Do you trust the future that these terrorists offer?”

He turned to the crowd, and the screens switched again, displaying the faces of Mark Northfield, Geralt Salb, and one other man. Rayne Simpson, the man that had led Stormrise’s attack on the convoy.

General Arkland said, “Mark Northfield, Geralt Salb, and Rayne Simpson are still at large, along with at least five other terrorists. Murderers and traitors, all of them. Anyone with knowledge leading to their capture will be handsomely rewarded.

“Look at these faces,” Arkland commanded his audience.

“Above all, the blood is on their hands. They seek to sow the wind and reap the whirlwind. But we will remain firm. Gusts can’t topple a castle built with a solid foundation. And you, the people of New Medea, make up every brick. Stand tall in the face of these foes. Stand vigilant. Strongest for the one.”

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The screens changed, one last time, back to the image of Mark Northfield and his smoking gun. With that image, Arkland let his words settle over the crowd. Then he left the stage, with the Nexus filing out behind him. He could sense the Chairs’ tenseness; they were still fixated on the words he had shoved in their mouths.

Things were coming to a head. He had to keep things from bursting, just a little longer.

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15 Northfield, Geralt, and Odell had watched the broadcast in silence.

“They sure know how to run a circus,” Geralt declared. “I’ll give them that.”

“Are you alright?” Odell asked. “You look pale.”

It took Northfield a second to realize that Odell was talking to him. He looked at his hands. They were white.

The TV kept flashing the image of him in Hyde Plaza. That moment, already frozen in his head, was now frozen for everyone else, too.

“Veronica Pitt…” he said. “Her parents… did they have anything to do with Stormrise? Any involvement?”

Odell said, “I don’t know, but I didn’t get the impression they were involved.”

“If they were, that jerkoff on the podium would have mentioned it,” Geralt said.

“Lord,” Northfield said, burying his face in his hands. “That man, Arkland… he killed them just because of their daughter.

And Veronica, too…” He hesitated, and then he said, “All these people are dying on account of us.”

“No, they’re not,” Geralt said without any room in his voice for debate. “I haven’t hurt a single bystander in this city. The Death Corps pulled the trigger every time. They can blame me all they want, but I won’t put their guilt on my back. They can get bent, right down into Hell.”

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“It’s all mind games,” Geralt said. “Tune it out. It ain’t our fault who buys their lies.” He stood up, and he said, “I’m gonna take a shower.”

The bathroom door slammed behind him. Northfield couldn’t pull his eyes from the TV. Maybe he should have shut it off, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

Odell put a hand on his shoulder and gestured to the TV. “We ought to turn it off. Watching more of this won’t do us any good.”

Northfield shook his head. “Nah, it’s okay. I’m fine, really.”

Odell studied him. “You know, in my old life, I was a pastor in a small town. I had an even smaller, but loyal, congregation.”

“Really?” Northfield said. “Are you still involved with the church?”

Odell chuckled. “What little of it exists in this city? No. When all this happened”—he swirled his finger in the air; he was talking about the war, the bombs, all of it—“I lost the light, you could say.” He left it at that and didn’t elaborate. “But as a pastor, I wore many hats. A marriage counselor cap at some times, a therapist cap at others. You name it. The point is, Mark, I can tell when someone’s fine. And you, my friend, are not.”

Northfield’s image in the square flashed again on TV. It affirmed that what had happened wasn’t some nightmare that he would wake up from.

Odell shut off the TV, and he gave Northfield a patient stare.

Eventually, Northfield said, “We’re blowing this city to high hell. Back in Cumulus, the Coalition and I did the same thing.

But we had a purpose greater than ourselves: freeing the city from the gas. We helped everyone in the end. But now, what’s the goal?

Just to survive? How does that stack up against the carnage?”

Odell said, “What’s stopping you from cuffing yourself and walking up to a Death Corps patrol car?”

“I don’t have a pair of handcuffs.”

They shared a chuckle. It was a sad, choked sound, hands scraping across the darkness for signs of light.

Northfield sighed, and he said, “A lot of Stormrise’s people have laid down their lives for us. If I turn myself in, I’d be spitting in the face of their sacrifices.” He met Odell’s eyes. “Your sacrifice, too, Odell.”

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“Heh,” Odell said. “You know, I do think I would be a tad offended if you did go and turn yourself in.”

“That’s fair,” Northfield said with a smirk. His smile dissolved, and he continued. “It’s more than that, though. To set off Zeus’s Mercy, I did some bad stuff, and I was ready to face the consequences for it. If they would’ve killed me, well, I get it.”

His eyes narrowed. “But to drag Geralt and I across the country to be put on display for political machinations… it’s an affront to justice. Not just for us but, well, the entire concept of it.

There’s a part of me, a big part, that rebels against that. It’s a light switch. One that I don’t know if I can turn off.” He hung his head, and he rubbed his temples. He said, “When you believed in God, did you think that he gave us signs?”

“What sort of signs?”

“For guidance. In the form of, well, anything. Dreams. Odd coincidences. Hell, even a leaf landing a certain way in a field.”

Odell frowned and rested his chin on his hands. “You’d be surprised how often I used to get asked that question. It was always one of my least favorites.”

“Why’s that?”

Odell shrugged emphatically. “Because God, if he exists, certainly has the ability to. There’s no doubt about that in my mind. But when people get that in their heads, it leads many, too many, to a dangerous mindset.

“You can make anything into a sign if you try hard enough.

You can use rationale backward to lead anything to God’s doing.

Once that starts going, well, you can make God give you a sign to do anything. Pretty soon, you’re finding signs that lead to what your heart wants rather than what God wants.”

Northfield said, “That’s what I’ve always thought, too. But I find myself looking for signs all the same.”

Odell said, “The world is gray, Mark. We all have hard decisions to make. I always believed that God wouldn’t have given us choices to struggle with if he meant to simply point us towards the right answer.”

Northfield pondered that. Then he said, “Can I ask you something else?”

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“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” Odell said wryly.

“When you came across Geralt and I… what went through your head? What thoughts did you have before deciding to help us?”

Odell leaned back. “Well, before your arrival in the city, the Network put out a heavy dose of propaganda about you two. To counter all the rumors going around about you two, of course.

These days, I have a habit of thinking the opposite of whatever the Network tries to push.” He laughed with slight self-deprecation, and he said, “That sort of blind absolutism against the Network is a bad habit, I realize, and it might bite me someday. A broken clock is right twice a day, after all.”

“And now? Do you have any regrets?”

Anguish crossed his face. “I do, Mark. But not about this.

Not about helping you. It doesn’t even rank.” He met Northfield’s eyes and said, “Truth be told, stumbling across you two is what I needed. Do I wish things would have been less messy so far?

Of course. But I’m going to soldier on as long as you and Geralt continue to do so. I assume that Geralt will cross any bridge he has to. Where do you lie?”

Northfield ran his hand through his hair. Complaining, but not doing anything about the problem. Jess, that ranked high on your list of pet peeves. Especially when I did it.

So I sit here and bemoan the collateral damage that I’m in part causing. If I don’t do anything about it, if I don’t change my course of direction, what am I but a whiner?

God, I know you’re not a huge fan of whiners, either. Last I checked, you didn’t write down, “Whiners inherit the kingdom of heaven.” Heh. The Book of Weenie, chapter 4, verse 15.

So I see the chaos. I see the consequences of continuing this chase, loud and clear. Am I gonna whine about those consequences I help bring about, or am I actually gonna remove my contribution to it? Give it up?

Through all of this, Jess, I wanted to show you that I was trying.

But if carnage is what this path has in store for me, would it be worth it to you?

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He couldn’t get the soldiers in the plaza out of his mind.

All those innocents with their backs to the soldiers. Not even looking at them.

The soldiers damn well knew what they were doing. They saw the consequences, and they did it anyway.

They did it anyway.

A fire kindled deep in his belly.

They kill innocent people, and I bend the knee to them? I give them exactly what they want?

What kind of message does that send to everybody? “Act as heinous as possible, and we’ll back down? You’ll get what you want?”

What if everyone in the world did that? What sort of assholes will come to rule over us, over a mountain of bodies?

Those thoughts are what caused Stormrise to push back against the Network. Bodies now lie dead, all to give me and Geralt a chance.

He came to a decision. “We need to keep going. They’re wagering people’s lives against us so we stop. But if we back down, there will be no end to it. They’ll hold that power over us forever.”

Geralt was standing at the bathroom door, his arms crossed.

A devilish smirk popped out his cheeks. “Now that’s the spirit.”

Despite his words, the memory of the plaza would haunt Northfield for a while yet. *** “General Arkland, saying that you’ve gone a bridge too far is an understatement,” the Chair of the Network said.

“A damn understatement,” the Chair of State barked.

General Arkland leaned back in his chair, unfazed. He rode in the back seat of his personal Network taxi; security vehicles surrounded him.

Jane Sloan sat next to Arkland with her arms crossed. She bore the grim frown that was so common on her face.

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own transports, and they had demanded a meeting right when the Reckoning had ended. A soundproofed wall kept the driver from hearing anything. Only Arkland and Sloan would be privy to the Nexus meeting.

“You usurped our authority for all of the public to see,” the Chair of the Network said.

“After you usurped my own authority over the media,” the Chair of Outreach said. “This is a pattern, General Arkland.

None of us like where it leads.”

The general argued, “In this time of stress, the people needed to witness strength. They needed to hear that we would handle things.”

“There are a thousand ways you could have delivered that message,” the Chair of Outreach said. “Ways that didn’t require you to put words in our mouths.”

General Arkland leaned forward. “I said what I said because the people recognize what I do. We need to stamp out this threat by whatever means necessary. Drown Stormrise, now, before it really learns how to swim. You’re the only ones that aren’t willing to take more than half measures. You inch towards the threat, but you won’t lift your foot to stomp it out.”

The Chair of the Network said, “Frankly, what we’ve done is give you too much freedom. When you bypassed the Chair of Outreach, we let you off the hook. That was a mistake, I see now, because given the slightest opportunity, you took another step to thwart us.

“You need consequences, Arkland. You work for us, not the other way around.”

In that last sentence, General Arkland caught a slight tremor in the Chair’s voice. An uncertainty. He was trying to convince himself, just as much as Arkland, of his own authority.

The general didn’t respond. He simply sat back in his chair and waited. As the silence grew, it posed a simple question that Arkland didn’t need to verbalize: What are you going to do about it?

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voice of an arbiter. He said, “When the threat of Stormrise rose, we expanded your authority. The Chair of State’s Domestic Corps fell under your wing. It’s clear, General Arkland, that this power has gone to your head.” He addressed the other Chairs. “We must reduce General Arkland’s power. However, his expertise in these matters is undeniable. So this is my proposal. Arkland will no longer have full authority over the Domestic Corps. Every order he gives will have to be approved by the Chair of State.”

The Chair of the Network addressed the Chair of State, “You will be the holder of Arkland’s leash, at least in regard to his lead of New Medea’s domestic forces. Are you willing to take on this responsibility?”

The Chair of State nodded emphatically. “I think it’s a great idea.”

“This is a mistake,” General Arkland said. “The Chair of State, for all of her lovely qualities, doesn’t handle pressure well.”

The Chair of State’s face reddened. “How dare you, Arkland.

Every damn Chair feels the pressure of the entire city, each and every day. If we couldn’t handle pressure, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Not all types of pressure are the same,” General Arkland said. “Political pressure is one thing. The pressure of violence, the pressure of lives sitting truly on the line, is another. You don’t handle it well. Do I really need to recall the Petal Park incident, where you ordered the triggers to be pulled?”

Her teeth flashed. “Last I checked, General Arkland, you still don’t have the fugitives in custody. They’ve slipped out of your grasp again.”

General Arkland said, “My choices are calculated. I risked letting the fugitives escape at Hyde Park for greater purposes.

Your actions during the Petal Park incident weren’t calculated.

You flinched. And I can’t afford having to face Stormrise while under the boot of someone who does.”

The Chair of the Network leaned forward. “Currently, the threat of Stormrise in the city is two foreign fugitives and a small spec ops unit. They’re pebbles in a big lake. My more immediate concern is you, General Arkland.”

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Arkland shook his head. “This is a microcosm, can’t you see?

How we handle the fugitives will affect how the city perceives Stormrise. We can’t make them a non-threat. It won’t work.”

“I think we’ve heard enough from you, General,” the Chair of the Network said. “I think it’s time for a vote.”

The Chair of R&D and the Chair of Resources had been awfully quiet at this meeting. General Arkland didn’t like it. If they didn’t have anything to contribute to the conversation, they likely agreed with the others.

“Who is in favor of appointing the Chair of State as General Arkland’s overseer of affairs related to the Domestic Corps?”

Five hands shot into the air. Arkland’s fear was proven right.

“It has been decided, then. General Arkland, the Chair of State will hereby accompany you and oversee your orders, at the very least until this fugitive threat is resolved. The other Chairs in this room will absorb any work or responsibilities that the Chair of State has to forsake in order to fulfill this role. Is this all clear, General?”

Arkland suppressed his urge to argue. At this point, he knew it wouldn’t lead anywhere good.

“Crystal.”

The Chair of the Network narrowed his eyes, and he asked, “The Chair of State will meet you at your office. From then on, you’ll be tied at the hip. Understood?” He folded his hands together and said, “Unless another Chair has something to add, this meeting is hereby concluded.”

The other Chairs remained quiet, and the call ended swiftly after. General Arkland crossed his arms.

“Permission to speak, General?” Jane Sloan asked.

“As always.”

“I still think you’re getting off easily,” she said. “You’re playing with fire.”

“They don’t have anyone to replace me,” General Arkland said. “They’re scared of Stormrise, no matter how much they may try to deny it.”

“They might take their chances, General Arkland,” Jane Sloan said. “Especially if they feel like their power is threatened.”

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He didn’t speak for a moment. He then asked, “Did you record everything?”

She held up a recorder and smiled.

“The recordings are supposed to be a contingency plan if things go south. But now, I’m thinking beyond contingencies,” he said. “The Chairs have outlived their usefulness. It’s time for them to retire.”

“I agree,” Sloan said. “But you need to mind the Chair of State. Heed her authority, for now at least. If you resist, the Nexus will take it as a sign of overthrow. They’ll replace you with Joe off the street, if that’s what it takes. The timing isn’t right to challenge them.”

“Timing is the key, isn’t it? The Chairs need to be backed into a corner at just the right moment.”

“Just don’t blow this up before then, General,” Jane Sloan warned. “Tread lightly until the moment comes.”

General Arkland leaned toward the window, and he said, “The minutes until then are dwindling, Sloan. I can feel it. Just get our cannons pointed in the right direction so we can fire when we have to.”

“I’ll do what I can, sir.”

190

16 Northfield dreamed about Officer Colt. His dark, looming presence melded with the shadows of Northfield’s prison cell.

Bolts flashed from a taser in the officer’s hand, and blue streaks scalded the bricks. They were far too bright to be real, but Northfield only realized this upon waking up.

His cell door swung open, creaking like the crows of an old bird. It was an ominous sound, but he felt relieved at the sight of an exit. He started to run, but his feet did that stupid nightmare thing where he couldn’t go fast, no matter how hard he tried.

Each step felt steeped in quicksand, and it took everything in him to inch forward.

Officer Colt, of course, didn’t have the same limitation. He charged at his prisoner, the shocks from his taser intensifying until they resembled a raucous thunderstorm looming overhead.

Northfield’s panic grew and grew. Even though the taser hadn’t touched him yet, he could feel its charge nearing his back.

A creeping itch spread across his body until even his fingertips buzzed to the point of numbness.

Officer Colt plunged his taser down and aimed it at the small of his back.

Right when the taser stabbed him, he woke up. He jolted into a sitting position, and he exhaled raggedly. The sweat on his palms drenched the sheets. Already, the nightmare started to fade, but nowhere near quick enough.

Geralt watched him from the nearest of the room’s two beds.

Northfield had volunteered to sleep on the couch. Geralt was on the last shift of night watch, a night watch they had debated even 191

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having. Their room offered no routes of escape, save for the front door. If Death Corps soldiers burst into their room, what could they do about it?

The illusion of control, they had decided, was better than nothing.

Geralt nodded toward the door, and he said, “We made it through another night, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Yeah,” Northfield replied, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Let’s try to make it a habit, huh?”

Geralt flashed his telltale grin at him.

Odell yawned loudly, stretching his arms as far as they would go. “Lord, I’m getting old,” he muttered to himself. Sitting up, he greeted them. “Morning, boys.”

“Morning, Odell,” Northfield said.

“Did your dreams give you any inspiration for us?” Geralt asked.

Odell shook his head, but he chuckled. “No. I had a dream about my childhood dog, Rodger. He was a Great Dane. What an odd thing to dream about. Haven’t thought about him in years…”

Odell stretched toward his toes, and he said, “But before falling asleep last night, an idea came to me. Not a very great one. I was hoping that rest would give me something better.

Unfortunately, I only got good old Rodger.”

“What’s the idea?” Geralt said, impatient to move past Rodger.

“Aubrey loves going to bars,” Odell said. “Before everything fell apart, she went out to one nearly every other night. She enjoyed the atmosphere and food. I’m sure that she was a regular at one, two, maybe even three of the bars around here.” He shrugged, and he said, “She’s a conversationalist, too. I’m sure she got to know the bartenders. They might know where she lives now.”

“So,” Northfield said, “our plan is to ask around at the local bars and see if anything pops up?”

Odell said, “Well, I don’t know how much ‘we’ there is in the plan. With your notoriety, I’m not sure how good of an idea it is to go roaming about the bar scene.”

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Geralt frowned deeply. “I’m cagey about sitting in this room all day. Who knows how long until the Death Corps tracks our steps here? There’s nowhere to run from this damn room. I’d prefer to keep on the move and risk it. If we keep our masks on, nobody will recognize us. I want to come.”

Although Northfield shared his general sentiment, he said, “But us tagging along does make things more dangerous for you, Odell. I have no problem staying here, if that’s what you prefer.”

“What he says is fair,” Geralt said to Odell. “If you want us to stay, I’ll stay.”

“If you want to come, I’m fine with that,” Odell said.

“Where’s the first bar we’re hitting?” Geralt asked.

“Just around the street corner,” Odell said. He rubbed his forehead. “I think, in this neighborhood, bars generally open around 9 a.m., but I can’t quite remember. In my neighborhood, they don’t open until eleven. Because of the bar-heavy culture around here, I think it’s earlier.” He glanced at the clock hanging over the bathroom door, and he said, “It’s eight o’clock right now.

We have some time to kill.”

“I’m pretty hungry,” Northfield said. “Are you guys?”

Geralt and Odell both nodded with enthusiasm.

Odell said, “Ordering from room service is an option. But if we want to get on our feet, a bevy of food trucks hang out around here. We can get food without you two having to take off your masks. Well, aside from when you’re actively eating, of course. It beats prolonged exposure in a restaurant.”

“Worse comes to worst, we can just find some back alley to stuff our faces,” Geralt said.

Odell laughed. “Perfect. Let’s move, then.”

When they left the hotel, strong gusts of wind pelted them and cut through their gloves immediately. While the weather was certainly unpleasant, it made their head-to-toe coverings stand out less, as others were equally geared up to face the cold.

Once they got out onto the street, they saw three food trucks parked on the opposite side. Their names—Jane’s Eats, the Hungry Mutt, and Steaming Pot—didn’t do a great job of advertising what types of food they had.

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“Do you recognize any of them?” Northfield asked.

Odell shook his head. “There have to be a thousand food trucks in the city. They multiply like rabbits. Your guess is as good as mine, so let’s go see what these ones have.”

They crossed the street. Each truck had a line of six or seven people behind it. At the sight of so many people potentially being able to identify him, Northfield tensed up. After a moment, his fear proved unwarranted; the crowd was significantly more interested in the menus.

Odell didn’t look at the menus for long before he exclaimed, “Oh! Let’s get in line for the Hungry Mutt.” As soon as they stepped into line, he said, “They have the Medea Pastry. It’s a staple in the city. You have to try it.”

“I’m up for a pastry,” Northfield said. Geralt shrugged, willing to go along.

Odell ordered pastries and coffee for all three of them, paying with his NexCard. Northfield thought back to when he was a kid at an amusement park, with no money in his pockets, having to ask his obliging dad to buy him treats.

While he was immensely grateful for Odell, he also felt a sense of powerlessness over the whole exchange.

They found a nearby alley that was vacant, and they leaned against a wall behind a dumpster. The dumpster smelled bad, but not bad enough to dampen their appetites.

The pastry had a lot of puffiness and flakiness. Its goldenbrown shell broke off even at the slightest touch. The aroma, which managed to break through the dumpster’s scent, smelled wonderful.

The inside was light, fluffy bread filled with a cream Northfield didn’t recognize. It had the slight tastes of caramel and vanilla, as well as something else he couldn’t quite recognize.

“What do you think?” Odell asked them.

“You steered us right,” Geralt said, taking a huge bite.

Northfield examined his pastry, and he said, “The apocalypse only happened a decade ago, and New Medea has been around even less than that. It’s crazy to think that people have even had time to think up new foods.”

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“The Network puts a lot of effort into developing a distinct New Medean culture,” Odell said. “Businesses are offered incentives for any new products they offer, be they food or otherwise.”

Northfield took another bite. “Well, I can’t fault them for funding this pastry.”

As he finished his pastry, the thought of Odell paying for them wouldn’t leave his mind.

“Geralt, do you think there will ever come a day when we’re not on the run in this city?” The former Yellowback was in the middle of chugging his coffee, so Northfield added, “All this running… I keep hoping that we’re gonna reach the finish line soon, but I guess that’s wishful thinking.”

Geralt said, “I’ve been on the run from the Network for over half a decade. Ever since the Yellowbacks came to be, and even for a time before that. You get used to it.”

“That’s good to hear,” Odell said, looking down at his cup.

“Mark, when you put it like that… I suppose it’s only hitting me now. Once the Network learns of my role in all this, I won’t be welcome in this city, either.”

Northfield put his hand on Odell’s shoulder, about to say something.

Odell put his hand up, and he said, “It’s all right. I know you would do the same for me.”

Northfield truly hoped he would have.

When 9 a.m. rolled around, they headed to their first bar, Cara’s Irish Pub. The inside was dimly lit, and they were the only patrons aside from a grizzly man at the farthest barstool.

The bartender looked tired, with deep bags under her eyes and a rock-hard frown. She was wiping the table. When they approached, she flashed only a cursory glance at them.

“What can I get you guys?” she asked.

“No drinks for us,” Odell said. “But we’re looking for one of our friends. Aubrey Robinson. Do you know her?”

The bartender shook her head without the slightest hesitation.

“Don’t recognize the name.”

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With an unceremonious first failure, they left the bar and headed to the next. Dan’s Bar and Brews had a few more patrons, with two women at the bar and a group of four guys at one of the booths.

The bartender wore a black tank top, muscles and tattoos bursting forth. After sliding the women their drinks, he addressed the three incoming men.

“Hey, friends,” he bellowed, a deep voice emanating from a thick throat. “Take a seat anywhere.”

“No, thanks,” Odell said. “We’re looking for a friend. Aubrey Robinson.”

“Oh, Aubrey?” the bartender said. “Yeah, I know her. She used to come around all the time.”

Northfield’s heart rose.

“We’re trying to find her,” Odell said. “She moved, and we’re trying to find her new address.”

“She moved?” he said, frowning. “I didn’t know that. Explains why she hasn’t been around, I guess.”

Disappointment weighed on Northfield. If this guy didn’t even know that Aubrey had moved, he certainly wouldn’t know where she moved to.

“Well, thank you for your time,” Odell said, offering a polite wave.

They tried two more bars, but to no avail. Neither of them recognized Aubrey Robinson.

“This is getting real old, real fast,” Geralt muttered as they walked to their next bar, which also happened to be a failure.

They passed a young woman setting up missing posters for her husband. Her offer for a reward was a paltry set of credit cards.

“There have been a lot of missing posters for husbands and wives,” Odell said solemnly. “Dissatisfied spouses use the abductions as a means to disappear themselves. When they vanish, nobody knows whether it was the Death Corps’ doing or their own.”

“People find a way to take advantage of a situation. Doesn’t matter which one,” Geralt said. “Never doubt that.”

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They approached their next bar, Joey’s Tap. It was a small place, jammed right between a diner and another bar. Upon entering through the diminutive door, they descended a flight of stairs. This place had the underground look and feel, alright.

They took that as a good sign.

The bar was surprisingly big, given how small it appeared from the street. A grid of pool tables inhabited the center of the floor, with booths encircling them. The bar area spanned the entire back wall, with a veritable mountain of liquor sitting on shelves upon shelves.

At this time in the morning, the bar wasn’t busy, but it was certainly the busiest of the bars they had visited. Pairs of people hovered around a couple of the pool tables. The crack of pool sticks against cue balls echoed through the bar. A couple of patrons sat at the barstools, and a few booths were occupied.

They approached the bartender, a woman with red hair and a gold nose ring. She cracked a smile that had more than a hint of sass. “You boys sure do bundle up for the winter, don’t you?”

“I’d rather be able to take off layers than be cold,” Odell said.

“That’s fair enough. Now take a seat, why don’t you? You’re stressing me out, looming there. You all remind me of my old boss.” She chuckled to herself.

“I don’t think that’s necessary. We just have a couple of questions to ask you, ma’am,” Odell said.

The bartender crossed her arms, frowning noncommittally.

“I’m afraid I’m not your grade-school teacher. I’m not a charity, either, in fact. So if you want any sort of service from me, you’re gonna have to order something.”

What were they gonna do? Argue?

“We’ll get whatever is your best beer on tap,” Odell said.

Some of the bar patrons stared at them with dull curiosity.

Out of a desire to avoid notoriety, the fugitives sat at one of the nearby booths. The patrons went back to their morning drinking, eating, and conversations.

The bartender slid their drinks across the table with clear aim and experience.

“Thanks,” Odell said, raising his glass toward her and smiling.

“Does this buy us our questions?”

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The bartender looked around impatiently. Two more customers entered the bar. “You get one,” she said. “I’m a busy woman.”

“We’re looking for our friend, Aubrey Robinson. She moved from her old place, it seems. If you know her, do you happen to know her new address?”

She had a moment of hesitation. Northfield and Geralt exchanged a glance. The bartender knew Aubrey.

“How do you know Aubrey?” she asked.

“We’re old friends,” Odell said. “She and I went through the bad years of the apocalypse together.”

“Why are you looking for her?”

Odell said, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen her. I just want to see how she’s doing.”

She wasn’t buying it. She leaned against the table, lowering herself and her voice. She glanced at Northfield and Geralt, and she asked, “Who are Thing 1 and Thing 2 here?”

“Mutual friends as well,” Odell said.

Her voice lowered further. “Three strangers walk into my bar and ask for one of my patrons. They don’t know where she lives. Evidently, they don’t have her phone number to just leave a message, either. They don’t know her other friends well enough to ask them. They have to skulk around bars instead. Yet they say that they’re old friends of hers.” She cocked her head to the side.

“Do I need to spell out how none of this lines up?”

Odell sipped his drink, buying himself some time. Geralt and Northfield remained still, not touching theirs, not wanting to pull their masks down to drink.

Then she said something that came completely out of left field. “What bird always flies with its head in the clouds?”

Geralt couldn’t help but blurt out, “What?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” the bartender said. “Enjoy your drinks.”

She walked away before any of them could protest. They could only stare at each other, reeling from the confusing ordeal.

“I mean, what the hell was that?” Geralt said, spreading his hands.

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“We’re so close,” Odell said. “She knows Aubrey. I can’t believe it. We found a bartender that knows her.”

“We can’t give up now,” Geralt said. “This lady’s our only shot.”

“She won’t cooperate,” Odell said. “What can we do? I don’t know how to change her mind, and we can’t risk making a scene by being a nuisance.”

Northfield focused on what she’d said about the bird. It was either a cryptic message or a riddle; that much he felt confident about. If it was the latter, he had no idea what the answer would be.

If he didn’t have the answer she was looking for, then she wouldn’t talk to them.

Maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe he didn’t need to know the answer. Because maybe the riddle wasn’t the real question he cared about.

Who would ask them a riddle? Not an employee of the Network, whether they were Death Corps officers or otherwise.

That wasn’t their style, and it didn’t make much sense.

Odell suspected that Aubrey was a member of Stormrise. At the very least, she had affiliations within the organization.

If this woman knew Aubrey, what organization was she most likely to be a part of?

His eyes widened, and he leaned toward the other guys with urgency. Their attention snapped to him.

“The bartender is…” He looked around; he didn’t think anybody was in the neighboring booths, but just to be sure, he kept his message cryptic. “The bartender is part of the same organization we think Aubrey belongs to. Or the bartender is friendly to it, at least.”

“Why do you think… Oh,” Odell said, catching on.

Geralt said, “Fine. But even if she is, she won’t answer us without the answer to her stupid riddle.”

“She’ll trust us, Geralt. This is one time where our notoriety comes in handy,” he said.

Geralt said, “What, are you going to proclaim who you are for this whole bar to hear? If not, she ain’t gonna follow you 199

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into some secluded area to tell her. Especially when she ain’t our biggest fan.”

“Either we try something or we try our luck at another bar.

You’re the one who said we can’t give up.”

“Heh. I did say that, didn’t I?” Geralt said. “What are you thinking, then?”

“Odell, go up to the bar and order some more drinks. And say this to her: ‘I don’t know what bird always flies in the clouds.

But as a kid, I always liked watching the birds fly north, over the fields. I always carry that memory with me.’” He added, “Emphasize ‘north,’ ‘fields,’ and ‘with me’ and nod back towards the table.”

“I see,” Geralt said. “I gotta say, that’s real smart.”

“I’ll give it a go,” Odell said. “Wish me luck.”

Northfield and Geralt craned their necks around the booth to watch him. Odell went to the corner of the bar, in the most secluded spot he could find, and he waved the bartender over.

He ordered a few more drinks, and as she brought them over to him, he leaned in close and whispered the phrase. Odell tilted his head back toward them. The bartender looked at them, with confusion and a vague sense of annoyance, until her eyes snapped open in recognition. She ushered Odell back to their booth, and they walked back together.

The bartender checked her surroundings before she said, “Aubrey lives at the Dutch Place Apartments, just three blocks away from here. Should be off Arahoe Road. Do you need me to write that down?”

“I’ll remember it, thank you,” Odell said, tapping his forehead.

She glanced between Geralt and Northfield, her lips pressed together, seemingly unsure of what to say. She settled on, “Aubrey’s place has an intercom. You can reach her through there. Do you think you can handle things from here?”

“We can,” Odell said. “Thank you for your help.”

“Yeah,” she said. She regarded the fugitives once more and just said, “Good luck.”

After she left, Odell stood up and said, “Let’s see how my old friend is doing.”

200

17 The Dutch Place Apartments had a very industrial, nononsense look. The brick building was painted an urban red, and heavy piping spiraled around it like a serpent. The carcasses of filtration systems hugged the building’s side; tubes extended from them and added to the mess. In the context of the West End, a middle-class neighborhood, the Dutch Place Apartments seemed to be one of the lower-end complexes.

The only pleasing thing about the complex was a row of trees in front of the main gate. Even in the dead of winter, they seemed to pulse with life, with light shining off the snow on their slumbering branches.

The gate had an intercom system next to it, with a list of apartment numbers and last names. Odell searched down the list, his finger shaking. Northfield figured he was replaying in his head the last time they did this and worried that her name wouldn’t be there this time, either.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, tapping on one of the name cards. “Here she is. Thank the Lord.”

Geralt gave him an encouraging punch on the shoulder.

“Look at that. You keep pulling us through, Odell. Again and again.”

“Seconded,” Northfield said. “You’re a lifeboat, man.”

He shrugged off the gratitude, and he said, “I’m ready to do this if you boys are.”

“Hell yeah,” Geralt said.

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Odell clicked the button next to her name. Badly recorded waiting music played through the speaker. After only a couple of seconds, it became grating.

“It’s, what, about noon right now?” Northfield said. “There’s a good chance she’s not home. She could be working.”

“Damn,” Geralt said. “We might have to find someplace to camp out until she gets back.”

They didn’t have to; the music abruptly stopped, replaced by a crackle and pop. Then they heard a woman’s voice.

“Who’s there?”

She sounded irritated. It wasn’t the greatest start for them.

Odell said, “Aubrey? It’s Odell.”

There was a pause, one too long for any of them to feel good about. Finally, she said with a good dose of skepticism, “Odell Barnes? Is that really you?”

“It is,” he said. “It’s been a while, I know. The last time we saw each other was—” She cut him off. “What are you doing here?”

If he was disturbed by her hostility, he didn’t let it show. “It’s not something to discuss outside of closed doors. If you could let us in—” “Oh, I don’t know about that. You’re a long way off from coming into my home.”

“Aubrey—” She interrupted again to ask, “Who are these guys with you?

Your boy band?”

They glanced up. At the top of the gate, a security camera stared down at them.

Odell said, “Again, that’s something I can only reveal in private. Just for a minute, I need you to tru—” “Are you about to say ‘trust’?” She chuckled bitterly. “Odell, that’s just about the last thing I want to give you.”

He hung his head at that, like a shot of ice water had been poured down the back of his neck.

His voice softened, and he said, “The bartender from Joey’s Tap gave us your address. When she learned why we were looking for you, she didn’t hesitate.”

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She didn’t have a response to that. The static from the intercom crackled harshly in the cold.

Odell’s voice softened even more, and he pleaded, “We’ve been through hell to reach you. Give me five minutes of your time. Please.”

The silence was painful. This woman had the power to pull them up from the cliffside or leave them there, and none of them liked waiting on the decision.

At last, she said, “I better not hear any bull, Odell. If I get the smallest sniff, I’m throwing your butt back out to the curb.”

The gate buzzed open, and with great joy, they headed into the building. They ascended to the fifth floor and found her room.

She opened the door, but she stood in front of the doorway and crossed her arms. Her hair straddled the line between brunette and blonde, and it was pulled back in a tight bun. Age had just started to mark her face with fine lines spreading from the corners of her eyes. Northfield guessed she was in her late twenties or early thirties.

She viewed Northfield and Geralt with some suspicion, but she regarded Odell with particular wariness.

“Please, we have to come in,” Odell said, glancing down both sides of the hallway. “As I said, this is a conversation for behind closed doors.”

She let out a long sigh and stepped aside. “Take off your shoes. I don’t want snow and dirt tracking on the carpet.”

They did as she asked and proceeded into the studio apartment. It was a modest place by most measures with the queen bed seeming to consume the entire area. The room held little else aside from a table, TV and stand, bookshelf, and basic kitchen.

“Clock’s ticking,” she said. With emphasis, she asked, “Why are you here?”

Odell nodded to Geralt and Northfield. They promptly pulled down their masks and took off their goggles. Aubrey squinted as she studied their faces, and then her jaw slacked open.

“There’s no way,” she cried.

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“Geralt Salb, in the flesh,” Geralt said with a boyish grin.

Some part of him reveled in the fame, to be sure.

“Mark Northfield.” He offered as warm a smile as he could.

“Odell,” Aubrey said, “how on God’s green earth did you get yourself mixed up with these guys?”

“Happenstance,” he said. “They were fleeing in my neighborhood, as I’m sure you knew.”

“And you just… stumbled across them?” she said incredulously.

“That’s right.”

“And you thought going on a stroll during a manhunt was a good idea?”

“You know how I like my walks, Aubrey.”

She frowned intensely. “I smell that bull, already. But given who you’ve brought to my door, I won’t kick you out yet. But don’t you dare lie again.”

He didn’t respond to that.

She gestured to the table, and she said, “Sit down. I need to process this.” Once they did, she rubbed her fingers against her temples and said, “So you found these guys. Then your first thought was to come to me?”

Odell said, “They need to reach Stormrise. It’s their only shot at safety. You’re the only person I know who might be involved with them. You’ve always hated the Network, and after what happened to your brother—” She put a hand up; discussing her brother was off the table.

Odell said, “And after speaking with your friend at the bar, I figure my suspicion is correct…”

She nodded, and she said, “A lack of shrewdness is never something I’d accuse you of. You’re right. I am involved.” She leaned forward. “I tried to join up the very first second after what happened to Lance. It took me a while to find an in, and I’m still not a full-fledged member yet. Right now, I’m a Contact. I’m one of their eyes and ears in the city. Stormrise is very careful about who they let in. Claire, the bartender you met, is a Contact, too.”

She addressed Geralt and Northfield. “Every Contact in the city is keeping on the lookout for you.”

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“Hang on,” Geralt said. “If that bartender’s a Contact, why didn’t she just hook us up with Stormrise herself?”

“Because of how the Contact system works,” Aubrey said. “Claire is a new Contact. When you first start, you have communication with only a low-level handler, who is also a Contact. The more you prove yourself as a Contact, the closer you get to Stormrise. Claire would have had to go through a longer chain of people to reach Stormrise than I, since I’m higher up. I bet she figured that it would be quicker for you guys just to walk over to me.

“And even though we’re friends, Claire didn’t call or alert me because she didn’t want to leave a digital trace for the Network.

Contacts at her level don’t have access to our coded speech yet.”

Geralt nodded. “Fair enough.”

Aubrey said, “I’ll get in touch with my handler, and we’ll see what Stormrise can do.”

“That would be amazing,” Odell said, smiling from ear to ear.

She shrugged. “It’ll probably win me a full spot in Stormrise.

Plus, it’s a way to stick it to the Network. I see this as a win-win.”

Odell asked, “What will happen to the grocery store you own?”

“I lost it,” she said, gesturing around the apartment. “It went out of business. After Lance… I just couldn’t hold things together.

As you can see, I’ve downsized a bit.”

“I’m sorry…”

“I don’t need sympathy from you,” she said. “You were right to bring them here. But that doesn’t make us buddy-buddy.” She stood up. “I’m going to give my handler a call. Don’t worry, I’ll talk in the code that I just mentioned. The Network’s surveillance shouldn’t flag the conversation as anything suspicious.” She took out her phone and walked over to the other side of the room.

Geralt leaned in toward the others, lowering his voice. “It might be too late to ask this, but are you sure we can trust this chick? She doesn’t seem like a big fan of yours.”

Odell waved away the question. “She’ll do what she can for us, regardless of what’s happened between us.”

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He wore a grim frown and expressed no interest in discussing the topic further. They waited, hearing bits and pieces of Aubrey’s coded conversation, all of which floated swiftly over their heads.

Eventually, she hung up and sat back down at the table.

“Okay, here’s the situation,” she said, spreading her arms forth. “Widow Team will get you guys out of the city.” She looked to Northfield and Geralt specifically, and she said, “Widow Team, if you don’t know, is Stormrise’s elite unit. They’re led by Rayne Simpson. They took point on your rescue mission. You might have seen from the Network’s propaganda that they’re still at large, just like you guys. But with all the heat in the city, they’re the only members of Stormrise who aren’t lying low. In fact, they’ve been doing everything they can to find you. These guys have the skill, and the balls, to get your asses out of here.”

She tilted her head and frowned. “The problem is, they haven’t had any leads to find you. They’ve been sniffing around your last known location: Hyde Plaza. Now they’re on their way here, but they won’t arrive for a few hours. As far as Death Corps presence goes, that area is getting bad. They need to take a more roundabout trail to minimize the risk of tails. Plus, they need to finish making arrangements on how to get you guys out.” She looked at a digital clock near her bed, and she said, “So I’d guess they’ll get here around sundown. It gets dark so damn early this time of year. Anyway, we’ll have to hold out until then. Do you think the Death Corps will track us here by then?”

“I don’t think they’re right on top of us,” Northfield said. “But there’s no way to know for sure.”

“Well, they haven’t busted the door down yet, so I’ll say it’s good enough.”

“Are you sure you’re okay with Widow Team coming here?”

Odell said. “You wouldn’t rather have us meet at a neutral location, so there’s less risk to you?”

“Oh, I’m coming with you,” Aubrey said. “As I said, this is my chance to become a card-carrying member.” She gestured around the room. “What am I leaving behind? A shitty apartment with a bed that makes my back hurt like I’m a nursing home resident?”

“Okay, Aubrey,” Odell said with a hint of concern.

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She picked up on it, and she scowled. “I’m not your daughter.

In fact, you’re the one we should be worried about if we run into trouble.” He didn’t respond. She tilted her head, and she asked, “You’re coming, I’m assuming. If you’ve come this far, you’re pretty much screwed if you try going back to your apartment.”

He nodded. “I’m coming.”

She turned to her fridge. “We should eat before they get here.

God only knows when we’ll be able to again. I’m pretty much out of grub, so I’m gonna go to the store. You guys gonna be okay up here?”

“We’ll manage,” Geralt said.

She nodded to her bed. “I’ve got a 12-gauge under there.

Can’t say you’re anything but screwed if the Death Corps come, but at least try to take a couple down if you can.”

Geralt smirked at that.

She said, “I’m off, then.”

Odell reached his hand out and put it on hers. Softly, he said, “Aubrey, I—” She pulled her hand away immediately. “Save it, Odell. I don’t want to hear ‘thanks’ or anything touchy-feely. I’m doing this for myself and for Stormrise.” She pointed at Northfield and Geralt, and she said, “That goes for you two, also. No ‘thank you’ from either of you, got it?”

“Fine by me,” Geralt said. Northfield nodded, too.

She gestured around the apartment with her hand. “While I’m gone, make yourselves at home. Hell, this place won’t be mine in T-minus three hours from now, so what do I care?” She gave them a sarcastic wave. “Later, gents.”

With that, the door closed behind her.

“Damn. What’d you do to get her so mad at you?” Geralt said.

Odell stared at the door. He said distantly, “She’s got every right.”

He stopped there. Geralt had the grace to leave it at that. He stood up and stretched.

“She said to make ourselves at home, so hell if that ain’t what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna take a shower. Who knows how long until we get to take one of them again?”

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He left, and soon enough, they could hear the steady stream of water. A few minutes passed, and then Odell turned toward Northfield. There was a softness in his eyes.

“I’m a liar, Mark. That’s what her anger comes down to.”“What do you mean?” Northfield said.

“Aubrey called me out on my lie,” he said. “When I came across you guys, I wasn’t just going on a walk. No. That night, everything I had done… It had gotten to me.” He looked back at the door, and he said softly, “I needed to get out, Mark. Even if there was a manhunt in my neighborhood. Especially if there was one. I didn’t care if I ran into the Death Corps. I didn’t care at all. In fact, maybe that’s what I wanted. What I did, Mark…”

He was struggling. Northfield said, “Look, man. Whatever happened, you don’t need to say it. You’ve done so much to help us. Two strangers who you could just as easily have walked by.

Yet you helped, even when it meant throwing your old life away.

That says a lot about you, regardless of the past.”

Odell frowned. “You say that, now. But if you knew…” He didn’t finish the thought. Instead, he glanced toward the kitchen and said, “I think I could go for a cup of coffee right now. Would you like one?”

“No thanks.”

Odell went and made his coffee. His past was not brought up again. *** When Aubrey returned with the groceries, she wasted no time putting the men to work.

“What do you think this is, a restaurant?” she asked. “I bought the groceries. I did my part. Now you’re gonna make dinner. Here’s the recipe.”

She held up a cookbook and turned to a simple chicken noodle soup recipe. “This isn’t a brainbuster, so I think you guys can handle it. I’ll be watching TV. Some of my favorite shows do reruns around this time. Since I may never see them again, I’m gonna watch.” She raised an eyebrow and nodded to the kitchen.

“Come on. Get at it. I’m hungry.”

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So they walked over to the countertop, with Geralt grinning wryly. “Oh, I like her,” he muttered when she was out of earshot.

“Do all of your friends have that sass, Odell?”

“She’s one of a kind,” Odell admitted. Together, they hovered over the cookbook, scanning the recipe.

Geralt said, “I’ll chop the chicken and add the spices.”

“I can handle the vegetables,” Northfield offered.

“Where does that leave me?” Odell asked.

They read through the recipe again. It really wasn’t that complicated.

“Can you set the table?” Northfield asked.

“I think that’s within my power,” he said.

As Northfield chopped the vegetables, he reflected on how glad he was to be contributing in some manner. Up until this point, he had been in the back seat, holding on while someone else, mostly Odell, did the work. Even if he was just cutting vegetables, well, it was still something, at least.

Once the soup was done, Odell told Aubrey.

“There’s just five minutes left in the show,” she said. “Serve yourselves up. I’ll join you once it’s done.”

The men sat around the table, blowing on their bowls to cool the soup quicker. From his seat, Northfield could see the TV screen. There was a Death Corps soldier in the middle of some dust storm, heroically bearing a shower of bullets. Every few seconds he would take another pained step, firing volleys of his own shots at a horde of enemies, a generic rebel force, by the looks of it.

His curiosity was piqued. I’m a sucker for action movies. Even if they were bad, I’d watch them. You knew that a little too well, Jess, didn’t you? He smiled to himself.

He asked, “What’s the show?”

“It’s a movie, actually. The Weight of His Boots,” Aubrey said without pulling away from the screen. “It’s about a guy who joins the Corps out of a sense of duty to protect his loved ones. It’s hard for him, though, because his wife is pregnant with their daughter.” She laughed, and she said, “Oh, it’s propaganda to the max. Half the time, Corps enlistment ads run after the show. But 209

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it’s good writing. Real good. Tugs at the heart strings and all that, you know?” She mimed pulling her heart, then shrugged.

“And look at that.” She gestured at the screen. “Hugh Blinks goes down at the hands of the rebels. Sad music, the whole nine yards. Still, the ending gets me. I shouldn’t support them by watching it. I know that. But, well, it’s good art. My lonesome boycott of the show wouldn’t do jack. This world is sucky enough without depriving ourselves of enjoyment for no reason. Call it my vice.”

The credits rolled, and she turned off the TV. She grabbed herself a bowl and started to eat, not minding the heat. She burned her tongue and swore silently. She bore a scowl, then a grimace.

“Odell…” she said. “I’ve got some bad news for you. About Mylie Jules.”

He nearly dropped his spoon. Dread crept into his voice.

“What about her, Aubrey?”

“The Death Corps picked her up six weeks ago. She and a few friends were tossing a football in a nearby park. Ball went over a fence and hit a patrol car. Her friends ran away, but they got her.”

“My God,” was all Odell could say.

“Riley was beside herself. I mean, you know how she is with Mylie anyway. She scoured every Corps station, but she didn’t find anything. Of course.” She tried to keep her voice level, but she wouldn’t meet Odell’s eyes. “Mylie just turned eighteen. She’s healthy and smart. She’s the exact type of person the Corps are after. Riley’s not getting her back.”

“How is Riley coping?” he asked.

She shrugged, but her scowl deepened. “Grief ’s gone to anger.

But what can she do? She still has Ted to take care of. Can’t risk anything happening to him. I sent her a fruit basket. For what good it’ll do.” She stared at her soup, and she said, “Someone change the subject, will you? I’m sick of talking about this.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Odell said. It was clear by his sober eyes that it did mean a lot to him.

She muttered, “Mylie liked you a lot, Odell. She looked up to you. I know Riley doesn’t ever want to speak to you again, but… since you’re in my living room anyway, I figured you should hear.”

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After a long silence, Geralt changed the subject. “Does New Medea have any sports?”

“They have four pro baseball teams that play against each other,” she said. “I think they’re trying to bring back hockey.”

“Are they any good to watch?”

She shrugged. “Don’t like baseball. I couldn’t tell you.”

Odell said, “The teams aren’t very good. But they can be fun to watch sometimes. The fans get very passionate about the playoffs.”

“Sounds good enough for me,” Geralt said. “Just give me a beer and a game, and I’m set.”

They continued the casual chatter as the time ticked by. There was a calmness in the air. It created an illusion, a nice one, of a world where the Death Corps didn’t have targets on their heads.

They resided in that illusion for as long as they could. *** General Arkland learned very quickly that he didn’t like being tied at the hip. Worse yet, the Chair of State enjoyed hovering over his shoulder. Her gaze was always filled with the arrogance that even a modicum of authority could foster.

Before he had met the Chair of State in his office, he had entrusted Sloan with closer oversight of his forces; they would report to her, and she would in turn report to him. He still received frequent updates with the Chair of State in the room to keep his new partner happy. She didn’t have any knowledge of how he oversaw his troops under normal circumstances, so she didn’t realize that anything was out of the ordinary.

She and Arkland pored over a map. They were determining the best locations to put their officers so they would stand the greatest chance of finding the fugitives.

“Not there,” she said, pointing harshly at Hammond Street, a popular shopping area near the northwest border of the city.

“Too many people and too many eyes. The fugitives won’t try to go through Hammond Street. Not when there are so many other options.”

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His eyebrow ticked up. “I couldn’t disagree more. You’ve seen their pattern. They’ve been going where we least expect. Especially populated areas. We can’t divert soldiers from Hammond Street.”

She said, “But look at the map. There are so many more secluded paths they could take. We need to put our feet where they’re most needed.”

“The other options have nothing to do with your disagreement,” he said. “You don’t want officers in Hammond Street because you don’t want to alarm the citizenry. More accurately, you don’t want them to think that the Corps are alarmed.”

“There’s a handful of fugitives at large. A handful. Let’s keep perspective,” she said, her eyes cold. “We don’t need to turn this into something larger than it has to be.”

He shook his head. Before he could get a word out, Sloan entered the room. She gave them a golden egg they could agree on.

“We have a possible sighting of Rayne Simpson and his team,” she said.

“Where?” General Arkland demanded.

“Alcove Boulevard,” she said. “The targets are in a black van.

Two of our Raid soldiers are following them from the rooftops.

Their helmet video feeds are live, and the feeds are being routed to your computer as we speak.”

Arkland opened his computer and found the video stream.

Sure enough, a black van blazed down the street, turning a corner. The camera jolted as the Raid soldier jumped to the next roof. The feed switched to the other Raid soldier’s camera; he was a few buildings ahead and had a better angle on the van.

“How do you know it’s our fugitives in that van?” The Chair of State crossed her arms.

“From the horse’s mouth,” Sloan said. “Simpson’s team rendezvoused with a contact to get some supplies. The contact didn’t like how hot things are getting, and he likes the reward we’re offering.” A hint of a grin crossed Sloan’s lips. Quite the rarity. “Simpson’s team is en route to pick up Mark Northfield and Geralt Salb.”

It was the Chair of State’s turn to ask, “Where?”

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“We don’t know,” Sloan said. “Simpson didn’t tell the contact their destination. He kept that information need-to-know only.

But,” She pointed at the van. “If our Raid soldiers aren’t detected, Simpson will lead us right to them.”

Arkland didn’t waste a minute basking in the light of good fortune. “Get forces to their location. Raid soldiers. Exo soldiers.

Hounds. Everything we’ve got. Order them to give the soldiers a wide berth. Nobody is to get anywhere near Simpson’s van. Not until we have eyes on Northfield and Salb.”

“What about the contact that provided us the information?” the Chair of State said.

“We’ll give him the reward, and he can go on his way,” the general replied.

Her frown reeked of dissatisfaction. “He committed treason.

His behavior can’t stand. Besides, if we interrogate him, who knows what else he could tell us?”

“If you play the game that way, then nobody will want to play with you,” Arkland said, “He gave us the intel we needed.

It’s enough.”

The corner of her lip turned up into a ghost of a smile. “I don’t sign off on letting him go, General.”

He kept his face stony, despite the spike of frustration he felt.

He could tell that the Chair of State didn’t actually care much about what happened to the contact. She was instead making a point: If she wasn’t on board with something, Arkland couldn’t act. She was flexing her power. Reminding him of her authority.

So be it. He waved a hand. “Sloan, detain the contact.

Interrogate him.” He met the Chair of State’s gaze. “Satisfied?”

She nodded emphatically.

The contact would reveal nothing new; he was sure of it. If this guy betrayed Stormrise for the Network, he had no incentive to hold back further information from them, especially when he knew the costs of doing so.

If Arkland cooperated now, later, the Chair of State might give him slack that he could need. He stared at the black van as it sat at a traffic light.

This manhunt was going to end soon. He just had to contend with the Chair of State in the meantime.

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18 “Widow Team is here,” Aubrey Robinson announced triumphantly after hanging up her phone. “They’re parked just around the street corner.”

“Hell yes,” Geralt said. “We’ve sat around here long enough.”

They geared up, with Northfield and Geralt again covering themselves from head to toe. Aubrey opened the door, and she took one last glance around her apartment.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna miss this place,” she muttered.

The sky was a murky gray. The clouds broke up in the far western sky, and orange beams of sunlight shone through the cracks. The snow came down in small drifts, which seemed to pause and then pick up every handful of seconds.

Odell rubbed his arms and muttered, “How we manage to live in this climate is beyond me.”

They rounded the street corner. There were a number of vehicles parked on the side of the road, the nearest to them being a black van. Aubrey adjusted her winter cap in a choreographed manner. In response, the van’s lights flashed on and off.

“It’s them,” she said.

When they approached, the back door slid open. They were greeted by a man with heavy bags under his eyes.

They recognized his face; he was the man plastered on the billboards and screens alongside them. He was the man that led the fight to save them, the man that would hopefully save them again.

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thing went down the tubes. My name is Rayne ‘Drawstring’ Simpson.”

They shook his hand. Three other men accompanied him in the back of the van, and they shook each of their hands in turn as Simpson introduced them.

“This is Leo ‘Saturn’ Smalls,” Simpson said. The man was thin and bald, with blue eyes that were positively icy. The man nodded at them as they shook his hand.

The next man’s giant muscles nearly filled the van. They were clear even underneath his bulky jacket. He had curly brown hair with a touch of red and a hell of a beard.

Simpson said, “Erik ‘Rodeo’ Shaeffer.”

The man beamed. “You boys did a hell of a job slipping through the Network. A masterclass, man.”

“I wouldn’t call it that, but we did our best,” Northfield said.

The next man had spiky black hair and a thin face. He appeared to be the youngest out of all of them.

“Andrew ‘Skullbeard’ Liu,” Simpson said.

The source of his codename seemed apparent. Around his neck, Liu wore a skull bandana.

The young man said, “It’s an honor to meet you guys.

Seriously.”

Geralt said, “You’re pulling our asses out of the fire. Trust me, we’re twice as happy to see you.”

“Last up is our driver, Samuel ‘Red’ Perez,” Simpson said.

From the front seat, a burly man with cropped hair and a goatee flashed a wave back. “Yo.” Odell and Aubrey shook the hands of Widow Team and introduced themselves as well.

Simpson said, “As you just heard, we all have code names.

We use them in the field, so that’s how we’ll be referencing each other from here on out. I know it’s a lot of names at once, but don’t worry. Just listen to what we tell you, and you’ll be alright.”

Simpson, who they would now refer to as Drawstring, beckoned them to enter the van. They fit in easily, as there was a lot of room in the back. After he closed the door, he leaned toward them and said, “Let’s get down to business. Here’s how we’re planning on getting the hell out of Dodge—” 215

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The man with the codename Saturn interrupted him: “Guys, we’ve got a big problem.”

He was peering out the dashboard window, his head tilted up. Everyone followed his gaze.

“I don’t see nothin’,” the driver, Red, exclaimed.

“I do,” Northfield said, growing tense. On the rooftop of a building across the next intersection, there was a shape. It was small and hard to see, but it was definitely humanoid. Something else glimmered alongside it. A rifle.

Saturn confirmed, “It’s one of those damn Raid soldiers.

Staring right at us. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“No,” Drawstring said, hissing through his teeth. “Damn it.”

If a Death Corps soldier had them in his sights, why hadn’t he fired yet? There was only one good answer to that, and it made Northfield’s stomach flip. The soldier was waiting for reinforcements.

Northfield could feel it in the air. The streets seemed perfectly still, waiting. It was like the brush the moment before the stalking lion lunged out.

Drawstring had the same line of thinking. He barked, “Red, step on it. We need to get out of here. Now.” “You got it,” he replied, and the car roared to life. The tires screeched as they pulled out. By doing so, they had declared a chase.

In retort, a bullet hit the grill of their van. A moment later, they heard the nauseating crack of the sniper rifle echoing between the buildings.

Drawstring reached down to the floor, opening a hidden compartment. Meanwhile, he said to the new arrivals, “Things are about to get ugly. Now, I really need you to follow everything we say. Got it?”

“Got it,” they replied.

The compartment revealed a small arsenal of weaponry with fully loaded magazines. He passed a rifle to Saturn, an assault rifle to Skullbeard, and a shotgun to Rodeo.

Drawstring said, “Mark and Geralt, you two can shoot, correct?”

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“Mark’s a good shot,” Geralt said. “Give him something good.

I ain’t a slouch, either.”

Drawstring handed Northfield an assault rifle and Geralt a shotgun. “You two?” he asked Aubrey and Odell.

“I can point and click, but I’m no triggerman,” Odell said.

Drawstring handed him a revolver.

“I can shoot,” Aubrey said. Drawstring handed her a shotgun.

She loaded it and racked it decisively.

Drawstring grabbed himself an assault rifle, along with a grenade launcher. Northfield prayed they wouldn’t need the weapons.

The Raid soldier kept shooting at them. Saturn rolled down the window just enough to stick the barrel of his gun out. He aimed at the sniper and rapidly pulled the trigger. He wouldn’t hit anything, not when they were driving so fast and not when the sniper had cover. But he forced the sniper to hide and prevented him from blowing out one of their tires.

They heard an armada of sirens, imminently close. Sure enough, as soon as they turned onto the next street, they met jetblack Hounds and vans forming a barricade. The soldiers hadn’t fully set up along the barricade yet.

Northfield drew from this that the Death Corps had been tracking Widow Team; the Corps had given the team a wide berth in order to not be detected and the team would lead them to him and Salb.

But because of the wide berth they had given the team, they had still needed to close their trap once Northfield and Geralt had been spotted.

The fugitives drove straight toward the barricade; they had no choice. If they didn’t drive through now, they would be trapped.

The soldiers mounted their weapons on their vehicles and took aim. They didn’t bother to give any warnings or ask for surrender.

“Everyone, get low!” Drawstring yelled.

Their guns opened up. The world went ablaze with gunfire, and the dashboard of their vehicle stood no chance against it. Their car roared defiantly as it barreled toward inevitable collision.

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When they were only a couple of yards from impact, a fateful bullet hit their front-left tire. They crashed into the barricade, everyone in the vehicle jolting hard from the impact. Metal crushed metal, with ugly creaks and groans ringing out.

The van continued on, only moments from death. The engine made gurgling noises, and the front of the vehicle was beaten to hell and back.

Coming out of the collision, Red couldn’t control the vehicle due to the blown tire. They swerved back and forth, managing only to turn around the street corner before unceremoniously crashing into an unyielding post.

“Van’s done for,” Red declared. “Everyone out!”

Helicopter rotors beat faintly in the distance, but they grew louder. Northfield counted at least two helicopters. To remain undetected, the Death Corps had refrained from using helicopters when tracking them. Now all bets were off.

Death Corps soldiers from the blockade gave chase.

Meanwhile, vehicles raced toward them from both sides of the street. The Raid soldiers had positioned themselves on the overlooking rooftops.

Surrounded on the left, right, and from behind, they could only go one direction: forward. The building past the crumpled street pole was a large construction and home improvement retailer. The nearest alleyway was a block away on their right.

With all of the guns aimed at them, they couldn’t hope to reach the alley before being shot to hell. They had to go through the building.

The nearest entrance was a set of steel doors not meant for public use.

“We’re going through,” Drawstring declared as they exited the vehicle. “Rodeo, breach the door. The rest of you, provide suppressive fire and follow. Use the doors for cover.”

They did as Drawstring ordered, providing suppressive fire to cover for Rodeo. Northfield and Geralt took aim at the soldiers on foot, who had no problem shooting right back at them. Saturn, using his longer-range rifle, took shots at the Raid soldiers on the roof. Skullbeard joined him with his less-accurate assault rifle, aiming to shake them up rather than actually hit them.

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Odell held his fire; with his six-shooter, he couldn’t provide much help. The driver, Red, fired a submachine gun at the approaching vehicles, as did Aubrey.

The soldiers on the street, who had been so confident in their pursuit of their prey, realized they needed to take cover against the onslaught. They pivoted back around the street corner, peeking around the wall to fire.

At the moment, the Raid soldiers presented the biggest danger since they had a good vantage point over the fugitives. Saturn and Skullbeard’s fire suppressed them well enough, though. The soldiers’ shots didn’t hit anyone, but they came achingly close. A bullet pierced the car door by Northfield, landing inches from his ankle.

There was a boom behind them; Rodeo had breached the door with his shotgun.

“Move, move, move!” Drawstring yelled. He and Rodeo took cover on the other side of the doors, providing suppressive fire as the others filed in. Once everyone had entered, they slammed the doors decisively. Bullets ripped holes through them, one after another.

The fugitives had entered the retailer’s storage area. Rows of storage shelves lined the floor, replete with all sorts of goods. On the opposite side, garages loomed large.

Skullbeard and Red grabbed a nearby cart that had two pallets of bricks on it, and they wheeled it in front of the doors.

The obstruction wouldn’t stop their pursuers for long. But for a minute or two, it might do the trick.

There were a couple of forklifts between the shelves, some with full loads, others empty. But they were all abandoned.

Indeed, the workers, wary of the gunfire, were fleeing out one of the open garage doors. Good. No need for civilians to get caught in the crossfire.

They scanned the warehouse for their own means of escape; they wanted to avoid using the garage doors if possible. Aside from the risk it posed to the civilians, Death Corps soldiers were probably heading toward them now.

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“There,” Saturn exclaimed, pointing at a staircase on the left wall. He said, “There’s a skyway we can take on that side of the building.”

Before anyone could respond, they were interrupted. They had been wrong; the cart wouldn’t delay the Death Corps soldiers.

Not all of them, at least.

A thin set of windows ran along the wall behind them, just below the ceiling. Controlled bursts of fire shattered them. Glass rained down, striking the ground around them.

An instant later, the Raid soldiers burst through the windows.

Their bodies, trailed by streaks of energetic blue, were nothing more than blurs.

The soldiers took the thirty-foot fall without any sign of strain, rolling on their shoulders and rising to face their prey.

The trademark red and blue Network lines coursed around their sleek black armor. Their boots were raised like a gazelle’s hoofs, designed for quick and nimble movement. Four thin, menacing blue lights glowed on their masks. Neon-blue disks covered their left arms, trembling slightly and radiating with energy.

They wielded submachine guns armed with foreign scopes and futuristic laser sights. The snipers they had been using were magnetically attached to their backs, retracted into small packages.

The soldiers put their arms out. The disks extended into shields that concealed their bodies. Blue jolts of energy coursed across the shields. Northfield couldn’t tell what that meant, exactly, but he knew it couldn’t be good.

The shields had openings at the top, on which the soldiers mounted their guns.

Drawstring yelled, “Cover!” They took refuge behind whatever they could find. For Northfield and Geralt, that was a stack of premade cabinets.

The soldiers unleashed a volley of fire. Their bullets seemingly hit everything. Wood splintered, dust clouds exploded, and glass shattered.

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Northfield peeked above cover and leveled his gun at the leftmost soldier. He aimed his scope straight at the gap in the shield, where the gun rested.

He fired two controlled bursts. His aim was off, just slightly.

The bullets hit the shield, or at least they tried. The blue energy seemed to track out, striking the projectiles and stopping them dead in their tracks. His allies fired, too, only to see the same effect.

Their shields, however, didn’t cover the Raid soldiers’ whole bodies, just from hip to head.

The leg it is, then, he thought, taking aim at the meat of the soldier’s thigh. But then the soldier was gone. In that same blur he had seen before, a glowing streak ran to the left. Northfield followed the streak and located the Raid soldier. He was behind a pallet of ceramic tiles; his shield was up, his body entirely concealed save for the gap in his shield. The soldier must have used the thruster packs in his thighs to move so quickly.

The front of Northfield’s hat was dampened with sweat. These guys, they didn’t move like humans. They weren’t like anything he had ever fought before. The heavy exo soldiers, although armed like tanks, at least had to lumber around.

He pulled his trigger, controlling the recoil of his rifle and putting shots straight on the leftmost Raid soldier. His bullets hit the shield, but they showed no signs of breaking it. Northfield ducked back behind cover. Without a shield, he would be a much easier target than the Raid soldier he’d been shooting at.

Geralt had the same idea. They braced as bullets sliced through their cover. Piece by piece, it was eroding. Shot by shot.

Soon enough, their cover would be nonexistent.

Both Raid soldiers fired in long, hardly controlled bursts.

Their primary goal, Northfield realized, was suppression.

Keeping their targets from moving anywhere. Actually hitting them was a secondary concern. That was because the soldiers didn’t have to. Not when an army of soldiers was approaching from behind. More were probably setting up past the retail store to close in on their targets. All the Raid soldiers had to do was keep them stuck for long enough.

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The fugitives had no choice. They had to push the issue. But right now, even that seemed like a future problem. Northfield and Geralt’s cover wouldn’t hold out any longer. They had to get somewhere safe.

He glanced over to see Drawstring behind cover, reloading his rifle. He shared cover with Skullbeard and Rodeo. Odell, Aubrey, Saturn, and Red were farther down, hiding behind a set of boxes riddled with holes. It appeared that they were in a very similar predicament to Northfield and Geralt.

Drawstring gave them a hand signal. Northfield understood it, and he relayed the message to Geralt.

“They’re gonna cover us. Are you ready to haul it?”

The former Yellowback readied his legs, seeking out their next refuge: a forklift. Drawstring didn’t waste time. He, Skullbeard, and Rodeo blasted away at the Raid soldiers.

The Raid soldiers thrust away, becoming blurs once more.

They repositioned to an angle where they could better block the incoming shots with their shields.

Northfield and Geralt raced, heads buried into their chins, arms swinging back and forth desperately. Odell and the others moved, too. Debris exploded in front of Northfield as the Raid soldiers split their effort between all the targets. Shards raced past his body, with some hitting his goggles. A piece of something brown, maybe wood, chipped his goggles just over his right eyebrow.

They dove behind the forklift, breathing heavily. Northfield found it amazing how running such a short distance could ravage his lungs so badly. He didn’t have time to regain his breath, though. He aimed through the forklift and shot at the left-side Raid soldier, giving Drawstring, Skullbeard, and Rodeo a chance to move up.

His shots didn’t hit anything meaningful. The Raid soldiers moved too quickly for him to hit reliably; the times that he did land a shot, all he hit was the shield.

He kept very mindful of his ammunition count. He had already spent half of a magazine. Drawstring had given him only four.

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This entire recipe doesn’t smell of success. Damn it.

He ducked back behind cover and glanced back. The door they had entered through was getting slammed on; the Death Corps soldiers behind them had arrived. They would rig up explosives on the doors soon enough. Then the fugitives would be really screwed.

Drawstring must have had a similar line of thinking because he swapped out his assault rifle for his grenade launcher. He gave Northfield a determined glare.

We’re taking these guys out. Now. He launched a grenade at the leftmost Raid soldier. The soldier thrust backward, avoiding the explosion. His thrust had taken him into one of the storage aisles; the shelves wobbled precipitously from the explosion’s shock wave. Drawstring pumped and shot again, aiming high.

The soldier dashed forward, avoiding the explosion. The explosion, however, obliterated the shelves’ support structures on both sides. The shelves tilted in, two towers colliding with one another. And all of the items on their shelves fell inward. The soldier was hit by a box filled with something heavy. He staggered and dashed out of the aisle to avoid more falling debris. But because he was off balance, his thrust took him at an odd angle, and he staggered to a knee and dropped his gun. Before they could get a shot out, he thrust to the left, holding his shield up in the direction of the grenades. He didn’t manage to grab his rifle.

Northfield saw an opening just under his shield. He aimed the reticle of his sight and fired off two shots. One of them struck its mark, hitting the soldier’s calf. Northfield wasn’t sure if he broke flesh, but he sure as hell screwed up one of the thrusters. A flash of blue burst from his calf, and it crackled and popped. The soldier fell to his knee again but held his shield up, concealing his entire body.

“Go!” Northfield yelled to Geralt. This was their chance, and they couldn’t blow it. Drawstring turned his attention, and his grenade launcher, onto the other Raid soldier.

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rifle, which was still on his back. But the soldier didn’t pull out the sniper. It was too unwieldy for what was quickly becoming a close-quarters scrap.

Instead, he did something that Northfield didn’t expect. He thrust forward. Even with only one good thruster, he moved too quickly for Northfield to react. The shield charged toward him, radiating blue energy, an unregistered blur until it collided straight with Northfield’s chest.

Pain coursed through his body, an electric paralysis that he had no hope of fighting. He collapsed to the ground, his limbs refusing to cooperate, feeling his muscles rebel against him.

Of course, that shield has to act like a taser, too. The hell’s next?

A microwave and instant ramen?

Geralt, to his great credit, was unfazed by what had just happened. He put a bullet through the Raid soldier’s left shoulder, the one that held the shield. His shot, for certain, had hit flesh. Blood shot out of the wound. It messed up the circuitry on the soldier’s shield, too. It fizzled and cracked, and the shield retracted back into the disks they had seen on the soldier’s arm earlier.

The soldier wasn’t done yet, though. Whatever his suit was made of still enabled him to move blisteringly fast. He ducked under Geralt’s barrel right as he fired. Meanwhile, he pulled something from a compartment near his thigh.

A karambit knife, its blade curved like the shadow of the moon.

Northfield’s eyes widened. He tried desperately to warn Geralt, but his jaw refused to cooperate. All he let out was, “Grrrltheakneehf.”

Geralt had no chance of understanding.

In that instant, Northfield saw them all again. All the people who had died on the mission to set off Zeus’s Mercy. Elena. John.

Geralt’s younger brother, Nathan.

Don’t let me see this again, God. Don’t let me watch them all die.

Don’t leave me alone.

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He reached for his rifle, which lay on the ground, just inches from his index finger. His muscles were coming to life again, rising from the grave the damned shield had put them in.

The soldier thrust the knife. Geralt saw it and tried desperately to move away. But he didn’t see it soon enough. Not when the soldier could move so fast.

The knife scraped past his chest but didn’t plunge into it. The knife kept going, though, and sank into the meat of his thigh.

Geralt cried out, a sound more of feral anger than pain.

He dropped his rifle. The Raid soldier ripped out the knife and moved to strike again.

Northfield pulled the trigger. The bullet went through the soldier’s back. He let out a cry of his own, one perverted by his mask’s voice modulator.

He collapsed. Northfield shot again, just to be sure.

He pulled himself to his feet and pivoted, scanning the room.

He couldn’t help Geralt until he made sure the other Raid soldier didn’t pose an immediate threat.

The other Raid soldier lay dead, blood pooling from a wound to the head. His helmet was cracked, with a bullet straight through the eye.

No more time to think about that. Geralt was his concern now. The former Yellowback trembled, clutching the wound.

He was bleeding. Northfield couldn’t tell if the femoral artery had been severed. He didn’t think so. But his head was still cloudy after that electric shock, and he had trouble processing everything.

“This is some bullshit,” Geralt muttered. “Screw that guy.”

Northfield applied pressure to his leg and yelled to the others, “Geralt’s down!”

Drawstring, Rodeo, and Red kept their guns up, guarding, as the others sprinted over to the fallen Yellowback. Nobody else was injured—a miracle, no doubt, considering how lethal the Raid soldiers were.

It didn’t feel much like a miracle, however.

Skullbeard kneeled next to them, pulling out a first-aid pack.

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“Tell me,” Geralt muttered through gritted teeth. “Am I a goner?”

He narrowed his eyes as he started to dress the wound. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Skullbeard, we don’t have time,” Drawstring yelled. Soldiers were filing in through the far garage doors.

That wasn’t all. The doors behind them exploded. The contents on the cart they had shoved in front of them shattered, with debris flying in every direction. The cart tumbled across the floor like some old, crumpled-up piece of paper.

They were out of time.

Saturn pointed to the stairwell, and he screamed, “Everyone go!”

Northfield and Skullbeard picked up Geralt; the bandaging of his leg was only half done. It was slowing the bleeding, but the bandages clung to his leg precariously. They threatened to unravel at any moment.

Odell stepped up and said to them, “I have him. You two need to shoot.”

He was right. Northfield gave him Geralt’s arm.

The former Yellowback gave him a wild grin, one that barely hid his pain. “Give them hell.”

He nodded and turned away solemnly. Death Corps soldiers entered through the ruined doors, remnants of the explosion billowing away in thin veils of black smoke. His eyes narrowed.

God, if I faced you tonight, which I very well might, I don’t know how well I would stand up straight, if my reasoning would wilt under your glare. But there’s one thing I’m sure of: Geralt won’t die in front of me. I won’t let that happen. I won’t.

He lined up his sights on the Death Corps soldiers, who themselves took aim. They all pulled their triggers, and violence engulfed the warehouse.

The fight was on. And no matter how futile, how low his odds of success, it was Northfield’s fight to have.

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19 “Oh, screw me,” Geralt muttered when he and Odell reached the foot of the stairwell. He glanced up the thin, steep steps and growled.

“One step at a time,” Odell encouraged him.

Geralt gnashed his teeth.

Saturn and Red had already sprinted up the steps; they fired at the soldiers coming from the garage. Because of the placement of the storage shelves, the soldiers either had to run all the way across the aisles and round the last corner to reach the stairwell or they had to run through an aisle to attack them from the back.

The soldiers, to be sure, were giving both paths a college try.

Saturn and Red were fending them off as best as they could.

The others focused on the soldiers coming through the back doors. Although the soldiers couldn’t get through the doorway as fast as they could file in through the garage, they had a much better line of sight on the stairwell.

Aubrey shoved rounds into her shotgun. She said, “I’m running low on ammo.”

Drawstring frowned. Soon, they would all be empty. He ordered her, “Save your shots. Help carry Geralt up the stairs.”

She slung her weapon over her shoulder and followed his instructions.

“Reloading,” Northfield said, ejecting his magazine. He had only two left, with sixty bullets remaining in total. He had to make them count.

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middle of a pressure cooker, and the time until they were burned was ticking down.

“Exo soldier,” Red yelled. He and Saturn ducked for cover.

The deep thunder of heavy machine-gun fire rattled the staircase.

Now that he and Saturn couldn’t overwatch the soldiers coming from the garage, their enemies could advance a lot faster.

Northfield fired shot after shot at any helmet that popped over cover or filed in through an alleyway or door. He was swiveling like mad, his shots not making contact, but they came close enough to scare the soldiers. To make them duck, to dive for cover, to buy the fugitives any amount of time they could get.

They reached the top of the stairs. Rodeo breached the door, and they filed in. Drawstring was last. He aimed his grenade launcher at the stairs and fired, blowing it apart.

They entered an office with a couple of desks and lockers. It was where the manager of the storage area oversaw everything during office hours. There was another door at the end of the office.

“Hang on. His bandages are loose,” Aubrey declared. Sure enough, Geralt’s bandages had come undone, and blood flowed down his leg. They set him down, and Skullbeard attended to him.

Rodeo stood by the door across the office, his shotgun ready to breach. Northfield, Saturn, and Red stacked up with him.

The heavy exo’s machine-gun fire shattered the window that overlooked the storage area. A moment later, a grenade flew through the window, landing with a decisive thunk.

“Grenade!” Drawstring yelled. He pushed over one of the nearby desks, blocking Geralt and those around him. The grenade detonated, and shrapnel wedged into the desk.

Another grenade followed, rolling in a similar spot as the first. Because of the angle the soldiers below were throwing from, they wouldn’t be able to land a grenade much farther into the office.

Maybe. Nobody wanted to bet on that one.

“Done patching him up,” Skullbeard said. “This bandage better hold, or I swear…”

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Odell and Aubrey picked Geralt up again, and they hurried to join the others against the wall as Rodeo breached the next door.

They were greeted by a long industrial hallway with concrete walls and piping running along the exposed ceiling. The hallway separated the retail and storage areas of the store. They didn’t see any soldiers, so they continued on to the next door, which Rodeo breached.

They entered the retail area of the home improvement store.

They were on the second floor, which opened up in the middle to overlook the first floor. The second floor had a small cafe, as well as some outdoor furniture displays. Below, they could see a lighting section; a thousand lights hung from the ceiling in dazzling splendor.

Twin escalators led to the second floor, one ascending and the other descending. Death Corps soldiers were already racing up to reach them. More soldiers climbed up a staircase located at the opposite corner.

A handful of civilians hid on the first floor behind various pieces of furniture. It appeared that the majority of shoppers had managed to get out when the shooting started. However, after the Death Corps arrived, nobody else was getting out. Not until the fugitives were dead. The remaining civilians had likely been told to hide and get out of the way.

An exo soldier stood at the main entrance of the store.

His weapon was up and at the ready. Nobody would pass him; that much was clear. Fortunately, the front entrance wasn’t the fugitives’ destination. The entrance to the skyway sat across the cafe, just around the next corner.

They advanced in an arrow formation, with Geralt, Aubrey, and Odell in the center. Rodeo took point. Drawstring assumed a position on the right side of the arrow, facing away from the action. He spoke to someone through an earpiece.

“Flagbearer, come in. We’re in the Hampton Home Improvement store, heading north. Where’s our exfil? Over.” A frown set in when he got a response. “Well, figure it out.”

“Where are we headed?” Aubrey asked him.

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Drawstring said, “Command doesn’t know yet. We just have to keep moving. They’ll come up with something.”

He sounded sure. Northfield wondered if the confidence was genuine or if he was doing his part as a leader by keeping chins up.

Northfield was in the back-left position of the arrow. He had the prime firing position on the escalators. He kept his weapon up, swiveling between them. As soon as the first black helmet popped into his line of sight, he fired a shot. The soldier ducked, using the escalator as cover. Northfield pulled the trigger with restraint, firing a shot every couple of seconds. He didn’t need anyone to remind him that he was running low on ammo.

Meanwhile, Saturn suppressed the soldiers ascending the far staircase with his longer-range rifle.

When they reached the mouth of the skyway, they were met with bad news. Death Corps soldiers, lined up in a row, blocked the other end of the skyway. Their weapons were up. They were waiting, and positively itching, for the fugitives to step in front of them.

Helicopters thumped overhead. Northfield bet that the adjacent rooftops had more Raid soldiers aiming right into the skyway with their snipers.

The fugitives stacked up against the skyway’s walls, but it felt far from safe. Enemies continued to advance behind them from the escalators and the staircase.

Drawstring took it all in stride. He checked his grenade launcher, making sure it was properly loaded. He said to Saturn, “You got those smoke grenades?”

Saturn held one up in affirmation.

“On my mark, toss it.” He then addressed all of the fugitives.

“I’ll launch a grenade. Should soften them up. Keep low, under the window line.”

Drawstring signaled to Saturn. The grenade rolled and vomited out smoke. Within seconds, the skyway was completely enveloped in a gray-black mass. Drawstring aimed his grenade into the blackness, adjusted his angle, and fired.

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been the screeching of metal. There was no telling if Drawstring had damaged the skyway’s structure by the grenade blast. There was no telling, when they stepped onto the platform, if everything would fall out from under them.

But even that risk seemed infinitely better than waiting for the approaching swarm of soldiers.

They charged, keeping low, which was especially hard for Aubrey and Odell to do while carrying Geralt.

Northfield switched to full auto and emptied the rest of his ammunition ahead. They were in a small, confined area. Even one soldier with a rifle could kill a number of them, given the chance. The others did the same.

A few bullets whistled past. But they were few, and they stopped coming midway through Northfield’s burst. By the time he reached the halfway point, he knew what he would find on the other end of the skyway.

He forged ahead in the blackness. Windows shattered around them at irregular intervals as soldiers from nearby buildings fired at them. Since the fugitives were below the window line, the snipers couldn’t see them. As such, their shots didn’t find targets.

The wall of blackness thinned until he finally passed through it. As he expected, the soldiers’ bodies lay on the ground, not a single one still standing. The grenade had really done a number on them, with the fugitives’ subsequent gunfire finishing whatever job had remained. Drawstring and Saturn were kneeling next to a couple of them, scavenging weapons and ammunition. He did the same.

Hope you’re all on one big boat right now on the river to a better place.

He picked up the soldier’s weapon, a high-tech submachine gun with all manner of attachments, and he discarded his assault rifle. He grabbed every magazine he could find and stuffed them into every pocket where they would fit.

Now that he wasn’t defenseless anymore, and able to help, he glanced back. The others had made it through the smoke, with nobody injured.

“We did it. Would you look at that,” Saturn muttered as he shoved a magazine into his gun.

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“Don’t dally,” Drawstring said. “We’ve got to keep moving.”

Geralt hung his head, bearing a hard grimace. His skin was pale, and sweat covered his face.

“Are you hanging in there?” Northfield asked him.

“Might as well… cut off this damned leg… and be done with it,” Geralt muttered, seething.

Odell patted his shoulder. “We’ll get you through this. No choice about it, alright?”

Geralt nodded. The pain on his face didn’t spell much belief.

Drawstring radioed Command. “Flagbearer, come in. Put that big brain to use. Where are we going?”

“You’ve got to do better than this. The clock’s ticking down,” Saturn said in frustration to Flagbearer. From this interaction, Northfield gathered that the other members of Widow Team also had earpieces to communicate with Flagbearer.

Past the mouth of the skyway, Northfield saw a circular walkway with an open center that afforded a clear view to the floor below. The first floor was a hotel lobby with rows of very green plants, either immaculately cared for or artificial. A waterfall encased in glass was behind the receptionists’ desk.

Escalators bordered the waterfall, and Death Corps soldiers were running up them.

But that wasn’t all. Soldiers rappelled from the ceiling, which was a singular stain-glass window, now shattered. The glass shards glimmered on the floor.

There weren’t any civilians in sight; they had cleared out of the building.

“We need to go,” Drawstring said, keeping his frustration level. “Staying here is suicidal. Take formation, everyone.”

They advanced onto the walkway. Two more figures descended from the ceiling, with no need for the ropes the rappelling soldiers had used.

They were Raid soldiers. The very last thing they needed.

The rappelling soldiers reached the second floor, and they swung onto the walkway, releasing their harnesses.

Northfield glanced back at Geralt. Overtaken by his agony, the former Yellowback hardly registered what was happening.

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He needed two people to help him. Odell might not have been much of a shot anyway, but Aubrey could have otherwise been helping them fight off the Death Corps.

One man being wounded took three people out of the fight.

And Geralt was only the first of their casualties.

This wasn’t sustainable. They couldn’t keep forging forward forever, especially when they had no idea where they were going.

They couldn’t fight through the entire city, not by a long shot.

He repeated to himself, Geralt is getting out of this. I’ll barrel through whatever mountains are in my way.

He isn’t dying on my watch.

They took cover behind the walkway’s concrete wall as the Death Corps soldiers opened fire on them.

Past all the adrenaline and fear coursing through his system, the familiar feeling of dread settled at the bottom of his stomach.

He could declare his desires until the cows came home, but that didn’t mean they would actually happen.

Not by a long shot. *** “The tangos breached our defensive line in the Pike Skyway.

They’ve entered the Lone Oak Hotel. Strike teams are engaging,” the lead captain overseeing the fugitive hunt reported to General Arkland.

The general presided in his office, watching the events transpire on his monitor. Jane Sloan and the Chair of State also watched.

The video feed came from one of the helicopters engaged in the hunt; it had a bird’s eye view of the Lone Oak Hotel. Atop the hotel, soldiers rappelled through the broken circular window, with more soldiers behind them.

“How did the fugitives break our line?” the Chair of State muttered.

“Looks like a combination of smoke grenades and conventional explosives,” the captain said.

“What’s the ETA on our heavy reinforcements?” General Arkland asked.

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“Five minutes,” the captain said.

Arkland nodded. The heavy reinforcements included a metric ton of standard soldiers, along with exo soldiers equipped with all means of heavy weaponry. Furthermore, all Raid soldiers in the northwest quadrant of the city had also been routed to the fugitives. Since the Raid armor was still in the prototype stage, and there wasn’t mass production yet, there were only seven suits in total.

“Alert us when they arrive,” he said. “And if anything notable happens on the ground in the meantime.”

“Play by play, sir,” his captain replied.

The Chair of State hit the mute button so their voices wouldn’t transmit to the captain. She grit her teeth, seething as she said, “Why the hell aren’t they dead yet?”

Arkland pressed his lips together. Where to start? Tailing Rayne Simpson’s men without alerting them incurred a cost. In order to give the fugitives enough of a berth, the Corps’ perimeter had to be wider. Because of this, and the fact that their targets were moving, the Corps couldn’t solidify the perimeter.

It was a task made infinitely more difficult by their targets’ use of the skyway system. The fugitives’ ability to use both street-level and skyway paths greatly increased their number of possible escape routes. The Corps’ perimeter not only had to be two-dimensional; it had to be three-dimensional.

Arkland’s men had to adjust on the fly with every turn the fugitives took. It was like trying to put a wall around a breaking wave.

Instead of directly answering her accusatory question, he said, “The Lone Oak Hotel has four skyways attached to it. We need to destroy them. Simpson and his fugitives won’t have anywhere to go. They’ll be trapped.”

The Chair of State balked at that. “Are you insane, General?

This chase is being televised live. We cannot blow up our own infrastructure. That is unacceptable.”

Arkland pointed at the screen. “Don’t underestimate Simpson and his lackeys. Nor Salb or Northfield. They’re dangerous and smart. If we want to catch them, if we want to be sure of it, we need to cut them off.”

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“From the captain’s report, there are nine targets in total. At least one of them is known to be wounded,” she said. “We have an army converging on them. What is the need for such a destructive measure? What will that communicate to the public?”

“It will tell everyone that we’ll do what’s necessary to stop terrorists,” Arkland said. “If the fugitives get away now, we’ll look incompetent. And incompetence will breed courage in potential defectors to join their cause.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” the Chair of State said.

“Considering that you practically let them go in Hyde Plaza.”

“The narrative matters,” Arkland retorted. “Before, we needed to establish that their cause bred violence and chaos. Now we need to paint their cause as futile. It doesn’t matter if we cause some destruction. We can loop it right back to them. After all, we wouldn’t be destroying the skyways if the fugitives had given up peacefully instead of killing our soldiers.

“But the futility is critical. If people think that the cause isn’t hopeless, then they will be willing to bear some level of chaos and destruction. This”—he tapped on the screen—“is when we demonstrate that futility. That they will be caught in the end.

That we will do what we must.”

She spread her arms, exasperated. “The Nexus built this city from the damn rubble. We’re not tearing a single brick down.

Show me the need, Arkland. The fugitives are a mile out from the nearest checkpoint out of the city. Where, exactly, are they going to go?”

Arkland narrowed his eyes and scowled. “I don’t know.

But we can’t give Simpson or the others the slightest chance. If anybody can slip past, it’s them. Blow up the skyways. They can be rebuilt.”

“It will make us look weak, General. Us, desecrating our own city. I won’t allow it. You can throw that idea away.” She crossed her arms definitively.

Arkland’s glance flicked over to Jane Sloan. She caught his eye, and she tapped her ear, a knife-edge grin creeping across her lips.

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She had been recording their conversation. They would use the audio when the correct time arrived. General Arkland realized that time was coming quicker and quicker.

No matter the outcome of the chase, General Arkland would be just fine. The fates of the Chairs were significantly more up in the air. That included the Chair of State, a person he certainly wouldn’t shed any tears over.

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20 Mark Northfield dropped the spent magazine and jammed a new one into his gun as he tried to ignore the burning in his lungs. Sweat fully drenched his mask. The stress of battle fatigued him. The tension gripped him every moment that the bullets flew. His muscles braced against a force he couldn’t hope to stop.

Fortune balanced on a precipice, just waiting to turn against him.

Geralt’s head rolled back against the concrete wall, and he waited with reluctance for them to move from cover. When he had to get up again, his leg would only burn worse.

Northfield popped up from cover and faced the danger, firing his weapon.

They forged their way around the walkway, fighting off soldiers from every direction. From above, below, behind, and the front. Where they would go after they reached the far end of the walkway, they still didn’t know.

“Flagbearer, you better come up with a damned idea quickly.

We’re not gonna last,” Drawstring urged while reloading. He muttered an expletive under his breath; he didn’t get a satisfactory answer.

“What’s the plan, boss?” Saturn said.

“We can’t stay in this hotel,” he said. “We need to take the next skyway and see where it leads.”

“Raid soldiers inbound!” Rodeo declared.

The Raid soldiers attached themselves to the walkway’s ceiling. They hung upside down, like dark spiders on their webs.

The higher-up positions allowed them to see over the fugitives’

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cover; to the Raid soldiers, the fugitives were exposed. The Raid soldiers were positioned on both sides of the fugitives.

“Put fire on them,” Drawstring said. “Everyone, keep moving.”

“Smokes?” Skullbeard asked.

Drawstring glanced at the next skyway. “No, save them. Lord knows how many we’ll need to cross the skyways.”

Northfield shot at the nearest Raid soldier. The submachine gun had minimal recoil, so he didn’t have much trouble putting a lot of bullets downrange and on target. Saturn joined him, too.

With his rifle, his shots were more deliberate but more accurate.

A number of them hit the Raid soldier’s shield; it was easy to see which shots hit, as the shield glowed blue with each impact.

The Raid soldier tucked his feet behind his shield so only the top part of his head was exposed. Their gunfire distracted him, at least enough to stop his shots from being accurate. His bullets dug into the floor behind Northfield. The other fugitives held off the other Raid soldier.

Their focus on the Raid soldiers had a cost; they couldn’t focus as much on the normal soldiers. A soldier advanced, taking position behind a column ahead of them. He had a straight line of fire on Skullbeard.

Skullbeard didn’t notice. Odell and Aubrey shouted to warn him. He turned just in time, locking eyes and guns with the soldier. Skullbeard managed to fire first, but just barely.

“This is getting hairy, man,” he muttered. He said to Aubrey and Odell, “Thanks.”

Their next casualty loomed around the corner. The Raid soldier they headed toward fired his rifle. His shot found its mark.

“Arrgh,” Rodeo screamed, falling onto his back. Blood spilled out from his right shoulder. He seized it, grimacing. “He got me.”

Skullbeard moved toward him, but Rodeo waved him off.

Through gnashed teeth, he said, “I’m fine. Keep moving. We need to get out of this hotel.”

Rodeo tried to pick up his shotgun, but he let out a small yelp of pain. “My arm’s shot,” he said. He slung the weapon over his shoulder and drew his pistol with his left hand.

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“Concentrate fire on the Raid soldier,” Drawstring said. They had to pass the Raid soldier to reach the skyway. If they didn’t take care of him, and instead tried to cross under him, it would be open season with his sniper rifle.

Northfield and the others kept low; as long as they stayed lower than the concrete wall, the other Raid soldier couldn’t hit them from his position. He would reposition himself for a better shot, but it would take him time to set up. They needed to use that opportunity to handle the Raid soldier that blocked their way forward.

Drawstring, Northfield, and Saturn put heavy pressure on the opposing Raid soldier. His shield cracked and popped with bursts of blue light. The Raid soldier had no choice but to duck his head behind the shield. By doing so, he couldn’t shoot any longer.

Red and Skullbeard watched their front and back, keeping any approaching soldiers at bay. Skullbeard tossed Rodeo gauze so he could bandage himself. Aubrey and Odell carried Geralt through the madness.

“Raid soldier at our six,” Skullbeard shouted. “He’s rushing!”

The Raid soldier to their rear had descended onto the walkway. Instead of finding another spot to snipe from, he had instead deployed his shield and a shotgun, and he was rushing them. Death Corps soldiers followed behind him. The Raid soldier was the front of a wedge, creating cover for his fellow soldiers to rush their enemies.

The sight wasn’t welcome. Not when they had the other Raid soldier to contend with and not when even more soldiers attacked from their front.

“Help them, Northfield,” Drawstring commanded. Northfield pivoted around and joined Red and Skullbeard in defending their backside.

The Raid soldier with the shield neared their bend of the walkway; he had two more pillars to round. Northfield shot at him, trying to hit the enemy’s weak points. But he was too quick, and the weak points were too small.

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The soldiers behind the Raid soldier sent a volley of shots Northfield’s way. He had no choice but to keep low and weather the storm.

The charging Raid soldier opened fire. Heavy shotgun blasts ripped out sections of concrete like they were made of Styrofoam.

Northfield signaled to Red and Skullbeard. They nodded in understanding.

When the Raid soldier rounded the corner and fully came into view, the three of them unloaded. Their target was solely the Raid soldier’s feet.

One of their shots hit. The Raid soldier stumbled, falling onto a knee. His chest dipped forward, and so did his shield, exposing the top of his head like a piece of ripe fruit. Northfield pulled the trigger one more time. The bullet pierced the soldier’s head, and he fell to the ground, his shotgun clattering.

The Raid soldier’s job had been accomplished, however. He had ushered a horde of Death Corps soldiers to the fugitives’ backyard.

“We gotta hold them off,” Red said. “Get some space between them and our wounded.”

Red declared such to Drawstring. Their leader didn’t like it, but he also realized the necessity. They needed to buy the wounded time to move.

“Digging in, then,” Northfield muttered to himself, reloading his gun. They exchanged fire with the soldiers at their six, popping in and out of cover. It was the worst game of two-way whack-a-mole, where each side tried to hammer the other with as much speed and brutality as they could muster.

Northfield couldn’t tell if he hit anyone; everything was just too chaotic. He could only pop up long enough to see a blur of a shadowy figure, get off a few shots, and seek protection.

But he hadn’t been hit, at least. Red and Drawstring were unscathed, too. That seemed like a significant win.

“We’ve bought them some distance,” Red declared, wiping sweat off his brow. “It’s time we haul it.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice, man,” Skullbeard replied. He drew a smoke grenade and tossed it. As soon as the smoke started 240

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to plume, they turned tail and sprinted. Bullets ripped through the smoke, giving chase. However, they kept near the pillars as they ran, minimizing their exposure to the bullets.

They returned to the group safely. They were nearly to the skyway and whatever lay within it.

“Hang on,” Drawstring declared, throwing out one of his hands. He cupped his ear and tilted his head, listening intently to Flagbearer. A smile cracked across his face like ice. “You’re a damned genius.”

“I knew you had it in you,” Skullbeard said to Flagbearer.

The excitement in Drawstring’s voice dampened slightly. He said, “Understood. We’ll get there in time. Drawstring out.” He then declared, “Good news. We’ve got our exit. But we have a time window to hit. And it’s closing.”

Northfield regarded Geralt. The former Yellowback tried to grin in response to the news, but he could only manage a grimace.

“Just get me off my damn legs soon,” he said. “Don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“We’ve got some ways to go yet,” Drawstring said, then addressed everyone. “We’re heading to Eastplain Apartments. A couple blocks north of here. Follow my lead. We’ll go through the skyway and then take the north skyway from the next building.”

Rodeo said to Aubrey, “You’re good with a gun, right?”

She nodded.

Rodeo handed over his gun and said, “I’ll take Geralt. I can carry him with my good arm.”

The large man wrapped his arm around Geralt, and Aubrey racked the shotgun.

They didn’t run into resistance while passing through the skyway; since they had broken the Death Corps’ line, soldiers were scrambling to meet them as they advanced. Still, opposition arrived quickly.

They entered a food court—a lunchtime nexus point, it appeared, for the surrounding buildings. All sorts of restaurants populated the expansive space, easily distinguishable by icons next to their neon signs: pizza slices, egg rolls, burgers, and everything in between. The stores were closed; their signs were 241

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dim, and gates blocked off each of them. Whether they had closed due to the fugitives or if they always closed at this time of evening, Northfield couldn’t tell. But since there were no restaurants open, there weren’t any civilians around, either.

Death Corps soldiers flooded through two stairwell doors on either side of the court. There were four, then six, then eight.

The center of the court had rows and rows of tables, along with booths to sit in. The fugitives took cover behind the booths.

They had to reach the skyway to their left. They didn’t have to cut through their opponents, but they nonetheless had to deal with them, if they wanted to stand any chance.

“Ready one of those grenades, Skullbeard,” Drawstring said.

“Everybody, get ready to move.”

Skullbeard tossed the grenade, and smoke flooded the court.

They fired into the depths of gray, as their opposition did the same. They moved sideways from table to table, tipping them over to create cover. Northfield wasn’t very confident they would stop a bullet. They had to keep the pace of Geralt and his escorts.

As bullets cracked through the dark cloud like lightning, their slowness was excruciating.

Northfield couldn’t tell if he had hit anyone through the smoke. The sheer volume of bullets flying in their direction told him they hadn’t done much damage.

Then again, their enemy sat in the same boat. They couldn’t tell if their bullets hit their targets and could only measure results by the magnitude of gunfire flying at them. The Death Corps soldiers weren’t about to lower their heads and bull-rush into the smoke. They weren’t suicidal.

That was what protected the fugitives. Otherwise, they might not have been able to defend against their enemies. Not with their wounded, and not with the exhaustion slowly eating up their lungs like a hungry black rot.

They didn’t have to beat the Corps. They only had to keep their pursuers back, keep them behind the smokescreen, just long enough to get away.

They reached the next skyway.

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“The apartment building ahead is our target,” Drawstring said. “We need to find the nearest stairs and beeline it as far down as we can go.”

Through the skyway’s windows, Northfield saw the Calton.

It was an old, outdated building, a remnant of the city that had existed before the Network staked its claim. Filtration systems stuck off its sides like warts. They were ugly reminders of a time most ached to forget.

In fact, the Network appeared to feel the same. The same poster repeated on the pillars of the skyway, displaying a picture of a newly designed building set to replace the Calton.

Construction was supposed to start next year.

The snow picked up badly, and the darkness of night had fully set in. The sheets of snow dimmed the neon lights throughout the city.

A blinding light shined into the skyway, and Northfield shielded his eyes. It was the searchlight of a helicopter. They kept low, sticking to the embrace of the shadows provided by the skyway’s waist-high concrete walls.

I always hated the spotlight, Jess. How did I come to this place?

A whole city with its eyes on me.

What do most people here, in their heart of hearts, truly want?

Do they want to watch me escape? Or do they want to see me shot in the head?

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut; the light was too much for him. He muttered or grumbled something to himself too quietly for Northfield to understand.

Hold on, buddy. Just hold on.

They reached the end of the skyway. The soldiers behind them had run through the smokescreen, and they reached the opening of the skyway. The barrels of their guns lit up the tunnel just as the fugitives rounded the corner.

The fugitives ran down a hallway, following the exit signs.

They passed through arch after arch of cream-brown pillars that struggled to hold up the curved ceiling.

At the end of the hallway, a sign pointed to their exit. They ripped open the door and descended. The soldiers gave chase, only a dozen or so seconds behind.

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*** “The fugitives are descending the stairs of the Calton Hotel,” the captain reported. “It appears that they have exited the skyway system.”

“Why here?” the Chair of State asked. “There are skyways attached to the Calton. They could’ve kept going.”

“Maybe they can’t run any longer,” the captain offered. “Our soldiers have wounded at least two of them now. They could be going for a vehicle. There is a parking garage behind the Calton.”

“And if they reach a car?” the Chair of State said.

The captain said, “We’re establishing a perimeter on the streets around the hotel. It should be secure before the fugitives even reach a car. If the fugitives try to drive away, they’ll run into our vehicles. Ours have heavy armor and weapons. The fugitives wouldn’t win.”

“I’ve heard a lot of ‘shoulds’ lately,” the Chair of State said bitterly. “But the fugitives are still on the loose.”

The captain didn’t respond. Arkland could tell her comment made him nervous. He moved the conversation to more productive waters.

“Now is our opportunity to secure the skyway system.

Without access to it, the fugitives’ ability to evade us will be weakened. Captain, get your men on it.”

The captain said, “Yes, sir.”

“What’s the status of our heavy strike force?” Arkland said.

A bit of joy snuck into the captain’s voice. “They’ve arrived at the Calton, sir.”

“The strike force consists of a heavy exo soldier, along with elite support units. Our best soldiers,” Arkland explained to the Chair of State. “The fugitives will have to contend with them, along with the soldiers approaching their rear.”

The Chair of State’s skepticism loosened. “Only a matter of time, then?”

“It appears that way,” the captain said.

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Arkland glanced at Jane Sloan, a small frown crossing his lips.

There was something he didn’t like, but he couldn’t put words to it yet. From the look on her face, he thought she felt similarly.

245

21 Midway down the first flight of stairs, things turned upside down for the fugitives. Odell tripped over one of the steps. He, Geralt, and Rodeo tumbled down.

Geralt cursed, cupping his hands over his leg, trembling violently.

Rodeo’s eyes were pinched shut, and he grasped his shoulder with similar intensity, but he didn’t make a sound.

“Oh, my Lord,” Odell said. “I’m so sorry.”

“They’re goddamned stairs,” Geralt cried. “How hard are they to walk down?”

“The Death Corps is almost here,” Aubrey said. She watched their backs, along with Skullbeard.

“Get him up,” Drawstring said. “Hurry. Aubrey and Skullbeard, put suppressive fire on the soldiers as soon as they arrive. Stop them from following us.” He turned to everyone and he said, “Our target is a maintenance room on the other side of the lobby. If we get there, well, our odds start looking a hell of a lot better.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs just as Aubrey declared, “They’re here!”

She fired off a shotgun blast, forcing the incoming soldiers to seek cover.

Drawstring opened the door to the lobby only to find more problems—big ones.

A heavy exo soldier blocked the front doors of the lobby; the maintenance door sat in the left corner next to it. He held a giant shotgun with a drum magazine that had the diameter of a 246

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large pizza. Death Corps soldiers were arranged in an arc around the door, each set up in cover and ready to fight. They looked different from the average soldiers. Instead of a blank faceplate, each had a set of red goggles on their helmet, marks of ruby demons that swarmed out of the black.

Their armor was sleek, designed for mobility.

These guys are elite, Northfield realized.

The soldiers opened fire. Drawstring slammed the door shut and took cover behind the stairwell’s concrete walls.

“Everyone, get away from the door!” he yelled.

“Ah, hell,” Saturn said. “We’re absolutely pinned.”

“We have to press the issue,” Drawstring said. “We don’t have a choice. Three of us need to clear out the lobby. The rest need to stay here and hold back the Death Corps on our backs until the way forward is clear. Me, Saturn, and Skullbeard will breach—” “Let me breach,” Northfield said. “I’ve got a lot of experience with this.”

Drawstring frowned. “You’re our objective of this mission.

Our priority is to protect you.”

“We’re in the thick of it. Either all of us are getting out, or none of us are.”

Drawstring said, “Fine. Skullbeard, stay back. Keep watch of our injured, and help Aubrey hold our back line.”

“What do we plan on doing about the exo?” Saturn asked.

“You gonna use your launcher?”

Drawstring shook his head. “We need it for our escape. The launcher is our ticket out. If we use it, we’re as good as dead. We have smokes and flashbangs, and we’ll have to survive on them.

I’ll throw flashbangs to the left and right to soften the soldiers at our flanks. Saturn, use your smoke to give us cover to move.

Ready?”

They nodded. Drawstring said to the others, “We’ll signal you once the lobby is clear.”

“And if we don’t get that signal?” Skullbeard asked.

Drawstring didn’t answer.

“Once I open the door,” he said. Remaining behind cover, he opened the door and prepared to toss his flashbang, as did Saturn 247

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with his smoke. Neither man got a chance to throw because the elite soldiers had a similar idea.

There was a burst of white-hot light. Northfield, Drawstring, and Saturn were stunned. They couldn’t see anything, and they heard little more than a high-pitched whine.

They slammed the door shut, and they reeled, leaning against the wall as the nausea of disorientation set in.

Is this the end? Am I going to die? Am I going to let Geralt down?

All this pain, all this violence, to try and get us out. If he dies, what the hell does it mean?

If the fight’s all for nothing, what’s it worth?

His vision came back in bits and pieces, but his hearing lagged behind. Aubrey and Skullbeard fired with fury up the stairs. The Death Corps at their rear were capitalizing on their weakened state and rushing. Aubrey and Skullbeard had been farther away from the flashbang, and they still had enough function to fight.

The standard Death Corps soldiers didn’t come equipped with breaching tech like flashbangs; indeed, they didn’t have much reason to have them in their daily operations. But the elite soldiers seemed equivalent to something like old-world SWAT teams, and they carried gear for such situations.

That made an impossible situation even more complex.

The elite soldiers in the lobby didn’t press; perhaps Drawstring’s flashbang had landed true. Alternatively, the elite soldiers weren’t pushing because they didn’t need to. They could let the other soldiers put pressure on the fugitives, and they could remain in wait until the fugitives ran into their arms.

“Damn it, I hate the nausea,” Saturn muttered. “Good Lord.

What’s the plan now?”

Drawstring frowned. “I’ll open the door an inch. Push your smoke grenade through the cracks. Once we get some concealment, I’ll throw my flashbangs. I’ll need to crack the door open wide to hit the soldiers to our left.”

Drawstring cracked the door open, and Saturn tossed his smoke grenade. Drawstring shut the door just as a flashbang detonated on the other side. Gunfire, too, volleyed toward them, 248

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piercing through the door. He waited until it abated before he opened the door and hurled his own grenade. Because of the smoke, they had no chance of seeing where it landed, but they heard its detonation.

Drawstring said, “Crawl out. Make yourself as small as possible, and find cover.”

They dropped to the ground and crawled out. Bullets raced over their heads but at a subdued rate; Drawstring’s grenade seemed to have done its job. In fact, most of the shots came from their front, where there was a host of cover to protect their enemies. The back of the lobby, where the fugitives now crawled, was divided into two sections. There was a self-serve cafe area on the left with table islands and booths. A large brick fireplace sat on the right, and furniture surrounded it.

Northfield was grateful for the momentary reprieve, but his relief quickly faded. The gunfire picked up again in seven seconds.

Flashbangs debilitated someone for at least five seconds; it took someone even longer to pick up an offensive again. Northfield sure knew that, as he had just been hit by one.

That meant the flashbang had not landed ideally, or the elite soldiers had technology in those fancy helmets to counteract it. Back in Cumulus, Northfield had possessed earplugs that could perform that same function. But they were expensive, so widespread use by the Death Corps hadn’t been adopted. He wouldn’t have been surprised if these elite soldiers had such tech.

Perhaps those red eyes shielded them to a degree as well.

In those seven seconds, Northfield had managed to crawl away from the mouth of the door, which was the primary chokepoint, as did Drawstring and Saturn. The three of them were spread out enough to avoid one flashbang knocking the three of them out of action. He got behind cover and moved forward as far as he could. The goal was to get close enough to stop the elite soldiers from throwing a flashbang. Even if those helmets provided some degree of protection, they weren’t just going to toss a grenade at their own feet, either.

He made sure his gun was ready. The smoke was clearing, and things were going to get nasty.

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As soon as he saw a helmet with those red eyes through the smoke, he opened fire. His enemies didn’t hesitate in returning the favor, and the sheer volume of fire forced him to hide.

The exo soldier took point. He advanced toward Saturn and Drawstring while the elite soldiers suppressed them. It was a good tactic. Let your big tank, impervious to bullets, move in to kill the fugitives while you made sure the fugitives couldn’t run.

In Cumulus, we had thermite bullets. They could handle the exos. But now, we don’t. And even if we did, they wouldn’t hurt these guys.

This sucks, man.

Don’t drop into despair, not now. We’re still alive.

Think like an engineer. Where would this guy’s weak points be?

Nowhere in the front. This guy is meant to withstand an onslaught while charging forward. Shooting at his chest won’t do jack.

But the armor can’t be hard everywhere. Not at his joints, not where he has to move.

He peeked around to get a line of sight on the exo. Bullets forced him back behind cover immediately. He didn’t get a good look, though he did see that the exo was nearing Saturn and Drawstring. Cover protected them, but it wouldn’t for long.

He signaled to Drawstring. “I need cover fire. Get these soldiers off my back.”

Drawstring signaled back his affirmation. He peeked around cover, in the direction opposite the exo, and fired at the elite soldiers.

Northfield raced to another piece of cover farther ahead so he could get a better glimpse of the exo.

And there, he saw it.

Right behind his knee.

There was a soft patch, only a couple of inches in diameter. It would be a hard shot on a stationary target. On a moving one, it would almost be impossible.

Northfield aimed his reticle squarely on the patch, and he fired three shots.

Not a single one of them hit its mark. One hit the exo’s calf, while the others were too far left and right.

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The exo soldier pivoted toward him. Northfield was completely exposed to the exo; he had to be in order to get the shot. Now all the big exo had to do was aim his shotgun, pull the trigger, and be done with him.

That was exactly what the exo soldier planned on doing. He aimed his shotgun. Nowhere to run.

Forgive me, God, for all I’ve done.

There was a single, decisive crack. The exo soldier fell to his knee, screaming bloody murder. His voice, deepened by his helmet’s modulation hardware, descended into the depths of pain.

Saturn had seen what Northfield was trying to do; when the exo turned around, he had received the same opening. One shot out of his rifle had found its target. The exo’s knee was gone, reduced to powder. He was out of this fight.

Northfield, Saturn, and Drawstring were empowered by their success. They had taken down an exo soldier. Three Davids taking down a veritable goliath. They fought the elite soldiers like men whom bullets couldn’t hit. The elite soldiers, in contrast, fell to fear. Their towering soldier, who they had believed was invincible, had collapsed in front of their eyes—felled by three men, who were outpowered and outgunned.

With them still outpowered and outgunned, and outmatched by technology, the fate of the battle was nonetheless sealed. The three warriors raged against the oppressive opposition, forging victory through a hail of gunfire and a rush of speed.

The lobby was clear, for now. More Death Corps vehicles sped toward the front doors, however.

Drawstring summoned the rest of their party, who filed in through the stairwell. They shoved a piece of furniture in front of the door, and they made their way to the maintenance room.

The door was locked, so they breached through.

“Get everything you can in front of that door,” Drawstring said. “We need to buy ourselves as much time as possible.”

The maintenance room split off into four smaller rooms.

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maintenance employees. To their left sat the backup generator room. Back when toxic gas filled the city, a backup source of power for the filtration systems was mandatory.

Northfield and Skullbeard rushed into the workroom and grabbed a heavy wooden table. Huffing and groaning, they scuttled back to the door and shoved the table in front of it. They made a few more trips, piling up whatever heavy junk they could find, while Drawstring spoke with Flagbearer.

“Okay, are you sure this is the spot?” he said. “We only have one shot left with the launcher. It’s got to be right.” After a pause, he said, “So not here? Damn it, we don’t have time for this.”

He moved from room to room, going where Flagbearer directed. Eventually, he ended up in the generator room.

Fists pounded against the door. Gunshots followed.

Northfield and Skullbeard continued making trips to block the door. As they shoved more and more crap in front of the door, they became less concerned about catching a stray bullet.

Drawstring backed out of the generator room, and he aimed his grenade launcher into it. “Everyone, take cover in the workroom. I’m going to shoot.”

Once everyone was clear, Drawstring pulled the trigger. The room shook, and the sound of crashing and crumbling followed.

Drawstring yelled, “We’re good to go!”

They returned to him and peered into the generator room.

The floor had caved in quite easily; the support looked outdated.

Under the hole, there was a tunnel. Old and dilapidated, it clearly wasn’t in use. The smell rising from it was wretched.

“Now I really am gonna vomit,” Geralt muttered. He did, too.

Odell gave him ample room to retch.

Drawstring said to Northfield and Skullbeard, “While we get the wounded down, keep blocking that door. As I said, we need to buy ourselves as much time as we can before they figure out what we’re up to. It’s critical.”

So as the others descended into the tunnel’s putrid embrace, Northfield and Skullbeard set about purchasing that time. They moved everything they could lift in front of the door, which the Death Corps were no doubt getting ready to breach via a detonation charge.

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By the time they were done, each man sweated profusely.

The clutter in front of the door was a hoarder’s paradise. Lastly, Skullbeard rigged his smoke grenade to the leg of the desk. When the desk was moved an inch too far, the grenade would detonate.

Whenever the Death Corps breached, the grenade would buy them another minute or so before their enemies discovered their escape.

“I think that’s all we can do,” Skullbeard said. “Let’s catch up with the others.”

They ran into the generator room and jumped down the hole just as the door exploded from a breaching charge.

The tunnel was pitch black, save for a dim light at the end, which came from around a corner. The footfalls of their allies echoed off the walls. They ran into the shadows, following the light, until they came upon the others. Drawstring and Saturn wielded flashlights and led the pack.

Drawstring asked, “How much time did you buy us?”

Skullbeard said, “Two minutes, maybe three. Is that enough?”

“It will have to be,” Drawstring said. He announced to everyone, “When the Network rebuilt the city, they also rebuilt the underground sewage system, which had been crippled from the war. The Network integrated some of the old tunnels into their new systems. They closed the remaining tunnels off. It was easier to do that than anything else. We’re in one of the closed-off tunnels now.”

He nodded toward the next turn, and he said, “Because of that, there’s no exit for us. At least no official exit. But this tunnel runs under another building. If we move fast enough, there will be Stormrise fighters waiting for us past the Death Corps perimeter. When we give them the signal, they’ll blow us a hole to get out of the tunnel. They have a van waiting.”

Odell asked, “If we move fast enough?”

Drawstring nodded gravely. “The Death Corps have their perimeter. But they’re expanding it as more soldiers flock into the area. Our guys won’t be able to wait for us very long until they’re detected. Especially since they have to detonate an explosive.”

“If they detonate an explosive, won’t the Death Corps hear it?” Northfield asked.

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Drawstring said, “They’re in an underground parking garage.

The sound should be muffled to anyone far enough from the building. Since they’re out of the current Death Corps perimeter, we should be fine. As long as we hurry.”

Northfield didn’t ask about what would happen if they weren’t.

Odell’s shoulders slumped, and Northfield could even hear his heavy breathing. He had helped carry Geralt for Lord knew how many blocks, and Northfield marveled at how he persevered.

Rodeo was beat, too; his injured shoulder took a toll on him, despite his efforts to hide that fact.

Geralt couldn’t move by his own strength now. His legs dragged, and he half-heartedly tried to take steps. His inability to move put an even heavier strain on his two exhausted aides.

Northfield stepped over to them and said, “Guys, take a rest.

I’ve got him.”

“Thank you, Mark,” Odell said.

“Same here, bud,” Rodeo said. His free hand quickly moved to his shoulder.

Northfield swooped Geralt into a lover’s carry; he chose this type of carry so that he could keep Geralt’s thigh elevated and reduce blood flow.

“What am I, your damsel now?” Geralt muttered.

“Your mug’s not cute enough for that, man,” Northfield said.

“Glad you’ve still got your humor.”

Geralt chuckled bitterly. “What the hell can I do but laugh?” *** “The fugitives barricaded the door. My men have broken through it, but they haven’t gotten much further. The fugitives put a barrier of junk in their way,” the captain reported. “I ordered my men to stop their frontal assault, and I ordered another unit to the second floor. They are going to attempt a breach through the ceiling.”

“Why are you stopping the frontal assault?” the Chair of State asked in frustration.

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General Arkland answered, “The fugitives have their backs against the wall. They’re most likely set up in the maintenance room, guns ready. Under normal conditions, a fast breach would be safest. Our men would throw flashbangs and attack. But with the barrier, fast isn’t an option. If they attempt to charge in and navigate through the clutter, they’ll be cannon fodder for the fugitives.”

“We have the numbers,” the Chair of State said bitterly. “We could overwhelm them by force.”

General Arkland scoffed at that. “Maybe we ought to put you on the front line. See how you’d feel.”

She glared at him, her eyes spewing acid.

The captain said, “There are no other exits from the maintenance room besides the lobby. The fugitives don’t have anywhere to go.”

General Arkland asked, “How long until your men are ready to breach through the ceiling?”

The captain said, “I would approximate two minutes.”

General Arkland said to the Chair of State, “The fugitives could hold off an attack from the lobby for two minutes, anyway.

Breaching through the ceiling is the best bet.”

“Fine,” she replied.

The captain added, “They’re stuck. No way out. Within the next few minutes, they’ll be captured or killed.”

“You ought to hope so,” the Chair of State said.

It seemed all but settled. The fugitives had only their last stand left, with no avenue of escape. Nonetheless, something felt off to him. He scowled.

“Sir?” Jane Sloan asked.

“They really seemed to hightail it to that maintenance room, didn’t they?” he said.

“It might just seem that way,” Sloan said. “They couldn’t leave through the Calton’s front doors, and they couldn’t return to the skyways. Perhaps they thought that the maintenance room could lead to another exit.”

“Maybe,” he said, not convinced.

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The Chair of State gave him a dangerous look. She snarled, her eyes alight with indignation that she fully believed was righteous. “General, if they get away, I don’t need to spell out what that means for you.”

Despite all the retorts he could have given, he ignored her.

Now wasn’t the time to squabble.

He said to Sloan, “We don’t see a way that they could have gotten out. See if we’re wrong.”

“I’m on it,” she said, pulling out a tablet that she could do research on.

To the captain, he said, “We’re expanding our perimeter?”

“Yes, bit by bit, as more troops from around the city reach the area,” the captain said. “But our main perimeter around the Calton is secure.”

General Arkland said, “Do everything you can to expand it quicker.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain said, but he frowned, somewhat uncertain. “But this is all a precaution. The fugitives are in the maintenance room.”

Arkland grunted but said no more.

Rayne Simpson and his men were too cunning, too slippery, to get themselves holed up in a maintenance room.

Arkland’s gut feeling had gotten him to the top of this ruined world. He wasn’t inclined to ignore it now.

256

22 “Understood, Flagbearer. Drawstring out.” He muttered a curse.

“What’s going on?” Northfield asked.

“The Death Corps are expanding their perimeter at a faster rate. They might suspect something. Either way, our time’s running out. We need to pick up the pace.”

His order was difficult to obey; all of them were running as fast as their exhausted bodies would allow.

“We have two more turns left,” their leader announced.

“Everyone, push with everything you have.”

They rounded the next corner. At this point, Northfield’s legs had more in common with fettuccine alfredo than they did with muscle and bone, but he struggled on.

I used to pick you up and spin you around, Jess. Usually when you weren’t expecting it. Usually when you were busy. Half the time, you’d be smitten by it. The other half, well, I’d have to take shelter in another room. I’ll call that my training for carrying Geralt here.

Drawstring received another message from Flagbearer.

Northfield couldn’t hear Flagbearer’s side of the conversation, but it didn’t sound good.

Drawstring exclaimed, “No. You tell them to stay put. We’re a minute away. They can wait one goddamn minute.”

Everybody charged into their best attempt at a sprint after hearing that. Drawstring fought tooth and nail to buy them more time as they hurried through the dark and cramped and wretched tunnel.

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“Forty seconds now. Tell them to blow up our opening.” He scowled and said, “I don’t care. We’ve come all this way. We’re not getting stuck down here.”

The tunnel rumbled violently, and debris crashed into the tunnel floor. Rays of light appeared at the literal end of the tunnel, beacons of their salvation.

They ran for it. They ran for it without a care, not a single one, despite the ravaging exhaustion that tangled their muscles and weakened their lungs.

When they reached the opening, two welcome pairs of hands reached down to help them up.

Drawstring didn’t waste time with introductions. He said, “We have wounded. They need to go up first.”

“Ah, hell,” Rodeo said, glancing at his arm and then the opening above. “This is gonna be fun.”

Saturn and Drawstring helped him up, and Rodeo grabbed one of the helping hands. He groaned in pain as he was pulled up.

Drawstring then climbed up in order to assist in lifting Geralt.

After the former Yellowback was out of the tunnel, everyone else followed.

After their time in darkness, the parking garage’s harsh fluorescent lights were blinding. Northfield squinted, his eyes taking longer to adjust.

The helping hands belonged to a man and woman, both in their mid-twenties. With similar facial structures, they appeared to be siblings. The man wore a beanie and had blond highlights.

The woman had a scar on her brow.

They ushered the fugitives to a black van. Except for a few vehicles scattered about, the lot was empty.

They piled into the van. The woman with the scar took the driver’s seat, and the man with highlights took the passenger’s side.

“Thanks for getting our asses out of here,” Skullbeard said.

“Yeah, well, let’s hope you got here in time. Otherwise, we’re all screwed,” the woman said, revving the engine.

The man said, “We have some first-aid kits back there.”

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Skullbeard found them. He and Northfield went to work patching up Geralt and Rodeo, as well as offering them painkillers.

“Christ, it’s about time,” Geralt muttered, snatching a painkiller.

The man with highlights stared at them as they pulled out of the lot. “Mark Northfield and Geralt Salb. Hell, it’s really you.”

“Let’s hope we don’t bring you trouble,” Northfield said.

“Too late for that,” he said. “I’m Michael.”

“I’m Connie,” the driver said. The van puttered, and she said, “Flagbearer, how do we look?” After she received a response, she announced to everyone, “We’re gonna try our northwest exit.

Buckle up, everyone.”

She peeled out of the garage. When they reached street level, there weren’t any Death Corps vehicles nearby. The passengers shared a feeling of much-needed relief.

“So far, so good,” Connie muttered.

Beams of light swung back and forth across the streets. The chaotic, disquieting sound of multiple sets of helicopter blades thumping off-rhythm with one another assaulted their ears.

There were cars everywhere; everyone in the neighborhood had a similar idea. They wanted to get out of the area before the Death Corps could seal the perimeter.

Soon enough, the fugitives reached a traffic jam.

“This way ain’t gonna work,” Connie muttered, throwing the van in reverse and taking another street.

“There are some alleys west, by Sears Street. Try cutting through them,” Drawstring said.

“Good call,” Connie said. She took a left. There was an opening in traffic ahead, so she gunned the van. There was a violent lurch, and the engine roared to life.

Traffic jam after traffic jam littered the roads to their sides.

Death Corps soldiers were already closing off the busier streets.

At their blockades, they manned turrets atop combat trucks.

Maybe the fugitives were out of time, and they just didn’t know it yet. Maybe they were in the fourth period of a basketball game, twenty points down with a minute left. It didn’t matter how well they played that last minute. The game had already 259

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been decided, and that last minute might as well vaporize into the ether.

It can’t be over yet. It just can’t be.

They reached the embrace of dark alleys and peeled through them. The roads were thin, but they felt freeing due to the lack of traffic. Connie pushed the van to its limits, racing at breakneck speeds and navigating turns harshly.

Geralt mumbled something, quiet enough for only Northfield to take notice. And even then, he didn’t hear what the former Yellowback said.

“What?”

Geralt’s voice was distant and wistful. “I miss him, Mark. I miss my brother.”

Northfield patted his shoulder and held his hand. “Me too.”

Geralt shook his head. “After crap fell apart, I didn’t see him for over a decade. Didn’t miss him then. Not much, anyway. It’s only been half a year since he croaked. But now I miss him like hell.” He muttered, “That don’t make much sense to me.”

“The heart’s a mystery to me, man. Can’t say I have it figured out. Still miss my wife like hell, too.”

“What was her name?”

He smiled wistfully. “Jess.”

“Was she hot?”

Northfield chuckled at that. “The prettiest girl in the world.”

“The prettiest? Bull. Now I know she was ugly.”

Northfield was about to say that he would show him a picture of her. But then he remembered Officer Colt. The man that had taken a match to the very last picture he had of her.

A lump formed in his throat.

Now, of all times, to get worked up over a picture. Come on, Mark. Get it together.

Michael, the man in the passenger’s seat, said, “Take another street.”

His suggestion was sound. There was a traffic jam, and at the end of the street, Death Corps were setting up a roadblock. The fugitives wouldn’t make it through before the road was closed off.

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“We’re running out of options,” Connie said, peeling onto another road. She gunned the engine, emphasizing her point.

“Well, we’re just gonna have to run through them,” Michael said. “Nothing else we can do.”

She muttered quietly, “We should have left five minutes ago.”

They slipped down another alley and got on a ramp, driving over an intersecting street. On the way back down, they turned left onto a road that looked significantly less busy. The buildings around them were more residential than commercial, with fewer flashing lights advertising the latest commodities.

Snow curled around the streetlights, the light from which scrutinized everything. A steady stream of cars occupied the road, but traffic wasn’t at a standstill. They chugged along steadily at the speed limit: no faster, but no slower.

“See the street two lights ahead of us?” Connie asked. “That’s on the perimeter line. If we get past it, we might have a shot.”

The street was clear of Death Corps vehicles. Things looked good, but Northfield didn’t dare say so out loud.

I don’t believe in superstitions, but I’m still not gonna risk jinxing this.

It turned out that holding his tongue didn’t matter. They saw a Death Corps patrol car pop out from around the corner. The vehicle parked squarely in the middle of the street, flashing its lights.

Connie cursed.

“We could try to slip past,” Michael offered. “There’s only one car so far. We could run our luck before the others come.”

Drawstring said, “It would start another pursuit. With all the helicopters overhead, we wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Just then, their luck took another turn for the worse. The streetlight before the patrol car turned red.

Connie cursed again and said, “I’m running through it.”

“No,” Drawstring said forcefully. “He’ll see you.”

Her swearing intensified, but she listened to him. The car screeched to a halt. They needed to turn left; turning right would only send them back in the direction of roads that were already closed off. They had no choice but to wait out the light.

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Hell always advertises physical pain. You don’t hear much about stress and anxiety down there. But if the Devil’s not using them as tools for torture, he’s missing out.

Look at me, giving the Devil advice. I’m sure that’s the best use of my time right now.

The light finally turned green. They were all achingly aware of the time they had burned, and one by one, their limited number of options were diminishing. *** “They’re gone, sir,” the captain said, his voice laden with anxiety. “My men discovered a hole in the generator room that leads to some sort of tunnel.”

“Unbelievable,” the Chair of State cried, pacing back and forth. Her heels irritatingly clacked on the floor.

Jane Sloan looked grim but not surprised. She clicked a few times on her tablet, and she said, “It’s an old sewage line that runs under the building.”

“Where does it lead?” General Arkland asked.

“Their particular span of the tunnel was blocked off when the Network rebuilt the city’s infrastructure. The fugitives can travel down it for a little less than a mile before they hit a blockage.

Since all means to access the tunnel are blocked off, they need to create an opening of their own. They have two options: either blow a hole further into the tunnel system or blow a hole up to ground level.”

He said, “They had to know that we’d find their means of escape quickly. They’re also on foot, with injuries slowing them down. They’re not heading far into the tunnel system. They know they can’t outrun us.”

“I agree, sir,” Sloan said. “They won’t make their exit over the open street. Instead, they’ll make their exit through a building or parking garage to muffle the sound of the explosion. Otherwise, it would draw our attention.”

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“Good thinking,” he said. “Figure out what buildings the tunnel runs under. Then pull up the security cameras from each of them. The fugitives will use a vehicle to escape. If we ID it, we’ll be on our way to catching them.” He said to the captain, “Send men into the tunnels just in case we’re wrong. Make sure none of the tunnel’s closures have been breached.”

“Good thinking, sir,” the captain said. The tension from his voice lessened, undoubtedly due to the fact that he had been given an action to take instead of merely stewing in his anxiety.

Arkland awaited the Chair of State; he still needed her approval for orders, after all. However, she was entirely disengaged from their conversation, pacing around and wallowing in her stress.

He said, “Chair of State, is that an acceptable plan?”

Instead of answering his question, she said, “Well done, General Arkland. This is another circus at your helm.”

“I’m not at the helm,” he said. “You are. And I’m waiting for your sign-off to move forward. Time is being wasted. And each second we dally, the fugitives are getting away.”

She scowled at him, but before she could speak, the captain said, “If I may, I think the general’s plan is exactly what we need to do.”

The Chair of State’s face glowed red, equal parts fluster and fury. She waved her hand, attempting to assume command once again. “Do it, Arkland. I expect results this time.”

Jane Sloan met General Arkland’s eyes, and she gave the slightest of nods. By doing so, she had confirmed that she had recorded that part of their conversation. General Arkland appeared calm and in control, while the Chair of State was discombobulated, and her lack of control led to wasted time in their operation.

It was a bad look, one the city would see soon enough. ***

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Helicopters lurked in the sky, growing in number by the minute. Their white beams filled the streets, marking their evershrinking window of escape. One by one, the doors shut around them. Slam. Slam. Slam.

The traffic worsened. Despite Connie’s desire to weave between lanes, blatantly reckless driving would only attract the helicopters.

“Keep going,” Michael said, waving her down another street.

“That one’s blocked off already.”

Skullbeard pointed ahead, and he said, “I used to live around this area. I think I know a road we can try. Keep going straight, three or four blocks.”

“Is it three blocks or four?” Connie asked impatiently.

“I don’t remember,” he said. “It’s on the street corner with the Giant Bean coffee shop. You’ll see the giant bean.”

They kept driving, and sure enough, they saw a giant coffee bean sitting on the roof.

“See?” he said.

“Where then?” Connie asked.

“The road inclines. Just after we crest it, turn right. The buildings will start to cram together. The roads thin out, but there’s more of them. It’ll take the Death Corps longer to close all of them down.”

“Good thinking,” Drawstring said.

They followed his instructions. Indeed, the roads were reduced to single lanes on each side of the painted line. The buildings loomed over them, and it felt like a stray wind could topple one of them right down onto the fugitives.

“That’s my old place,” Skullbeard said, pointing at a building.

It passed too quickly for Northfield to see it. But judging by their surroundings, he figured the building was probably short, brown, and dreary.

The helicopters’ spotlights traced through the weave of streets; there were a lot of streets to search, though, so the spotlights missed them.

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The roads opened up five blocks ahead; that was where the Death Corps would build their perimeter. The road was open ahead, so Connie picked up speed.

“Come on, you stupid thing, pick up,” she said.

A Death Corps vehicle pulled up, blocking their exit. They let out a collective curse, albeit each of them using different words.

Odell said to Aubrey, “If we don’t make it, I just want to say—” “We’re not doing this right now,” she said adamantly.

He sighed, but he said no more.

Connie turned onto the next street, doing so casually so they didn’t appear suspect. Once they were out of the patrol car’s view, she gunned the engine.

Although none of them vocalized it, they all had the same thought: if they didn’t get out of these alleys, they were screwed.

There wouldn’t be any more chances.

Connie sped down five more blocks, and then she turned right. They had another opening. No Death Corps vehicles were in sight to block their way.

But if soldiers had just blocked the prior road, they were no doubt on their way to block all of the alley exits.

She picked up speed. The wheels rattled precipitously on the less well-maintained road. They hit a pothole, causing a nasty jolt.

Still, the path ahead remained clear. They held their breath, and nobody uttered a word.

The opening to the alley approached. Three blocks away. Two blocks. One. Still, it remained clear.

The light from street signs flooded the opening to the alley.

They entered its embrace.

And they were through. Just like that, they had slipped past the Death Corps’ perimeter.

“Thank God,” Northfield muttered, meaning it to the fullest extent. Cheers filled the van. If they just kept their heads down, well, then they could maybe get out of this.

Once they had traveled a mile from the edge of the perimeter, they were dealt bad news. News that flooded all the screens and signs around them.

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The Network had discovered their vehicle. On every screen, their black van and license plate number were broadcasted. The helicopters knew exactly what to look for. The soldiers on the ground knew exactly what to look for. The citizens knew exactly what to look for.

They wouldn’t remain hidden for long.

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23 Saturn exclaimed, “What do we do?”

“We need to swap out the vehicle,” Drawstring said.

“That idea’s all well and good,” Connie said, “but where are we gonna get a new car?”

“There,” Michael said, pointing forward. On a street corner seven blocks ahead, there was a large parking garage.

“Guys, we’ve got a problem,” Skullbeard exclaimed. A helicopter was behind them, its spotlight swinging back and forth, scrutinizing the streets. Descending snow swirled around it like a tornado.

The thumping of its blades rattled the fugitives. If the helicopter spotted them in their now-marked vehicle, it would all be over. They wouldn’t make it through another chase.

“Get us to that garage. Now,” Drawstring said to Connie.

The van picked up speed. Yet as the helicopter’s blades grew louder, the parking garage only seemed farther away. Northfield could almost feel the wind from the blades brushing against the back of his neck.

Now they were only a block away from the parking garage.

But the helicopter was nearly on top of them.

The light swiveled again, moving to a dark gray SUV that was only a few cars behind.

The ramp was only a couple of yards away. Connie boarded it, and they entered the parking garage. The helicopter lingered, its blades thumping at a steady volume.

They held their collective breath. Did the helicopter spot them after all?

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The sound of the blades faded. The spotlight drifted farther and farther away. The helicopter was off, searching for the fugitives somewhere else.

They scoured the parking lot for a suitable replacement.

The garage was only half full, but it was big, so they had a lot of options to choose from.

“What about that one?” Saturn said. He pointed at another van, one large enough to fit all of them. The van was dull gray compared to their current van’s black. In addition, the frame had more bulk, giving the van a clunkier look.

It was different enough from their current vehicle.

Furthermore, it was boring and unassuming enough to avoid attention on its own merit.

“Good enough,” Drawstring said. “The garage is clear. We need to get that van open. Saturn…”

“I’m on it,” Red replied as he hopped out of the van. He skulked over to the gray van and got to work breaking in. When he gave them a thumbs-up, everyone hurried to pile in. It felt like a clown car performance out of an old black and white movie, where everybody just collapsed into the vehicle.

Red hotwired the car. When the engine purred to life, he exclaimed, “Oh, hell yeah.”

He pulled out of the lot, and they were back on the road.

The new vehicle provided them a veil of protection, albeit a very thin one. Spotlights still swarmed the sky, and they hoped their vehicle would go undetected. After traveling three blocks, their first test came.

They stopped at a red light, waiting behind two cars. A helicopter hovered just over the surrounding buildings, and its spotlight homed in on their van. In that instant, it felt like the entire city’s eyes were on them.

After agonizing moments of being trapped behind those cars, bearing the scrutiny, they saw the spotlight drift away.

“Heh,” Rodeo said. “We might just make it out of this after all.”

They kept heading west, bolstered by their success.

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Aubrey eventually asked, “Not trying to jinx anything, but let’s say that we avoid getting burned in this van. How are we leaving the city? They’ll inspect us head to toe at the checkpoints.”

“We’ll get out the same way we got in,” Drawstring said. “One of them, at least. Stormrise has a few locations to sneak in and out of the city, and one of them is close. New Medea’s border is expansive. The Death Corps can’t look everywhere at once. We just have to get there and wait for an opening.” He glanced out the window and glimpsed three helicopters in the distance, their beams of light sweeping around. He repeated, more softly, “We just have to get there.”

As they traveled west, the buildings became significantly less dense. Most of them were short, only three or four stories, and made of brick. Trees sprouted up, filling the space in between.

The sky opened up and seemed to span forever.

There was less activity, too. Fewer cars. Fewer people on the streets. Fewer helicopters blotting out the sky. There was only one helicopter in the vicinity, and its light was directed elsewhere.

The roads were poorly maintained. The cracks were blanketed by snow, but the vehicle rocked back and forth as they drove over them. Small, humble houses dotted the neighborhood, resting in the shelter of the trees. The houses were aged, many of them falling apart. But still, Northfield felt a draw toward them.

If you were here, Jess, this is where you’d live. Right here, in one of these houses. Close enough to the city to explore it, but not in the thick of the action. You’d dress the house up. Redo the paint, the whole nine yards. Flowers would cover the yard, housed in all sorts of planters and pots. I wouldn’t know half of the kinds.

My job would be to mow the lawn. That was the only yard chore I was any good at. Not that it took much talent, right? Just walk in a straight line, turn, and do the same thing again.

Man, I could be useless sometimes, couldn’t I? The neighborhoods they passed through continued to grow sparser, and the buildings shorter, until all that remained were residential houses and one- to two-story buildings. The barren trees stretched higher.

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There were two black structures in the distance, one to their left and the other to their right. Each was around thirty or so feet tall, so they rose above everything else.

“Those are the guard towers for the perimeter,” Skullbeard said. “We’re almost there.”

“There’s a helicopter overhead,” Drawstring said. “Connie, get a couple of blocks closer and pull over.”

She did as he asked. The helicopter’s beam traveled into the city’s bounds and back out again.

Drawstring said, “Once the helicopter passes by, we’ll make our go at it.”

Skullbeard added, “The guard towers won’t see us, either.

We’re heading through a blind spot.”

“Music to my ears,” Aubrey said.

Odell wrung his hands together. Northfield asked him, “Are you okay?”

“What? Oh, I’m fine. All things considered.” He drank in another glance of the neighborhood, so different from his own.

He said, “It was chaos after the war, as you know. This city was a haven, back then. Leaving it is a strange feeling, is all.”

Northfield nodded solemnly.

The helicopter decided to hover right between the two towers, exactly where they wanted to go.

Rodeo cursed.

“He’ll pass,” Drawstring said. “We just need to wait.”

But the helicopter didn’t move. Its spotlight wasn’t pointed anywhere near them, so it definitely hadn’t spotted them. Perhaps the pilot had seen something else.

Worse yet, they heard Death Corps sirens. Multiple sets, at least two or three cars.

The sirens grew louder, rapidly. The vehicles were heading in their direction.

“No, no, no,” Saturn muttered, then threw out a flurry of expletives.

“Did they find us?” Red asked. “How the hell did they find us?”

Connie put the car in drive, but Drawstring put his hand out.

“No. Stay put.”

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“You wanna stay here?” she exclaimed.

He said, “If we go now, we won’t make it. The helicopter will spot us, and we can’t outrun it. Driving in any other direction will just take us further from our exit. Stay here.”

“They’ll surround us,” she said.

“Stay,” he said.

“And pray that they’re not for us?”

He nodded gravely. “The city’s got more delinquents than us.

Right now, moving will only land us in a deeper hole.”

The sirens pierced their ears, and the helicopter held its ground. The sirens came from around the street corner, only a block away. Trees and houses blocked their view of any approaching vehicles.

A car coated in rust blew through a stop sign on the street in front of them. After a moment of stillness, a cluster of Death Corps patrol cars sped by in hot pursuit.

Why the rust-covered car was being chased, they had no idea, but not one person in the vehicle cared. The Death Corps weren’t on their trail.

The helicopter, evidently satisfied with its search, continued along the perimeter. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now, Connie. Go,” Drawstring said.

They passed a park. It was beat up; the playground equipment wouldn’t have been considered safe even by a sadist. The houses wallowed in neglect. Paint peeled off cracked and splintered wood. A few people sat on their front porches, gazing up at the helicopters, but for the most part, things were still. It was cold, stormy, and dark out; it wasn’t anybody’s ideal weather for a stroll outside.

They passed into the embrace of the short office buildings, dark and most likely abandoned, at least by their original owners.

Multiple windows were shattered, and snow poured into the openings.

They could see the perimeter’s fence. A healthy amount of barbed wire coiled around the top.

“Flagbearer, this is Drawstring. We’re at the fence. Kill the cameras.”

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Skullbeard said to the non-Stormrise passengers, “There are Network cameras all along the fence. We’ve hooked jammers up to them around our secret entrances. When we turn the jammers on, the camera feeds get the last fifteen seconds of footage looped until we turn them back off. The guys monitoring the perimeter look at dozens or hundreds of camera feeds at once, so they don’t notice our trick.”

They pulled up to the fence. A thick layer of trees and bushes concealed it. Even without leaves on the branches, the fence was hard to see from a distance.

“Get it open,” Drawstring ordered. Skullbeard and Saturn hopped out of the van and pushed through the branches.

A rectangular section of the fence was disconnected from the whole. A set of clips fastened the section to the rest of the fence.

Skullbeard and Saturn unclipped them and pulled the section away, leaving a gap that was big enough for the van.

They passed through. Skullbeard and Saturn reattached the section to the rest of the gate and got back into the van. Connie stepped on the gas, and they sped away from the fence, which now looked no different than when they had arrived.

Rodeo hollered, “Hell yeah, man. We did it!”

Northfield didn’t believe it, not quite yet. After all they had been through, slipping through the fence didn’t feel real. He felt like he was still within the city’s walls and this was some cruel trick being played on them. Maybe Death Corps soldiers would jump out of the bushes and cuff them all.

Disbelief faded bit by bit as exuberance ballooned in his chest. He rubbed Geralt’s shoulder, and he said, “We’re out, man.

We’re out.”

Geralt’s eyes fluttered open, but his grin was wide. “For how good the Corps think they are, they couldn’t catch two lousy prisoners.”

“Well, we had help,” Northfield said, giving everyone around him a heartfelt look. “Thanks for all you’ve done. You’ve put a lot on the line for us.”

Odell had a big smile. He patted Northfield enthusiastically on the shoulder.

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“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Drawstring said. “Soldiers patrol outside the city’s boundaries. We need to avoid the main roads and keep on the lookout.”

“But we’re close to being out of the woods,” Skullbeard said.

“Close,” Drawstring conceded, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Where next?” Aubrey asked. “Stormrise’s hideout?”

“We need to make a stop first,” Drawstring said. “The hideout is a couple of hours out. There’s a closer safehouse, where Geralt and Rodeo can get more extensive care.”

“What’s next for us at the hideout?” Northfield asked. “I’m guessing you put so much into Geralt and me for a reason.”

Drawstring said, “I’m the team lead in the field. My mission was to get you two out. Past that, well, anything I say would be an assumption. Our leader, Anne Kaminski, will have the answers you’re looking for. In the meantime, I don’t want to leave you brewing with expectations that aren’t quite right. So if you can wait a couple more hours, I think that would be best.”

Northfield glanced down at Geralt, who wasn’t listening to them. He was back in the daze caused by blood loss and pain.

Currently, Northfield’s mind was on him more than anything else.

“Fine by me.”

He took his final looks at the city out of the back window.

Helicopters swarmed over the city’s expanse. They reminded him of all the chaos the city had endured on their account.

Well, I did what I set out to do. I got Geralt out, and myself while I was at it.

But I don’t feel… I mean what, exactly, should I be feeling right now? Joy? Or sorrow?

I stuck to my guns. The Death Corps didn’t use Geralt or me as a mockery of justice. We persevered through what the city hurled at us. We kept getting up. But not everybody did.

The Stormrise members who died getting me out.

The innocents in the plaza, gunned down for being in the way.

Or what about some Death Corps kid, swallowed up by the propaganda, that probably took one of my bullets? How’s his mom feeling right now?

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The city faded from view, consumed by the rising trees.

Well, turning myself in isn’t gonna happen. Not at this point.

What can I do?

He felt himself reaching for his pocket, for the picture that wasn’t there.

You’re gone, Jess. But I’m still here, and I still have my memories of you. Even if your face fades to a blur as this world keeps spinning around, I’ll still remember you. I’ll still remember how you loved me.

The Bible says that he loved the world so much that he gave his only son for it. I guess it shows how much he loves me, too, that he gave you to me.

I’m standing now. The Network can bowl me over, and I’ll get right up. But that can’t be all there is to my promise.

I can try to make our escape worth it. I’ll try to love the world that’s left, God. Make it better, if I can. Let my legs stand firm for that.

That’s all I can do. That’s all I have to give.

274

24 “Everything is in motion, General,” Jane Sloan said. “They’re ready to act on your mark.”

“Hopefully they won’t be needed, Sloan,” General Arkland replied, glancing out their truck’s windows. An undercurrent of chaos ran through the streets. That current became magnified as they neared the protest.

Arkland flipped through news channels on the back-seat TV. He landed on Channel 4, which was in the midst of recapping the cause of the protests for its audience.

“Unrest continues in New Medea one week after the unsuccessful citywide chase of Mark Northfield, Geralt Salb, Rayne Simpson, and their accomplices. Earlier today, audio leaked from either the Nexus or General Arkland’s inner circle.

The audio has stirred up immense controversy, and protesters are forming around the Nexus building. We’ll play the clips again for any viewers who might just be tuning in.”

The channel played the very audio that General Arkland and Jane Sloan had secretly recorded. Sloan had leaked it to the news stations allied with them. The audio was trimmed and edited until it reflected the image that General Arkland wanted to paint of the Nexus.

The first exchange played. It was from General Arkland’s meeting with the Nexus after the Hyde Park incident.

“You’re letting an opportunity fall out of your laps,” the general said.

“You’re a hell of a salesman, I’ll give you that,” the Chair of Research and Development said.

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“I don’t think we need to hear your opportunity. I don’t think we need to hear it at all,” the Chair of the Network said.

The next exchange came from his meeting with the Nexus after the Reckoning.

The Chair of the Network said, “Frankly, what we’ve done is give you too much freedom.”

The Chair of State added emphatically, “I think it’s a great idea.”

“What it is is a mistake,” General Arkland replied. “The Chair of State, for all of her lovely qualities, doesn’t handle pressure well.”

The Chair of the Network leaned forward. “Currently, the threat of Stormrise in the city is two foreign fugitives and a small spec ops unit. My more immediate concern is you, General Arkland.”

The final excerpt tied a bow around the whole thing. Jane had recorded the audio when the fugitives were stuck in the Lone Oak Hotel.

General Arkland said to the Chair of State, “The Lone Oak Hotel has four skyways attached to it. We need to destroy them.

Simpson and his fugitives won’t have anywhere to go. They’ll be trapped.”

“That is unacceptable,” was the Chair of State’s reply, truncated from her original statement.

Arkland protested, “Don’t underestimate Simpson and his lackeys. Nor Salb or Northfield. They’re dangerous and smart.

If we want to catch them, if we want to be sure, we need to cut them off.”

“I won’t allow it,” she replied. “You can throw that idea away.”

The clips framed the exact narrative Arkland wanted to portray to the public. The Nexus was distracted and uncommitted, instead fighting among themselves and worrying about the general. In contrast, his focus remained on the fugitives, but he was thwarted at every turn.

The blame for the fugitives’ escape was lifted from his shoulders and put upon those of the council.

He flicked through the news channels. Coverage of the recordings had an even split of opinion. Half promulgated the 276

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message that General Arkland wanted, while the other half tried to spin the clips in a way that would denigrate the general and uplift the Nexus.

It was no coincidence that each channel’s coverage aligned perfectly with its allegiance to either General Arkland or the Chair of Outreach.

A huge protest swarmed the Nexus building. The crowd’s voices merged into a dull, vibrating roar. Corps soldiers stood guard all around, along with heavy vehicles and exo units.

Jane made a phone call and said, “Let us through.”

The crowd split for the general’s vehicle to pass through. It was an eerie and unnatural sight. A disorganized, grass-roots protest group wouldn’t split in such an orderly fashion.

When Arkland exited the vehicle, Jane Sloan said, “Be wary.

They might try to record the conversation and employ the same tactic we did.”

“It’s irrelevant,” he said. “This meeting is going to be do or die. Either the Nexus submits or I’ll be arrested. That’s why I need you to leave, in case things go bad.”

“Good luck, sir,” she said. “But I don’t think you’ll need it.”

“Neither do I,” he said. He knew the members of the Nexus.

They were going to fold, even if they didn’t know it yet.

He ascended the elevator, admiring its velvet floor. He glanced out the windows, watching the city fall beneath him.

When he entered the meeting room, the Chairs’ rage burned brightly.

The Chair of the Network slammed his fist on the table.

“What have you done?”

“This city was already splitting at the seams, General Arkland, and you just added another damned crack,” the Chair of Outreach cried.

The Chair of the Network shook his head. “We know the audio clips aren’t the end of it, either. That protest outside is something you orchestrated, isn’t it? Hell, it’s no wonder you waited a week to release those clips. You had to get this coup all nice and ready.”

Arkland didn’t reply.

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The Chair of the Network rubbed his hand. “I don’t think we need a vote for this one. We’re all in agreement. Call off your dogs, General Arkland. If you do, you’ll face prison. If you don’t, we’ll execute you like a common thug.”

“I don’t think so,” General Arkland said.

“Oh, is that right?” the Chair of the Network exclaimed, almost choked by his indignation.

General Arkland gave them a hard, unyielding stare. “You’re right about those protesters. Some are real. But some aren’t.

As soon as I give the word, they’ll charge the soldiers standing guard. Can you guess what happens next?”

The Chair of the Network paled. “They wouldn’t stand a chance. The Corps would tear them apart. The soldiers around this building are loyal to the Chair of State. To us.”

General Arkland nodded. “The civilians would be slaughtered for everyone to see. And that would really solidify the rift, would it not? The Nexus supporters versus the Stormrise supporters versus my supporters. Tell me, are you ready to fight a two-front war?”

“If we kill you, there won’t be a two-front war,” the Chair of State said.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “My people have marching orders, which they’re more than happy carrying out without me. Killing me now… Well, see if that really wouldn’t start a civil war.”

“You’re so damned shortsighted, Arkland,” the Chair of the Network said. “You’ve weakened us and denigrated our authority.

You’re killing us all. If you seized control, do you really think you could put Humpty Dumpty back together?”

“You’re weak. Ineffectual,” General Arkland said. “Your incompetence spawned Stormrise. Under your watch, your own general has taken control of not only the Corps but half of the city’s media apparatus. Your foundation is shaky. It will fall sooner or later. I’m more than willing to take my chances.”

He addressed the Chair of Resources, as well as the Chair of Research and Development. His tone softened, just slightly.

“You two haven’t spoken this whole meeting. I think it’s because you see the truth in what I’m saying. But you also have 278

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doubts. If I were to ascend, you aren’t sure what would happen to you. So let me promise this. You’ll have places of command under me. You’ll be valued. The change won’t be much different for you. In fact, you may turn out even better.”

“Your strategy is so naked, Arkland,” the Chair of the Network said. “You’re manipulating them to make this fight three versus three.” He said to the two Chairs, “Don’t tell me you’re entertaining this. He recorded our conversations, for God’s sake.

He violated our trust. How can you trust a word he says? If you give him what he wants, he’ll throw you right under the bus.”

General Arkland said to the Chairs, “Dogs versus wolves.

When pitted against each other, which side would you take?”

When they didn’t immediately answer, he said, “Both of your roles are vital to what I want to accomplish. Think about it. What need would I have to dispense with you?”

The Chair of Resources, ever curious, asked, “And what would happen to the other Chairs?”

“They’ll lose their positions. Then they’ll return to their lives of luxury. They’ll leave the politics aside and live happily ever after.”

The Chair of State scoffed, and she said, “See? He’s such a liar.

Don’t believe a word.”

“Why are you even entertaining his offer?” the Chair of Outreach asked the Chairs. “He belongs in a cellar. Or a coffin.”

General Arkland said, “It’s not a lie. The Nexus stepping down quietly, and peacefully, is in my best interests. I don’t want the drama that putting you to the guillotine would spawn.”

The Chair of Research and Development said, “So you create all of this chaos, and then you unify it peacefully?”

“That’s the goal.” He looked at the three Chairs excluded from his offer. Smoke practically billowed from their ears.

“I think we’ve heard enough of this circus,” the Chair of the Network said. “I hope you enjoy prison, for the short time you’ll be there. We’ll make sure the guillotine’s sharpened for you.”

“Hang on there for a second,” the Chair of R&D said, holding his hand out. After a pause, he said, “I’m with General Arkland.”

“Then you’ll face the same fate,” the Chair of the Network decreed.

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“I’m with the general, too,” the Chair of Resources said. “I can see which side is going up and which side is going down.”

The Chair of the Network glowered, and he used her real name, “Sally, what in the name of hell are you—” She interrupted and said, “We’ve done great things, first of which is building this city up brick by brick. But after the Petal Park Massacre, and the appearance of Stormrise, this council has lost its touch with this city. All I’ve heard is mewling and complaining, but nobody’s acting quickly. Or smartly. Or with the command that leaders should have. Face it. The Nexus could run everything well when the city was calm. But when trouble started to brew, you cracked. You’re close to breaking apart.”

The Chair of R&D nodded in grave affirmation.

General Arkland faced the other Chairs, tilting his chin to them. “So it’s the three of you. The three of you versus the general of the Corps, two Chairs, and half the city’s media apparatus. Not to mention Stormrise.”

His glare was hard, and he could tell they knew. They knew that he would risk cratering their whole ship if he had to. He would risk drowning.

Were they really prepared to fight him?

The corner of the Chair of the Network’s lips fell. It was a splinter. A hole in his armor.

At that moment, Arkland knew he had won.

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2

As a native of Minnesota, CALVIN B. FISHER learned to spend long winters tearing through pages and pages of novels.

Stormrise is second in his award-winning Northfield Saga series. His desire to write for an audience bloomed early; as a child, he sold stacks of homemade comic books to family and neighbors. In the years since, his passion has refined and matured, but ultimately remains the same. His desire to bring characters to life is the engine that powers each work.

He currently resides in Denver, Colorado.

CALVIN B. FISHER

“And while there’s plenty of action in Fisher’s first novel, Apocalypse Bounty, it’s also a fascinating character study of a troubled man trying to do his moral best in a world where he’s the odd man out…Fisher’s a new-to-me author since Apocalypse Bounty is his first book, but I’ll certainly keep an eye out for whatever he writes next.”

—CHARLES DE LINT, Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine

STORMRISE

Mark Northfield has lost track of time. The days, the weeks, and the months blend together while he sits in the Network’s dank prison.

After the detonation of Zeus’s Mercy, the Network’s secret device, the city is rid of the toxic gas that plagued its citizens for a decade. Yet, the death and destruction seem far from over.

His world only darkens when a new prisoner arrives in his cell block: Geralt Salb, the leader of the Yellowbacks. He is a man that Northfield once considered an ally, turned to a tenuous ally. His capture means that the Yellowback’s rebellion against the Network has failed.

With both men in the Network’s possession, the organization’s ultimate plan for Northfield and Geralt is set into motion. The Network stronghold in the mysterious, neon-drenched city of New Medea wants them, for reasons they can’t fathom. All they know is that the Network will make them pay for their actions, one way or another.