Storm Warning

3

“Within the first few pages of Northfield Saga: Apocalypse Bounty, I was immediately sucked into the post-apocalyptic world. Fisher does a great job of immersing you in the world, giving you questions to linger on right up until the very end. The book is well written, it is a fun read and I would recommend this book to anyone.”

—TRENTON PARROTTE, Amazon Reviewer

CALVIN B. FISHER

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

Storm Warning is third in his award-winning Northfield Saga series.

The first two novels in the Northfield Saga, Apocalypse Bounty and Stormrise, both won awards at the Southern California Book Festival and Stormrise also garnered an award at the New England Book Festival. Fisher’s 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.

STORM WARNING

Mark Northfield and Geralt Salb have escaped New Medea with Stormrise, but they are far from unscathed. Geralt Salb has received grievous injuries, and his life hangs in the balance. General Arkland is determined to destroy Stormrise and he is willing to use every tool at his disposal. He fights not merely with guns. He also employs psychological warfare. If he drives the populace to apathy, then Stormrise will have no power. Mark Northfield hopes for the light, but things only seem to grow darker. It is a battle of men, a battle of time, and a battle of wills, to secure the fate New Medea and declare a vision for the post-apocalyptic future.

The Northfield Saga:

Storm Warning

Calvin B. Fisher

Publisher Page

an imprint of Headline Books

Terra Alta, WV

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

by Calvin B. Fisher copyright ©2024 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 mybook@headlinebooks.com Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN 13: 9781958914205 Library of Congress Control Number: 2023942715

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 Grandpa Fisher, For always making us laugh.

Prologue The heat was unbearable. It seeped right through the skin, withering the bones. Helen sucked in the smoky air laden with a deep metallic tinge. The sweat dripped off her and pooled on the grimy concrete under her feet.

She wiped her brow with her forearm, but it did no good.

All Helen accomplished was replacing the sweat on her forehead with the sweat on her arm. She ran her hand through her hair, the little of it she had left. They didn’t allow her to have long hair.

All the women had a short buzz, and the men were completely shaved. Not that she would have wanted long hair, anyway. Not here.

She worked the bandages on her palms, feeling the calluses and cuts and blisters underneath. The blisters would burst, as they always did. The heat and hard labor were a nasty combination.

With a deep breath, she bent down to the pile of scrap metal before her. She regarded the thin sheets of metal with caution.

The edges were sharp; she had learned that early, an experience marked by the scars on her palms. She had learned how to handle the sheets with more caution, though. Only when she was careless did she end up with nicks and small cuts.

Her slavers would treat even the smallest of cuts with antibiotics. The last thing they wanted was for her to lose her hands from an infection; that would mean she had to stop working. Helen let them treat her because she knew what fate would be in store for her if she stopped working.

The sheets of metal were aluminum, shredded, and pressed together at prior stations in the factory. Before that, the 5

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aluminum had been separated from other scavenged metals, which underwent their own recycling processes. And before even that, the metal had been scavenged from the surrounding wastes by more slaves, carefully supervised by Corps soldiers.

Helen’s job was to dump the shredded metal into the furnace before her. It was a beast of a contraption, rusted and smoking and cracking. She felt grimy just standing by it.

The furnace had a small two-foot-by-two-foot opening for her to dump the metal sheets into. The aluminum would then melt, be purified, and finally cool into big metal bars that would be shipped to wherever the Network needed them.

She never saw those parts of the process, though. Her place was right here, in front of the furnace, staring at the rust and licking flames within. She was a “melter,” and it wasn’t a job title she took any pride in holding.

She tossed the pile of aluminum into the furnace and bent down to pick up another. The same thing, over and over, every minute of every day. Well, except Sundays. Sundays were their rest days. Or at least she thought it was Sundays. The days all seemed to blend.

A chortling noise behind her echoed off the factory’s dense walls. The sound came from the supply truck, delivering another pile of aluminum for her to throw into the furnace.

There was a row of furnaces; she labored at the middlemost one. There were multiple furnaces for each type of metal the factory processed, with multiple melters stationed per furnace.

Other metals included copper, various types of steel, and lead.

Similarly, the truck had different sections for each type of metal. The truck stopped in front of each laborer and dumped another pile of scrap metal for the laborer to throw into the furnace.

The truck’s deliveries were always demoralizing. No matter how much metal Helen dumped into the furnace, there was always more waiting for her.

She had heard other melters often complain that their job didn’t even use to exist. The truck already had the metal separated, so why couldn’t it just dump the metal into each of the furnaces and leave out the melters?

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The truck used to, apparently, until an incident that occurred two years prior. A slave had been tasked with driving the truck.

Over time, he had managed to siphon off some of the factory’s natural gas supply, which was used to power the furnaces. He had filled multiple tanks with the stuff.

Then, one day, he filled his truck with the tanks and tried dumping them into one of the furnaces to blow up the facility.

Killing everyone inside, he had hoped. The guards had stopped him. Since then, the furnace mouths had been reduced to twoby-two openings, and the melters were introduced, with a set of guards always on duty to watch them.

That was the story Helen had heard. She had no way of knowing if it was true; nobody from two years ago was around anymore, it seemed. The work had a way of using people up.

She shook her head and coughed. She was coming up on one year at the factory. She thought so, at least. At first, she had tried to keep a diligent count of the days, but that habit had faded.

When she was escorted back to her bunk, along with all the other slaves, she was just too tired to try. Well, that was only a halftruth. Seeing those days tick up and up had simply made her too sad.

She thought back to that fateful night, her last in New Medea.

She and her brother had been out at a bar, celebrating his birthday.

They had drunk a little too much and stayed out a little too late.

Her brother, Elliot, had a big grin on his face the whole time. He always had a big set of front teeth.

When it came time to leave, Helen distinctly remembered a feeling of dread that she had no way of accounting for. The bar doors shut behind them, and she felt the urge to run back inside, but she hadn’t. Instead, she had thought the unease was born from the alcohol swimming around in her gut. She tried not to think twice about the feeling.

The night was fairly warm, but there was a stiff chill when the wind picked up, the first in many months. The leaves hadn’t changed color yet, but they were starting to think about it.

The streets had an eerie quietness to them. The bar hadn’t been in the greatest neighborhood. Elliot had heard about the 7

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place from a friend who said it had the best light beer on tap. He thought it would be worth going, despite its location.

The beer hadn’t been all that great. Too weak for Helen’s taste.

Then again, she had always enjoyed the darker stuff.

They parked on the far side of the street. With the road seemingly abandoned, Elliot convinced Helen that jaywalking was a good idea.

Just as they started to cross, a Corps patrol car turned onto the road. Helen and Elliot didn’t think much of the car, not until sirens started to wail. They finished their dash across the street just in time for the patrol car to pull up next to them.

The passenger window rolled down. The featureless mask of the Corps soldier stared at them, displaying their own distorted reflections.

“What?” Elliot had said, snorting. “Jaywalking?”

Helen nudged him to shut up, but the words had already left his mouth. The Corps soldier gripped his steering wheel tighter; she remembered that. That featureless stare of his grew more dangerous by the second.

The next thing she knew, she was face-down on the hood of his patrol car, having her hands bound. The Corps soldier hadn’t mentioned anything about her rights. She didn’t have them. That was something she quickly realized in the factory’s hot and dark bowels.

Helen and Elliot had been brought to a depot, where they shared a cramped room with far too many other people. They didn’t have anywhere to sit. They had stood until pain rocketed from their soles, and their calves started cramping up. The room’s smell, too, could knock someone off their feet. The deep musk of sweat and urine filled that wretched depot.

They boarded an unmarked van, and they had toiled at the factory ever since.

“Retainant 47-A! Get your legs in gear,” the nearest Corps guard barked. His voice was modulated by the technology in his helmet. His deep, warbled shout sounded like a demon born from the furnace she fed.

She would never forget that designation: 47-A. How could she forget when it was stitched to the front and back of her uniform 8

Calvin B. Fisher

in big blue letters? She knew that number now, just about as well as her name.

The slaves were officially called “retainants.” She figured some higher-up at the Network had come up with the term as a euphemism. The guards didn’t seem to care about the term, however. They would call the retainants whatever they fancied at the moment, save for in official capacities. Slave. Prisoner.

Retainant.

The newer retainants tried to learn the others’ names. The older ones knew better, and they referred to each other by number, just like the guards. Names were harder to remember, but they were also harder to forget.

She picked up the pace, just as the guard had commanded.

After throwing two more piles of scraps into the furnace, she craned her neck to look past the other laborers. Three furnaces down, she saw the designation 48-C on the thin, wiry body of a man hard at work with his own scrap pile.

After he threw a pile of scrap into the furnace, his head turned in her direction. Their eyes met, just for the space of a breath.

Elliot didn’t smile at her, and she didn’t smile back. It might attract the attention of the guards, and that was never a good idea. Still, they made eye contact when they could, if only to make sure they were both still there, to make sure they hadn’t been dragged off to the Interior.

Just the thought put a chill in her blood, one almost strong enough to contend with the blistering heat.

The Interior. The guards rounded up retainants and sent them to the Interior. There was no rhyme or reason for their selection, at least none she had detected yet. No predetermined schedule, either.

Sometimes, slaves were taken in the middle of the day, during labor hours. Other times, they were taken in the dead of night and forced out of their meager bunks. Sometimes, slaves weren’t taken for months. Other times, groups were taken just days apart.

Retainants hardly ever returned from the Interior. When they did, though, they didn’t talk about it. The guards forbade them 9

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

from doing so, and after whatever they endured, the survivors weren’t inclined to indulge.

Every slave lived under a pervading sense of dread. Slaves never knew how long they’d last.

So far, neither Helen nor Elliot had been selected. Their lives here had consisted of grueling labor, occasional mistreatment by the guards, and a lack of rest. For that, Helen considered the two of them lucky.

As she tossed another pile into the furnace, she had to stifle a bout of bitter laughter. To count yourself lucky in a place like this? She couldn’t think of anything sadder.

A burst of whistles echoed in the factory. She took a deep breath. At last, another day of labor had finally come to a close.

She stepped into line with the other melters, risking a glance back at her brother. He met her eyes, and he gave her the faintest of nods.

She shuffled in line toward the exit, her steps watched closely by the guards around her, as well as the guards on the walkways looming over the factory floor. When the line of slaves reached the door, the guards stopped them and barked out a familiar order.

Helen unclipped the gas mask that hung from the back of her belt, and she strapped it over her face. The factory doors opened, and Helen followed the line outside.

The ever-present toxic gas filled the outside air just as much as the winter chill. Helen looked around at the neon orange-yellow gas that had settled over the snow. Lines of snow weaved around like snakes, animated by the heavy wind. After Helen had been subjected to such oppressive heat, the cold felt great. However, she would be shivering by the time she reached the cabin.

She beheld the gas with trepidation, aware that one full breath without her gas mask would spell a painful death. The gas would attack her lungs, turning the tissue into mush.

Before her abduction, the Network had developed technology to clear the toxic gas from New Medea and the surrounding region. Helen had felt a great swelling of hope, she recalled. She had believed she would never again see the toxic gas that defined the first decade of the post-apocalyptic world.

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Calvin B. Fisher

But here, in the middle of nowhere, with the gas around her, the memory felt so distant. Maybe it was all no more than a dream, and she had instead been at the camp forever. Some days, it truly felt that way.

Her gas mask had a small red light that softly blinked every few seconds. The signal was a reminder of the guards’ power over her.

With a click of a remote button, the guards could shatter her mask’s visor, leaving her with no defense against the toxic gas.

She would have one breath to breathe before her imminent death.

The camp had electrified barbed-wire fences. The camp had guards and watchtowers and machine guns. But it was truly the gas that kept the retainants imprisoned. If anyone managed to wiggle out of the camp, the guards could destroy the escapee’s mask, leaving them with no chance of survival. Nobody had ever escaped the camp, and Helen didn’t think anyone ever would.

To her right stood the Interior, a featureless brick building that was far wider than it was tall. It was even larger than the factory.

For a brief moment, she thought about herself being dragged through the thick snow by guards, shouting and screaming with nobody reaching out a hand except her brother. It was a nightmare. The only one she had left, really.

The guards led them into the cabin, itself a large facility.

The single cabin housed all of the slaves. Because the toxic gas had to be filtered out of buildings via filtration systems, having a single large cabin was more efficient than housing the slaves in numerous smaller cabins. It meant fewer doorways, which meant fewer points of entry for the toxic gas. The cabin didn’t have any windows; the Network hadn’t afforded the slaves even that meager comfort.

The slavers marched them into the cabin. They passed through a small quarantine area between sets of doors. Normally, this intermediate area that separated the outside space from the interior would serve as a buffer for the gas. The intermediate area would be cleared of the gas before someone entered the main zone. It was a common room for buildings in the postapocalyptic wastelands.

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However, with so many slaves to move, the guards didn’t have the time or care enough to put small groups of slaves into the intermediate area and wait for it to be cleared of gas before they sent another small group in. So the doors remained open, and the slaves passed uninhibited into the cabin.

The ceiling curved inward sharply; the building was an oblong dome with heavy wooden walls and a wooden ceiling.

The slaves lined up in front of their bunks, which were stuffed against the left and right walls. There were four bunks per stack.

Metal tables with wobbly legs occupied the center of the floor; the cabin also served as their mess hall. The slaves were served two meals: one in the morning and one in the evening.

Helen’s stomach rumbled. Even that part of her sounded tired.

They waited as the cabin door shut, and the air filter hissed loudly, working hard to clear the air of toxic gas. There was a ping noise, followed by an automated voice that declared, “Air quality now at safe breathing levels.”

The slaves removed their gas masks. The guards walked past each row of beds, counting the slaves. When they finished, the head guard nodded satisfactorily. No slaves were unaccounted for, as always.

The guards pivoted on their heels and marched out, this time making use of the airlock so no toxic gas would enter the cabin.

They didn’t want to kill their prize slaves, after all.

The doors were locked behind the guards. Not that any of the slaves really thought about trying to leave. Nothing awaited them outside of the cabins, especially not in the dead of winter.

“Another day gone, huh?” Elliot said, approaching her. He lowered his voice. “One of these days….”

He didn’t finish the thought, and Helen didn’t expect him to.

It was something he had said to her every day since they arrived at the camp. At first, he had said it with a grim resolve as his eyes darted to every nook and cranny in search of an impossible escape. Time had withered that resolve away. Now he said the phrase with a heavy dose of irony and a wry grin that just barely reached his eyes.

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The grin faded quicker than normal today. He nudged her shoulder and asked, “Hey, what’s with the long face? You look down.”

“Down? What could I be down about? I mean, it’s not like I’m a slave toiling away as one small cog in this giant machine.” She said it with a smile.

He persisted through her wryness. “Come on, Helen. What’s up?”

She shrugged and looked around the big cabin. Even with an expansive ceiling, the place felt claustrophobic. “Nothing important. Just thinking about the past a lot more today.”

His face darkened. He said, “I’ve been there, Sis. But it’s poison, dwelling like that.”

A bell clanged on the ceiling, signaling that mealtime had arrived. A set of double doors opened at the far end of the cabin.

The kitchen for the slaves was connected to the cabin via an enclosed walkway. That way, food could be delivered to the cabin without the servers being exposed to the gas.

Servers marched into the cabin, pulling carts of food behind them.

Helen had never met the cooks, but from what she had heard from the servers, evidently, they weren’t slaves. She figured that the cooks also served the guards. Perhaps they didn’t want slaves handling their food.

She didn’t talk much to the servers. They were of a higher rank than the factory slaves. They were the only slaves afforded a different cabin to sleep in, one that was apparently smaller and less cramped. The servers’ cabin was connected to the opposite end of the kitchen from the factory slaves’ cabin.

Promotion to server status was the only form of upward mobility afforded to any of the slaves. In her experience, the servers were rarely kind. They looked down upon the factory slaves. Maybe the guards looked for an inclination toward that sort of attitude when promoting slaves.

She sat next to Elliot at one of the tables in the center of the cabin. There were precisely enough chairs for each slave. A server dished them each a plate and moved on swiftly. If you weren’t in a chair when the server came by, then you weren’t eating.

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The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

The plate in front of her was full of fruit, vegetables, grains, and protein. The guards fed them well, she had to admit. The reason why they were fed well, however, soured any gratitude she might have had. The guards wanted the slaves healthy only so they could work harder and be more efficient.

The slaves didn’t converse much while eating; they rarely did. The day’s labor sapped the energy out of them, and even small talk felt like work. The cameras planted on the cabin’s walls deterred them further. The cameras swiveled back and forth, reminding them they were always being watched. In whatever moments of quiet they could still scrounge up for themselves, the Network was always watching.

The dark cloud over Elliot remained. Helen watched him shovel food into his mouth, chewing aggressively, head facing forward with a thousand-yard stare. Her concern for him grew.

After everyone had eaten, the bell clanged again, signaling a thirty-minute warning before lights-out. Elliot and Helen occupied the same bunk stack, with Helen on the topmost bed and Elliot just underneath her.

Before she climbed into her bunk, Elliot gently grabbed her wrist. His head was down, shadows consuming his face.

“I’m sorry. You know, for everything,” he said. “If I didn’t make us go to that stupid bar… If I didn’t….”

She shook her head. This wasn’t the first time she had heard him say sorry.

“Remember what you just said to me, El,” she said. “Thinking about the past like that won’t do us much good.”

The darkness broke just a little bit. He flashed her his wide grin.

“I guess I’m a hypocrite,” he said. “But it’s hard not to dwell, isn’t it?”

“Hard?” she said, turning to climb up the ladder to her bunk.

“Dwelling’s about all we got to do anymore.”

The lights shut off soon after she got under her covers. She tried to ignore the mites that stirred in the sheets from her movement. The crawling of their little legs created a tingle in her calves and thighs. They didn’t bite much.

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She shut her eyes, not afraid of what nightmares might befall her. In fact, she welcomed them. Just about anything was better than the reality she would wake up to.

A scarce few hours later, she learned that her world could get immeasurably worse.

The cabin’s front door burst open so loud that Helen woke with a startle. She wasn’t the only one; she heard the rustling of covers and choked gasps of surprise around her.

She squinted, trying to make out as much in the darkness as she could. The Network kept the cabin very dark at night, with lights only illuminating the bathrooms at the back.

She recognized the silhouettes of Corps guards by the slender plates of armor, along with the rifles they carried.

Helen’s heart threatened to stop beating. The Corps guards moved quietly, not barking out orders. The lights in the cabin remained off.

She could only think of one reason the Corps would be here at this time of night, moving in such a clandestine fashion. There had only been one reason in the past.

The guards were here to take somebody to the Interior.

She gripped the sheets at her sides. Sweat moistened her palms. They always got sweaty so quickly.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispered to herself so that hopefully only she could hear. “There’s a hundred of us. It won’t be me or Elliot. It won’t be.”

The guards were heading in their direction, she realized. A lump lodged itself in her throat. She wanted to whisper to herself again, in the vague hope that repeating herself would somehow make the words more likely to come true.

The guards wouldn’t come for her or Elliot. They wouldn’t.

There were still dozens and dozens of bunks near her and Elliot. The odds were still slim that the guards had targeted them.

But the guards passed bunk after bunk, still heading toward them. With every step the guards took, the odds weighed increasingly against her and Elliot.

The guards reached their bunks. All the guards had to do was keep moving, just keep moving, and Helen and Elliot would be 15

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

in the clear. But the guards stopped. They stopped right there, right in front of Helen and Elliot’s bunks.

But their stack had four beds. The guards could be after one of the two slaves underneath Elliot and Helen. A chance of two out of four. A fifty-fifty shot.

“Retainant 47-B,” the lead guard said, his voice modulated to a deep, scrambled growl by his mask, “get up. You’re coming with us.”

“No,” Helen whispered, hardly believing any of this, hardly believing that she was outside of some dark dream. But the sweat-stained sheets in her clutches felt too real. The stiff, sterile cabin air felt too real.

Each bunk stack had an assigned number; Helen and Elliot’s was forty-seven. A letter followed, indicating each bunk in the stack. The letters were in alphabetical order, starting with the top bunk.

Helen was bunk A. Elliot was bunk B. “No,” she whispered, louder now.

“The hell I am,” Elliot said to the guard.

The guard didn’t waste time arguing. His hand thrust up to Elliot’s bunk. He cried in shock as the guard grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled his arm back in a smooth motion, yanking him out of the bunk and sending him careening to the hard floor.

Elliot landed with a thump and a sharp cry.

“Elliot?” Helen cried.

Elliot gasped for breath. The air had been taken from him, but he managed to say, “I’m okay, Hel.” The guard grabbed him by the shoulder again and pulled him to his feet. “Get. Up.” Elliot pushed him back. “Up yours, you tin piece of—” Another guard butted him in the head with his rifle. The crack was sickening, echoing off the cabin walls. Elliot fell back to his hands and knees, stunned.

Helen blinked. Numbly, she descended the ladder; the guards were too preoccupied with a struggling Elliot to pay her much attention. The other slaves didn’t move a muscle. Amidst their silence, she had never felt more alone.

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The guard hauled Elliot to his feet again. Without thinking, Helen reached out and clutched his shoulder. Her fingers tightened around the cloth of his shirt. She held on for dear life.

“Elliot!” she cried.

The nearest guards barked at her, their electronic voices garbled by their masks. A sharp pain exploded on the center of her forehead, threatening to split her head in two. She saw stars dancing around her blurred vision. She lost her balance, dropping to her knees. A soldier had hit her with the butt of his rifle, she realized dimly.

Elliot shouted, his words echoing off the walls. She couldn’t make them out; her brain couldn’t quite put the syllables together.

Her head was swimming in a bog, foggy and struggling to make sense of anything.

She fell on her side, a pair of black boots inches from her nose. Between them, she saw a mass of black-clad guards pulling Elliot away from her. He reached out, his hand rising above the guards, fingers scraping the air.

When she had been hit, she had let go of his shoulder. If she’d held on, maybe he would still be with her.

One of the guards reared back and jammed Elliot in the stomach. He doubled over, his shouts of protest ceasing. He fell to his knees, and the guards forced a gas mask over his face. They dragged him across the cabin floor.

Aside from the barking of the guards and the ringing in Helen’s ears, the cabin remained silent. A hundred sets of eyes upon them, without a finger or voice rising in protest.

The guards were taking Elliot. They were taking him to the Interior. Most likely, she would never see him again. If what happened to the others happened to him, she would never see his boyish face or swagger again. Her hand stretched out toward him. So much distance, now, between him and her. The front doors opened, and the guards forced Elliot through. The doors slammed shut, and she felt as if a part of her had been severed.

She stared at the still doors, hoping beyond hope they would open up and her brother would come marching triumphantly back in. She spiraled in despair as she knew that hope would not come to be.

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She moaned softly, a mixture of pain and grief.

The feet in front of her shifted. Helen rolled her eyes up to the guard looming over her. He stared at her for a moment. Even in the low lighting, she could see her reflection on his featureless plate mask. Her forehead was bleeding, more than she had thought. The realization meant nothing to her, nothing at all.

The guard reared his arms back, aiming the butt of the rifle at her again. Her arm reached up more out of instinct than anything else. She didn’t care if he brought that rifle down upon her.

And he did. After a deafening crack, Helen’s world collapsed into darkness.

18

1 The wind howled and howled, resembling a screaming pack of wolves that extended endlessly across the dark night. The wind snaked its way into the van’s many cracks and crevices, creating high-pitched whistles at every point of entry.

The van’s paltry heating system couldn’t combat the cold.

Mark Northfield shivered. He tried to ignore the gradual numbing of his fingers and toes.

He was sick of the winter, which was saying a lot, considering he had only spent the last few days outside of a prison with no access to the outdoors.

The last few days. He couldn’t think about them without his head spinning. It had been such a whirlwind of movement, change, and violence. Always violence.

Funny how that always follows me around, isn’t it?

He had gone from a half-year stay at Cumulus’s prize prison to being transported to New Medea, being jailbroken, running around New Medea to escape Death Corps troops, and finally being rescued by Stormrise’s Widow Team.

When we sat on the porch, Jess, lazily drinking in summer sunsets, how could I have ever imagined this life? Going from one impossibility to another and then another. My life’s a car going too fast. A wall will come too fast for me to see, and that’ll be it.

A groan arose next to him. He turned and regarded Geralt Salb, the former leader of the Yellowbacks, a raider faction Northfield had spent years defending people against.

A man with whom Northfield had shared the chaos of these past few days. Another impossibility layered upon all the rest.

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Geralt had been wounded during the escape. One of the Death Corps’ RAID soldiers, a class of soldiers wearing high-tech suits designed for mobility, had driven a knife into Geralt’s thigh.

He was having a tough go of it, but he would make it through, Northfield hoped. But anything could go wrong in this world.

I’m gonna do what I can to make this world better. With whatever time I have left, no matter how short or long.

The van lurched and then came to an abrupt stop. Geralt groaned in discomfort.

“Again?” said Leo “Saturn” Smalls, the resident sharpshooter of Widow Team.

The snow was deep, and the unkempt roads underneath were laden with potholes and cracks. When the van fell into one of these potholes, it often left them stuck and having to dig themselves out. Since the van they had stolen didn’t happen to have shovels, they had to dig with their hands.

“Everybody knows the drill,” said Rayne “Drawstring” Simpson, the leader of Widow Team. “Out and at it.”

Saturn groaned and stepped out of the van.

Erik “Rodeo” Smith said, “What, Saturn? Arms a bit sore?”

Saturn scowled. “Not as sore as yours.”

Rodeo chuckled. He had been shot in the shoulder during their escape from New Medea. Fortunately for him, the wound was flesh deep.

Samuel “Red” Perez filed out of the van, as did Andy “Skullbeard” Liu. The latter received his nickname from his trademark skull bandana, which was presently wrapped around his neck.

Northfield stepped out of the vehicle, followed by Aubrey Robinson. She hoped to join Stormrise once they reached the organization’s headquarters. She had played a large part in their escape, helping Geralt and Northfield connect with Widow Team.

They dug snow away from the tires, an aggravatingly slow process. The numbness in Northfield’s hands didn’t get any better.

Finally, the job was done, and they piled back into the vehicle.

“Let’s hope we don’t have to do that again,” Odell Barnes said.

The older man had played perhaps the largest part in Northfield 20

Calvin B. Fisher

and Geralt’s escape from New Medea, guiding them through the city until they reached Aubrey.

“You might’ve just jinxed it,” Aubrey said scathingly. Odell shrank back a little. The two of them had a history, but Northfield didn’t have all the details. Odell had hurt her in some way, and he deeply regretted it.

“We’ll reach the gas line soon,” Connie said. “Everyone put on a mask.”

Connie and Michael were members of Stormrise. However, they weren’t members of Widow Team. They had rescued Widow Team from the city by picking them up in the getaway van.

Northfield’s stomach churned at the mention of the toxic gas, which had characterized the first decade after the war.

The Network had created a means of neutralizing the gas but had only employed it in a radius around New Medea. The gas, therefore, served as the walls of a natural prison around the city, keeping citizens stuck and reliant on the Network.

Michael, another member of Stormrise who had helped them out of the city, passed out gas masks.

Northfield put on his mask. The rubber lining cupped his face tightly, and the subtle, suffocating feeling of breathing through a filter followed. After a few moments of discomfort, he got used to the feeling. A decade of habits died hard.

They passed through a suburban area, where barren trees towered above the two- and three-story houses. The houses had been abandoned for years, scarred by the war’s destruction and the looters thereafter. Shattered windows, scorch marks, and caved-in roofs were endemic.

“Are you ready to see the gas line?” Skullbeard said. “When the wind blows this hard, it looks pretty freaking cool. You know, for something so dangerous, at least.”

“Sometimes dangerous things are the most beautiful,” Red said.

“You just described my ex,” Saturn muttered.

A yellow and orange haze hovered at the horizon, lurking behind the silhouettes of trees. The gas, Northfield realized. He had hoped to never see it again.

21

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

As they neared the gas, the trees and houses gave way to the remains of a golf course. The gas line cut across its farthest edge, and a sense of awe filled Northfield.

Across the vaguely defined line, the neon gas swirled in rows of cyclones, dozens of them, reaching the height of a small tree. They ebbed and flowed, moving slowly forward and back, throwing up snow that swirled around them and glowed like a sea of Christmas lights.

Northfield knew why Skullbeard had mentioned the wind.

The gas was composed of millions upon millions of microbots that were anchored to a fixed geographic location. The farther the bots moved from their original locations, the stronger the pull back to their origins. Thus, when the gas bombs were dropped, they would only affect their target city; the wind wouldn’t move them to an unwanted location.

The wind pushed the bots away from the gas line while the bots pushed back. The clashing of forces created a rotational effect and, therefore, the cyclones.

The cyclone line embodied the beauty of human creation. It also embodied the death that the same human creation could wreak.

Despite how intimidating the line looked, it was harmless when they had their masks on. They passed through the cyclones without trouble.

And then they were back inside the neon hell that had characterized the past decade. Every nightmare, every death, could somehow trace its way back to the toxic gas’s effect on the world. Northfield found breathing more difficult yet again, even though he still had the same air flowing through his mask.

“We’re coming up on the halfway house,” Drawstring announced. “Five minutes, I’d say.”

His estimate ended up being a little bit off because the van got stuck in another pothole. After another session of digging and a few more blocks, they pulled into a strip mall, decrepit like all the others in the wastes. Velvet awnings, torn and dirtied, hung over each of the properties.

22

Calvin B. Fisher

A handful of cars sat in the lot, most defunct. Connie parked the van in one of the centermost properties on the strip, called Happiness Clinic, according to an inoperable neon sign.

There was a brown sedan parked next to them. Although it was well-worn, the car still appeared to be functioning.

“We’re here,” Drawstring said into his radio. To the occupants of the van, he said, “Come on, let’s get out of this cold.”

Northfield and Skullbeard helped Geralt out of the vehicle, and they carried him to Happiness Clinic’s doors.

The clinic wasn’t like the other properties on the strip. The windows were blacked out, but they weren’t broken. The signature humming noise of an air filtration system could be heard on the other side of the doors. The clinic was occupied.

Drawstring opened the doors for them, and they entered an airlock. The wait for the air to purify felt like an eternity. On the other side of the airlock, a man stood in a white lab coat, impatiently tapping his foot. There was a stretcher next to him.

The doctor. Thank God. Geralt seized Northfield with a surprising amount of vigor.

“My leg, Northfield,” Geralt said, his voice raspy from exhaustion. “I know I said somethin’ about cutting it off, but… I wasn’t… I was just… I was mad and….” His eyes widened, and Northfield saw a desperation in them that he hadn’t seen before.

“Don’t let them take it, you hear me? I’d rather die than be….”

His head slumped. “I’d rather die.”

Geralt fainted. The airlock’s doors opened, and they rushed him to the stretcher. As they laid him down, the doctor wasted no time with formalities.

“What’s his blood type?” he asked them pointedly.

“I… What?” Northfield said.

“His blood type.” The doctor studied Geralt’s leg wound.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“O-negative, then. Great, as if we weren’t already low,” the doctor said. “Erik’s wounded, too, isn’t he?”

“Yep, lucky me,” Rodeo said.

The doctor studied his wound for a moment, and he said, “You’ll need to wait until I’m done with Geralt. As you can see, we’re short-staffed.”

23

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

Irony tinged the last sentence. It appeared the doctor was the only one in the facility.

Rodeo said, “Do what you have to do, Doc.” The doctor turned to the others and said, “Help me wheel Geralt. Room 2-B on the left.”

As they wheeled Geralt down the hallway, Northfield said, “He wants to keep the leg at any cost, Doc.” “I don’t take requests,” the doctor said. “Now, go away. I need to work.”

The door to 2-B slammed shut behind him. The door lacked a window, so Northfield had no idea what was happening on the other side.

Odell put an arm on his shoulder. “He’ll be all right. Strong as an ox, that one.”

“I made a promise to myself that he’d make it through this,” Northfield said.

“Promise or not, it’s out of your hands now. Sit down, Mark.”

They returned to the lobby and waited there.

“Real cheery guy, ain’t he?” Rodeo said about the doc.

“If he helps Geralt, then he can be as rude as he wants,” Northfield said.

Everyone was quiet. They took the time to reflect and rest.

And pray. Sleep caught Northfield off guard. In one moment, he was awake, and then, in the next, he was tumbling headfirst into a room of nightmares he wanted no part of. *** He was awoken from his nightmares by the sound of soft conversation between Drawstring and the doctor. His eyes fluttered open, crust filling the rims. As he rubbed out the sleep, he also tried to wipe his latest nightmare from memory.

He had been tied to a table in a dark room, and some man in a cloak had chopped his arm off with a cleaver. But he hadn’t felt any pain. He could still feel his arm, detached, writhing.

Drawstring and the doctor continued their conversation, not noticing that Northfield had woken up. Rodeo was nowhere to be 24

Calvin B. Fisher

found; the doctor must have taken care of him while Northfield slept. The others appeared to be resting.

The doctor said, “All out of O-negative blood, Rayne.

And soon, we’ll be out of the other types. We’re nearly out of antibiotics, antiseptics, and anti-damn-everything. Stormrise hasn’t sent me one shipment in the past month.”

“I know, Doctor Mitchell,” Drawstring replied. He rested his chin on his hands and narrowed his eyes, deep in thought.

“There aren’t any supplies to give you. Not right now. The main base is low on everything, too.”

“I know,” Dr. Mitchell said, crossing his arms. “Still, the fact remains: Without the proper supplies, this halfway house serves no purpose. I’d be more useful at home base, helping Dr. Cohanan. She has her hands full. I know that.”

Drawstring shook his head. “As our operations move closer to New Medea, this halfway house will become more important.

Our guys will need medical attention that’s closer than our base.”

“Then I need my supplies,” Dr. Mitchell pressed.

Drawstring nodded. “I know you’ve been doing good work.

We’ll find a way to get what you need.”

Dr. Mitchell nodded, but he still looked skeptical. Neither man had more to say, though, so Northfield asked him, “Geralt…

How is he?”

“Alive. And he’ll stay that way.”

“And his leg?”

“Intact. Not enough blood loss for cell death, fortunately for him,” Dr. Mitchell said. “But don’t jump for joy just yet. Blood loss might not have killed the leg, but that doesn’t say anything about infection. If one sets in, and it isn’t stopped, his leg might go all the same.” He glanced at Drawstring. “I don’t have the antibiotics that I’d like to treat him with.”

“But Stormrise base should,” Drawstring said. “Which means it’s imperative that we get Geralt there as soon as possible.”

Dr. Mitchell nodded in agreement.

Drawstring asked, “Is Geralt stable enough to transport?”

Dr. Mitchell said, “Given the circumstances, yes, I would say so.”

25

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

Drawstring said, “Prepare him for discharge, then. I’ll rally the troops.”

“How’s Rodeo?” Northfield asked the doctor.

Dr. Mitchell said, “That one was a lot easier. Some painkillers, disinfectant, and bandages, and he’s back to smiling like a big oaf.”

Drawstring woke the others, and everyone got ready to leave, putting on their stuffy gas masks. Dr. Mitchell wheeled Geralt out, and Northfield and Skullbeard picked him up.

Rodeo shook the doctor’s hand. “Thanks for the patch, Doc. I know Sydnee and Becca appreciate it.”

“Give them my love, will you?” the doctor said.

They waved their goodbyes to Dr. Mitchell, and they carried Geralt out to the van.

“How are you feeling?” Northfield asked him.

“I wanna sleep and never wake up,” Geralt said.

“Your leg is still here, man. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Yeah. I think I’ll celebrate once I don’t feel like garbage. This stupid mask makes me feel more nauseous.”

“You don’t need to vomit, do you?” Skullbeard asked.

“Maybe,” Geralt said.

“Well, we’ve either got to bring you back in, or you have to hold it for the next hour. The gas—” “Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. I lived through the past decade, too.” They helped Geralt into his seat, and he shrugged them off.

Once everyone was in, the van sped off to their destination: Stormrise base. Drawstring reported to the base through his radio, stating that they were on their way.

When he was done, he turned to Northfield and said, “The commander-in-chief wants to talk to you when we get to the base. After that, we’ll get you set up in a room to catch some shuteye.”

“This late at night? She must really want to talk,” Northfield observed.

Drawstring nodded. “She’s invested in your rescue.”

Of that, Northfield was painfully aware. So many had died to pry him and Geralt out of the Network’s hands.

26

Calvin B. Fisher

“Anything I should know about her before we meet?”

Northfield asked.

Drawstring considered it for a moment. “Be honest.” *** The suburbs gave way to forests. Stark black branches hung over the road, blotting out the stars. Frozen lakes dotted the landscape, and the road curved frequently. A long and straight shot, this drive certainly wasn’t.

At every lake, Northfield found himself staring at its frozen expanse. The flat layer of snow that sat atop the ice was undisturbed, save for the occasional deer track. The view was mesmerizing, and his head tracked the lake until it was fully out of view. There was a tranquility in the view, a peace that the core of him longed for.

They continued on, hitting an especially dense part of the forest. The branches blotted out the sky nearly in its entirety, and all they could see ahead were dark tree trunks. The gas threaded between them, the smoky glow resembling a burning fire.

At a seemingly random point on the road, Connie parked the van. To their left, a giant tree had been felled. Its massive frame lay parallel to the road.

Connie flashed the van’s lights in a deliberate pattern.

There was a pause, and the low rumbling noise of turning gears followed. The fallen tree started to rise. When Northfield looked closely, he could see chains connected to the tree.

Past the tree was a narrow road. The tree was so thick that it had concealed the road well. In the winter, it would have been hard to spot even if you were looking for it, and during the summer, it was likely even harder.

They drove onto the road. Once they traveled a hundred yards or so, they came across a small hut well-camouflaged with snow and tree branches. Two people sat inside, armed with assault rifles and wearing bulky camouflage made for both concealment and warmth. They gave the van a salutary wave. Peering through the window, Northfield could see a screen broadcasting the road 27

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

by the tree trunk. He had no idea where the security camera had been.

They continued on until they came to a clearing by another large lake to their right. The road curved along its edge before veering off at the other end of the lake. The road led to a large complex.

“Welcome to Stormrise HQ,” Drawstring announced.

As they drew nearer, Northfield could study the complex better. A large box-shaped section protruded from the rest of the complex. It was very characteristic of one type of building.

“Did this place used to be a school?” Northfield asked.

“Yeah,” Skullbeard said. “Casper Elementary. The kids that lived around this big lake went here, along with kids from neighboring towns.” With a softer voice, he added, “Wasn’t being used when we got out here.”

The choice made sense. Stormrise wouldn’t build its own facility from scratch, not when there were so many abandoned buildings free to use. An unassuming school in a rural area seemed as good a choice as any.

They pulled up to the former gymnasium. A set of garages had been installed, breaking up the red brick wall. The middle garage opened for them, and they pulled in.

The gymnasium had been converted into a hybrid of an armory and a garage. Weapons and combat gear lined the walls, and a variety of vehicles were parked in rows on the floor.

A woman approached them, wearing standard military gear and a gas mask. With the large garages, gas couldn’t be filtered out of the gymnasium.

The garage door shut behind them. When they disembarked the vehicle, the woman said, “I’m sure as hell glad to see you back. Everyone is.”

“It was a bit touch and go, but we’re breathing,” Drawstring said.

“Is Sydnee still up?” Rodeo asked the woman.

“You know she is,” the woman said. “She hardly sleeps when you’re out.” She glanced at his bandaged shoulder and frowned.

“She’s not gonna like that.”

28

Calvin B. Fisher

“Ah, it’s nothing, Andrea. Got worse scuffs during football practice. Well, I guess I should see her before I get some grub.

The chefs got anything for us?”

“Oh yeah,” Andrea said. “They’ve got a ‘welcome home’ spread for you guys.”

Drawstring gave out orders, using his men’s real names now that they were no longer in the field. “Sam and Leo, get Geralt to Dr. Cohanan’s office.”

Samuel “Red” Perez and Leo “Saturn” Smalls nodded and moved at once to carry Geralt out of the gymnasium.

Drawstring said, “Connie and Michael, escort Odell and Aubrey to the cafeteria. After they eat, bring them to their rooms.”

“Yes, sir,” they said.

Drawstring said, “Erik and Andy, go see Sydnee and Becca.

Then get some grub or sleep, your choice.”

“Me?” Andy “Skullbeard” Liu said.

“Yeah,” Erik “Rodeo” Smith said. “Sydnee’s gonna want to make sure you’re okay, too, you dope. Now come on.”

Drawstring said, “Mark, with me. I’ll bring you to the commander-in-chief.”

With that, they split off and went their separate ways. When Northfield passed Andrea, she said, “I’m Andrea. It’s an honor to meet you.”

The reverence in her voice made him uncomfortable. He said, “Nice to meet you, too.”

Past the gymnasium’s doors, Drawstring and Northfield waited in the decontamination zone after Sam, Leo, and Geralt had passed through. Once the gas had been filtered off, they continued into the heart of the school and took off their masks with great relief. A guard manning the decontamination center saluted them as they passed.

Northfield watched Sam, Leo, and Geralt turn the corner at the end of the hallway. Tension knotted his chest. He felt like he should be with Geralt, but he didn’t want to spit in the face of his rescuers by defying their wishes. He trusted that Geralt would be in good hands with Sam and Leo, which said a lot, given how little he knew them.

29

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

“You’ve got some good guys,” Northfield said to Drawstring.

“A leader’s only worth half as much as the people in his command,” Drawstring said. “I’m honored to have this caliber of men serve under me.”

Boys’ and girls’ locker rooms flanked them. The locker rooms had been converted into more general shower areas for the members of Stormrise; the locker rooms expanded farther than what he would have expected for an elementary school.

Lockers lined both sides of the hallway. The throwback to grade school was tempered by the sight of the tubing that snaked across the walls and the giant box contraptions that constituted the filtration system necessary to keep a place this big safe from the gas, even in the event of a small breach.

The hallway opened up to a circular common area, with rows of lockers occupying the center. The lockers had been altered; the doors were about twice as wide as you’d expect. Stormrise was using the lockers for storing supplies of some sort. Or perhaps they were for members’ personal belongings. He suspected they’d converted the classrooms into bunk rooms. Why not use the lockers as private spaces?

To the left of the common area was a semicircle area with giant windows extending all the way to the second floor. Heavy metal shutters were installed. At the slightest hint of a breach, the shutters could close off the windows entirely.

The new additions to the school stuck out like mushrooms growing from the rot of a dead tree. He wished they could go back to the old school.

The halls were abandoned, save for the occasional guard on patrol. It was late; Northfield didn’t even know how late. Perhaps two or three in the morning now, he’d wager.

They went down another hall, which held the school’s old administrative offices. They stopped in front of the farthest and largest, what used to be the principal’s office. The placard had been replaced with a new one reading Anne Kaminski, Commander-in-Chief.

Drawstring knocked on the door, and he called through it, “Anne, it’s Rayne. I’ve got Mark Northfield with me.”

30

Calvin B. Fisher

“Excellent. Send him in, please.”

Rayne patted him on the shoulder before departing.

Northfield took a deep breath. Past this door awaited the woman who had authorized his escape. Now he would find out exactly why. And how would he feel about her plans, exactly?

There was only one way to find out. He pressed on the door and entered the commander-in-chief ’s office.

31

2 Bookshelves flanked him, each filled to capacity with books.

Thick ones, too. The plurality were history books, judging by the titles, but he saw pretty much every type of nonfiction book marking the shelves.

Anne Kaminski sat behind a modest desk. Stacks and stacks of paper surrounded her. They were arranged in neat piles, hardly a corner out of place.

Jess, you would have killed for me to be half as neat as this.

Anne Kaminski observed him calmly, but he could feel her sharp blue eyes piercing him. Despite the late hour, an energy, almost a restlessness, coursed through them.

Her raven-black hair was neck-length, uniformly cut, and streaked with white. It gave the impression of wisdom that, when matched with her eyes, granted her a formidable presence.

The rest of her body was less imposing. She had thin shoulders, and when she stood to shake his hand, he could see that she wasn’t very tall. The top of her head reached his chin.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mark, truly. I’m Anne Kaminski, the commander-in-chief of Stormrise. You can call me Anne,” she said. “Thanks for your time. I know it’s late, so I’ll try to keep this short.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “You somehow managed to get us out of a city filled to the brim with people that wanted us dead. Take up the rest of my night if you want.”

Her thin lips turned up in amusement.

“Take a seat, Mark,” she said, returning to her chair.

32

Calvin B. Fisher

He pulled back one of the two seats in front of the desk and sank into the red cushions. They were comfier than they looked, and his eyes reflexively started to close. The weariness of his journey pressed on him suddenly as if a fat burlap sack of sand had dropped on him from the ceiling.

Keep your eyes plastered open, man. Now’s a time that you’ve gotta pay attention, maybe more than any other in your life.

The silence lingered a little too long for Northfield’s liking.

She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed to relish the silence.

As the quiet grew, an urge to speak nagged him, but he forced himself to be patient. He wanted Chief Kaminski to lead the conversation. This was her house, not his.

Finally, she leaned back a bit in her chair and said, “Your freedom wasn’t cheap, Mark. It cost me a lot of men. I’d say too many, but the loss of even one man is too many, so it feels like a trite point.” She raised her eyebrow quizzingly. “How many lives do you think your freedom is worth?”

He frowned. “I try not to put people onto scales. The math never comes out right, no matter how nice a scale you try to use.”

He shrugged and looked down. “But I killed a lot of Death Corps soldiers during the escape. So maybe there is a number, and I’m a hypocrite. I don’t know.”

“An honest man. I appreciate that.”

“Well, honesty is the advice Rayne gave me when talking to you, so I’m doing my best.”

She smiled, but it was marked by sorrow. The sorrow then overtook her expression, and she said, “There are always costs in this war. In this life, really. And we don’t always know whether the cost is worth it.”

He tilted his head slightly. “What do you want me for?”

She folded her hands. “Trying to destroy a resistance force like Stormrise is, in a lot of ways, like trying to kill a swarm of flies. Each individual unit is so small, so disparate, that it’s nearly impossible to stomp us out. Physical domination isn’t the way the Network intends to defeat us, despite their strength.

“To really kill us, the Network needs to starve us of our will. The way I see it, they can do this in two ways: from the 33

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

inside, by destroying Stormrise’s morale, or from the outside, by destroying the public’s view of us. We need both intact to defeat the Network. The Nexus is perfectly aware of this, especially their General Arkland.”

Northfield said, “And when you say ‘defeat the Network,’ is your goal a complete overthrow of its rule?”

She nodded grimly.

He said, “That’s ambitious.”

“Yes.” She paused for a moment. Then she smiled. “You’re the hero of Cumulus. The city’s Robin Hood with a submachine gun, freeing the city from its toxic prison.”

He squinted and averted his eyes. “I’m not a hero.”

“To Stormrise, you are. And you’re a legend to the citizens of New Medea. General Arkland planned on using your death as a sword. He wanted to stab it into the hearts of Stormrise and the city’s civilians.”

“And you couldn’t let that happen.”

“No,” she said. “I couldn’t.”

A pause lingered. She turned her gaze to one of the bookshelves and studied the covers.

She said, “You’re wondering what I want from you. Your safety here is a big blow to the Network and a huge boost to the spirits of my men and women. The legend escaping the grasp of the Network is a story that will travel around and around.

“As far as I’m concerned, that benefit is worth the heavy price we had to pay. All I ask is that you don’t leave our protection here.

I’m not quite sure why you would, anyway. You’re the Network’s most wanted man, aside from maybe Rayne or Geralt. Nowhere else will be safe for you.” She leaned forward. “That being said, I hope you’ll want to help our cause past keeping yourself alive.

But we made no deal with you before we broke you out. I won’t force you into work that you didn’t agree to. I like to think we’re better than the Network, after all.”

“And what about Geralt?”

She said, “Him we want for similar reasons. Past that, Geralt has fought his own battle with the Network. We can use his experience. Based on what I’ve heard about him, I think he’ll be happy to fight against the Network.”

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Calvin B. Fisher

He pressed his lips together. “How will he be treated here?”

She raised her eyebrow; she appeared somewhat confused.

“He’s not our prisoner. He’ll be given his choice, too, and given the same rights and comforts as everyone else.”

“That’s not what I’m asking about, exactly.” He paused and frowned, trying to figure out how to best phrase his thoughts.

“How’s he gonna be treated by the members of Stormrise? His past with the Yellowbacks is…. They were raiders. They caused trouble, and most people didn’t like them much. I just worry about how he’s gonna get treated, that’s all.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Well, there are a few things for you to consider. Most people in the New Medea region don’t know much about the Network region Cumulus calls home. For so long, little information came in or went out. The first time most people heard about the Yellowbacks was when they heard about you. They primarily heard about the Yellowbacks’ fight against the Network and their role as raiders second. That was enough to win most of them over.” She crossed her arms and exhaled. “Besides, even if people in Stormrise come to know everything about him, I don’t see it causing a problem. The apocalypse happened, and what we all did in the time following is too messy for any of us to parse. Stormrise is everyone’s doover. When people come here, the past is the past. The same goes for Geralt.”

Northfield thought about that. Then he leaned back. “Okay.

Let’s say you manage to really overthrow the Network. What then?”

Anne said, “Overthrowing the Network’s only half the battle, isn’t it? The question, maybe the most important one, is what we plan to transform the city into.” She cast her glance again at the books. “Truth be told, Mark, I’m not sure if that battle is mine.”

“What do you mean?”

She said, “Revolutions have a nasty habit of promising more than they can give. Democracy, love, a thousand years of peace.

Anything to get more guns and men. Then, when a revolution succeeds, half the time, or perhaps even more so, the revolution results in nothing positive. The victors sit on their fresh thrones 35

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

and begin a tyranny anew. Look at the French Revolution. What did the French get for their troubles? A sea of beheadings.”

The weariness grew on her face. She said, “I’m not going to promise a world I can’t give, Mark. And I certainly don’t intend on ruling when we win. I’m going to give the people what’s rightfully theirs. An election.”

“An election?”

She nodded. “The Network wasn’t voted in. It took power by force, and now it’s running roughshod over all of our lives.

I’m going to give the people a choice for their future. A vote for whoever wants to step up to the pedestal.”

Northfield reflected on her words.

She cracked a grin. “Of course, that’s assuming we win.”

He smiled at that.

She asked, “What about you, Mark? What do you want the future to look like?”

He thought about his promise to Jess in the aftermath of his escape from New Medea.

“I wanted Cumulus to be freed from the gas. I thought it would fix things somehow. But six months after we accomplished the mission, the Network dragged me out of my prison cell.

The city didn’t look much better. Fires raged from war with the Yellowbacks, and the Network sure hadn’t gotten any nicer.

“Then I arrived at New Medea, which was also free from the gas, and things didn’t seem very good there either. Getting rid of the gas didn’t fix much after all.”

He paused for a moment and stared at his feet. “I don’t have the solutions. But I want things to get better. I do.”

She nodded, her eyes fixed intently on him. His eyes met hers.

“Tell me, Anne, is there any chance of resolving this conflict peacefully?”

She frowned in sympathy, but her eyes remained firm. “There isn’t. Not now, and probably not ever.”

He pondered her words. I promised to help make the world better. But how many people won’t live to see it?

“I don’t want an off-the-cuff decision from you,” Anne said. “Give it some thought. Let’s find some time to meet again tomorrow.”

36

Calvin B. Fisher

is?”

He nodded. “Can I be brought back to Geralt, wherever he

“Of course,” Anne said. “And I hope it doesn’t need to be said, but we’ll do everything in our power for him.” *** Rayne Simpson escorted Northfield to the infirmary. The school’s nursing office had been converted into the infirmary, with the neighboring walls busted out to make way for more sick rooms. Despite the conversion, the waiting room still had a smallish feeling, made as it was to house children. Normal chairs had been brought in, but they looked too big and out of place.

The walls had been repainted a cream color.

Odell sat in one of the waiting room chairs. A yellowing magazine sat in his lap, but he wasn’t reading it; in fact, he was sleeping, his head leaning against the back wall.

Rayne patted Northfield on the shoulder and departed.

Northfield sat next to Odell as gently as he could, but he couldn’t avoid waking him.

“Sorry,” Northfield said.

Odell waved in dismissal. “I’m a light sleeper, anyway.”

The front desk was empty, so Northfield had to direct his questions toward his friend. “Any news on him?”

Odell shook his head. “A nurse took him and Rodeo in. After that, I haven’t heard anything.”

Odell looked haggard beyond simple exhaustion. He stared at nothing in particular and didn’t meet Northfield’s gaze.

Northfield asked, “Hey, are you all right?”

“Oh, I’m doing fine.” He clasped his hands together and hung his head. “I just didn’t expect seeing Aubrey again to be this… hard. It brings everything back.”

Northfield put his arm on Odell’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

The older man shrugged. “It’s fine. It’s the least of our worries right now.”

“The little things still matter,” Northfield said.

Odell still didn’t look at him. He asked, “How did your meeting go with the commander-in-chief?”

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The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

“It went well,” he replied, briefly recounting their conversation.

Odell asked, “And what do you think of Chief Kaminski?”

He thought about that for a moment. “I like her. I like what she says. But it all comes down to actions, doesn’t it?”

“That it does,” Odell said wistfully. A pause lingered, with Odell wrapping himself back up into his own thoughts.

Northfield stared at the receptionist’s desk and the hallway of sick beds that lay beyond. Geralt’s strong. If I could put money on anybody surviving what he’s been through, it would be him.

But he’s just a man, and this world will do whatever it wants with him.

I’ve never been good at praying, God. I always get all twisted up on myself. But I’m gonna keep trying.

They remained silent as Northfield finished his prayer for Geralt. He also prayed for Rodeo, even though his full recovery seemed certain. It didn’t hurt to cover all his bases.

When he finally opened his eyes, he saw a doctor approaching from the hallway. She was in her late thirties, with long brown hair that was tightly tied back. Bags hung under her eyes, and a grim frown beset her face.

She extended her arm to them and said, “I’m Doctor Cohanan.”

They introduced themselves, and he shook her hand. This must be the doctor that Dr. Mitchell had mentioned.

Northfield asked, “How is Geralt?”

The doctor’s frown deepened. “He’s stable. But for how long the wound was exposed, it would be a minor miracle if he didn’t get an infection. I gave him what antibiotics I have, but they’re low-grade. I hope it’ll fight off whatever may be in his system.

We’ll have to see.”

Northfield said, “Dr. Mitchell made it sound like you’d have what he needed.”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, he was mistaken.” There was a pause, and she added, “Any signs of progressing infection should show themselves in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. If he did catch something resistant to the antibiotics, then we may have to operate.”

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Calvin B. Fisher

He raised an eyebrow. “Operate?”

“We may have to amputate his leg.”

He shook his head vigorously. “Geralt won’t allow it. There’s got to be another way.”

“Not unless we get a new shipment of heavy-duty antibiotics soon,” she said. “Which I don’t see as likely.”

He mulled on that. Then he said, “Can I see him?”

“He’s sleeping,” she said. “I’d rather he stayed that way. He needs to get his strength up.” She hesitated before putting an arm on his shoulder. “You two look exhausted. Go. There’s nothing you can do for him right now.”

He met her eyes. “You’ll let us know if there are any updates?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Thank you, Dr. Cohanan,” Odell said. “Geralt’s a tough gun.

You’ll be surprised at how tough.”

Samuel “Red” and Leo “Saturn” escorted Odell and Northfield to their rooms. As they passed former classrooms, Northfield peered into the windows. Many had been converted into barracks, with bunk beds arranged in neat rows.

Samuel and Leo led them from the main hallway to a wing of classrooms. Samuel brought Odell to one of the classrooms while Leo brought Northfield to a small office. The office contained a bunk bed and a small desk, both of which were unused.

“Your abode,” Leo said. “Humble, but hell, it’s a step up from what I’ve got.”

“Thanks,” Northfield said. The sharpshooter of Widow Team departed, leaving Northfield to himself.

The silence, after all the movement over the past couple of days, was eerie. He felt like he needed to keep moving, or he’d never be able to move again.

No, Mark. You need sleep.

He clambered up to the top bunk; there was no reason he picked it over the second bunk aside from the fact that it felt right.

There he lay, staring at the ceiling panels, trying to push thoughts of the harrowing violence of their escape out of his mind. He had partial success only because he couldn’t stop thinking about Geralt. He clasped his hands together.

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The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

Hey, God, it’s me. Mark again. They say too much of anything’s a bad thing. Does that go for prayers, too, or are they an exception?

Is there some cosmic limit at which point you put someone’s pleas directly to voicemail?

In either case, I guess I’m gonna pray again. About, you guessed it, Geralt. And about the very same thing, too. Yeah, I’m full of surprises tonight.

I’ll keep it short. I’ve seen so many people hurt around me. And I want is to see something go right for someone. Let Geralt keep his leg. Please, God, I just… I don’t want his nightmares to come true.

40

3 Northfield checked on Geralt in the morning, but Doctor Cohanan had no updates for him. Geralt was still sleeping, and Northfield didn’t want to wake him. Leo “Saturn” Smalls escorted him to the cafeteria for breakfast while he described Northfield’s schedule for the day.

Leo said, “After you grab some grub, I’ll take you on a quick tour of the headquarters. That way, you’ll be able to find your way around without having to hug my butt the whole time. Then you’re free to explore, rest up, or do whatever. At 3 p.m., you’ll meet back up with Chief Kaminski. Later tonight, there will be a general assembly in the cafeteria. Chief Kaminski’s gonna officially announce the mission’s success, as well as introduce you to everybody. I’m sure the chief will tell you more about it when you see her.”

As they passed people in the hallway, their heads swiveled toward Northfield, following him until they were out of sight. He shrank back slightly from the attention.

Leo noticed, and he said, “You’ll be getting a lot of that for a while. You’re a celebrity around here, or as close to one as you can get.”

Northfield shook his head and said, “Gotta say, man, I don’t think I was meant for the spotlight.”

They reached the cafeteria doors, and Leo held them open for Northfield. After Northfield passed through, he noticed that Leo hadn’t followed him.

“Aren’t you coming?” he asked.

41

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

“Nah,” Leo replied. “I’m not hungry. I’m gonna hit the gym.

I’ll be back to grab you when you’re done. All right?”

With that, he shut the door. Northfield turned around, and a quiet cafeteria greeted him. Nearly all conversation had stopped, and everyone’s eyes were on him.

Out of all the rooms he had visited at the headquarters, the cafeteria was the least altered from its elementary school days.

The main differences were larger tables and chairs, fit for adults rather than kids, along with an elevated platform and podium on the left side of the room.

His surroundings transported him back to grade school in the worst way possible. Everybody’s stares made him feel like his pants had just fallen down.

A pair of hands near the end of the cafeteria clapped. Then they clapped again. It opened the floodgates for a sea of applause.

Unsure what to do, he offered a salutary wave to nobody in particular. When the applause finally started to die down, he picked up a tray and headed to the serving stations at the back of the cafeteria. The food was self-serve, blissfully, so he loaded up on some type of white fish and some bread. Slowly, conversation resumed throughout the cafeteria.

He spotted a few familiar faces at a nearby table: Erik “Rodeo” Smith, Andy “Skullbeard” Liu, and Samuel “Red” Perez. Erik sported a fresh bandage on his arm.

A woman sat next to them. She was around their same age, give or take a couple of years. She had striking emerald eyes and black hair that reached just past her shoulders. Next to her sat a young girl with the same light brown hair as Erik, although hers reached the small of her back.

When Northfield stepped toward them, Erik smiled and waved him over. Northfield took a seat, and Erik said, “Howdy, Mark. I’ve got some amazing ladies to introduce you to. This is my daughter, Becca.”

The young girl smiled and waved shyly before averting her eyes. She wore a large pair of glasses.

Erik said, “And this is my sister, Sydnee.”

“Hi, Mark. It’s an honor to meet you,” she said.

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Calvin B. Fisher

He reached over and shook her hand. “The honor’s mine.

Your brother and Andy saved me, along with the rest of the Widow team.”

Erik waved away his comment. “Eh, you held your own out there. I mean, honestly, if not for your help, we might’ve….” He glanced at his daughter, then turned back to Northfield. “Well, let’s just leave it at that.” He turned to the others and said, “As I was saying, I’m dead serious. The fish was this big.”

He tried to gesture with his hands to show the size of the alleged fish, but he winced and pulled back.

Samuel said, “Awh. Does the big guy’s boo-boo hurt?”

“Oh, shut up,” Erik said. “If you got shot, you’d cry yourself through every last tissue paper in this joint. But me, I’m taking this wound like a champ. See?” He leaned down to Becca and said, “The rocket’s gonna take off. You want to board?”

She clapped her hands excitedly. She squealed as he picked her up with one hand and spun her around in the air. By the time he set her down, she giggled like a madman. He bopped her on the nose before turning back to Samuel.

Erik said, “I take back what I said, man. You’d have trouble lifting a box of tissue paper, now that I think about it.”

Andy rubbed his forehead with his fingers in frustration.

“Could you just get on with the story, Erik?”

“I’m taking you on a journey,” Erik said. “Isn’t the road more important than the destination?”

“With you?” Samuel said. “It’s more like a road to hell.”

Erik said, “Fine. The fish was really big, I’m telling you. Like, almost my wingspan. And I’ve got some long arms.”

Andy asked, “So what happened to this fish? You’re telling me that you caught this giant, but you didn’t bring it back to base?” “’Course I didn’t just toss it back into the river, man,” Erik said. “But I didn’t get it back to camp, either.”

“Ooh, the suspense builds,” Sydnee said.

Erik said, “Oh no. Don’t you join the peanut gallery, too.”

“What’s a peanut gallery?” Becca asked, tugging on her father’s sleeve.

“A peanut gallery is another word for your dad’s friends,” he said. “They’re both really….”

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The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

Andy snapped his fingers, urging Erik to get on with the story.

Erik said, “All right, back to the fish. So I just got the bad boy off the line, and then bam! A wolf howls out of nowhere, right past the shoreline. Scared the ever-loving—” He was about to utter a curse, but he stopped himself and patted his daughter’s head. “Crap. It scared the ever-loving crap out of me. Dropped the fish right back down into the ice hole. And just like that, it disappeared. Tried for another hour to catch the thing again, but I had bad luck.”

“Yeah, I don’t know if I buy that story,” Andy said.

“Sounds like the usual garbage you peddle,” Samuel added.

Erik looked to Sydnee pleadingly. “You believe me, don’t you?”

“I’m not doubting you caught a fish,” she said and then shrugged. “I’m just doubting the size. And the wolf part. But yeah, I definitely believe you caught a fish.”

The others chuckled at that.

Erik leaned down to his daughter and said, “I know you’re on my side.”

“I am, Daddy,” she said.

He fist-bumped her, and he said, “You and me versus the world. Always.” He picked up his tray and stood up. “All right, it’s time for us to get a move on.”

Sydnee and Becca stood up alongside him. The girl tugged on his sleeve and asked, “Can I maybe read for a little bit?”

Erik tapped his finger on his lips and pretended to be deep in thought. “Hmm… last I remembered, you have some chores to do, young lady.”

She looked downcast, but she said, “Okay.”

He sighed. “Fifteen minutes. But then you do your chores.”

She brightened up. “Really?”

“Yeah, sure, kid.”

Sydnee crossed her arms and started, “Erik….”

He put his arms up. “Hey, what’s fifteen minutes?”

It was Sydnee’s turn to sigh. She lowered herself to Becca and said, “Just fifteen minutes. I don’t want to hear any ‘one last chapters’ from you, all right?”

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“I promise,” Becca insisted.

“Well, we’ve heard that before,” Sydnee muttered. She stepped over to Andy and said, “You’ll sit next to us at the assembly, won’t you?”

“What?” Andy asked. “Yeah, of course.”

The family departed, leaving Andy, Samuel, and Northfield at the table. Andy sipped his coffee. Samuel waited until the family was out of sight before he nudged Andy.

“What?” Andy exclaimed.

“When are you gonna get the stones to ask her out?” Samuel asked.

“What?” Andy said again. “That’s not… That’s not happening.”

“The hell it’s not. Unless you’re a weenie about it.”

“She’s Erik’s sister,” Andy said. “I mean, he would kill me.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“Are you kidding me?” Andy protested. “You see how protective he is of her and Becca. I’d never get in between that, man.”

“Have you ever considered that he might want you to? Just ask her out already.”

“And where would we even go on a date?” Andy said. “A picnic in the toxic gas? We’re in the middle of a war. It’s not the time for picnics.”

“Waiting until you’re both geriatric doesn’t sound like a great plan, either.”

Andy exhaled loudly. “I don’t even think she likes me.”

Samuel scoffed. “You’re kidding.”

Northfield smirked and looked down.

Samuel noticed and asked, “What are you thinking, newbie?”

Northfield said, “Nothing. This just reminds me of my wife. I was scared to ask her out for the longest time.”

Samuel asked, “And how’d you finally stone up to ask her?”

“I didn’t,” he said with a small smile. “She asked me.”

Samuel nudged Andy and said, “You better not make her ask you out, or I’ll kill you.”

“What the hell would be wrong with that?” Andy said.

45

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

“Because she’s been taking care of Erik and Becca for ages now. Her plate is way the hell full. Don’t make her worry about asking you out, too.”

Andy picked up his tray and said, “This is a dumb conversation.

I’m out of here.” He nodded to Northfield, and his anger cooled a bit. “It was good seeing you again, man.”

Samuel winked at Northfield as Andy left. “It’s only a matter of time.”

They finished eating, and Northfield met Leo at the cafeteria doors to begin the tour.

“I’ll take you to my true love first,” Leo said. He brought Northfield to a set of three classrooms, the walls of which had been busted out to build a workout gym. All sorts of exercise equipment dotted the floor, much of it being used by Stormrise members. “Since training outside isn’t exactly the safest, we do most of our workouts here. Now, grab your gas mask. I’ve got a couple of places outside to show you.”

He brought Northfield out through the school’s front doors.

There was a row of vehicles concealed under an awning that extended from the school.

“If the Network finds us, this here’s another way out. The road from the school leads to a broken bridge. But we’ve built an extension device that makes the bridge passable. We don’t use it or the vehicles here unless there’s an emergency. There’s less tree cover than the woodland route.”

Leo brought Northfield to the roof of the school. Rows and rows of solar panels dotted its expanse. There were two other people on the roof, bundled up in snow gear and gas masks, wiping snow off the panels with brooms. Leo waved to them, and they waved back.

Leo said, “These panels power everything in the facility.

Generators, filtration systems, lights, you name it.”

“They’re a little conspicuous, aren’t they?” Northfield asked.

“Aren’t you worried about the Network flying overhead?”

Leo said, “They don’t fly around this area much. We’ve only had it happen once or twice. But when they do, these panels can flip around. Then you can’t tell from the air. I’d show you, but I 46

Calvin B. Fisher

don’t have the remote control for it.” He pointed into the distance.

“There are lakes everywhere—plenty of fresh water and plenty of fish for us to eat. We mix things up when we can, but we’re selfsufficient here. Well, as far as basic survival goes.”

Leo led him back into the building, and they headed in the direction of Chief Kaminski’s office. Or at least Northfield thought they were headed there.

“Now, are you ready to meet the little birdie that’s in our ear during missions?” Leo asked.

He opened a nondescript door that led to a room that was anything but. The room was dark, save for an array of monitors that lined the wall. Northfield counted nine of them. A desk stood in the center, with one final monitor sitting atop it. A set of desktop computers sat on the floor, jerry-rigged together in a tangle of wires. In fact, wires ran everywhere on the ground.

Northfield watched his step.

Leo said, “Mark, I’d like you to meet Dimitri Oblonsky.”

A giant chair sat in front of the desk, facing away from them.

Dimitri tried to wheel the chair back and spin toward them, but a wheel got caught on one of the wires. Dimitri wheeled the chair forward, then back to turn toward them.

“Well, that wasn’t half as cool as I wanted it to be,” Dimitri said, brushing his hand through spiky, jet-black hair. He had a nose ring and multiple earrings on each ear. With his black leather jacket, he really looked like the stereotypical guy that belonged in a room with a horde of monitors.

Northfield extended his hand. “Mark Northfield. So you’re the support that got us out of the city through those closed tunnels.”

“Yes, sir,” Dimitri said.

“Thank you,” Northfield said. “Without you, we’d be in the Network’s clutches right now.”

Dimitri shrugged. “We’ve all got our talents. I’m just lucky mine keeps my butt nice and comfy in this chair instead of out there catching bullets.”

Leo said, “If you need anything techy-tech, Dimitri’s your guy. He’s the only one we allow to access the Network’s internet system.”

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The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

Dimitri explained further, “It’s too big of a risk. The Network monitors all activity heavily. Even with our VPN, one person saying one wrong thing could compromise us all.”

Leo squinted at him and asked, “Did you eat, Dimitri?”

“In my life? Yes, I have.”

“Breakfast, you dolt. Or dinner, for that matter.”

“Uh… no, I haven’t.”

“Go eat before the kitchen closes. And take a shower. You smell like sweat and leather.”

“Okay. Thanks, Dad,” Dimitri said, rolling his eyes.

Leo took Northfield to Kaminski’s office, which was only a hallway away.

“She’s ready for you. I’ll see you around,” Leo said before departing.

When Northfield entered Kaminski’s office, he was greeted

by Anne Kaminski, Rayne Simpson, and another man that Northfield hadn’t met.

Anne wasted no time in introducing him. “Mark, this is General Earl Taylor. He commands our standard combat forces.”

General Taylor was a short man, even when he stood ramrod straight. He was bald, and he had soft features, which gave him an amiable air. He wore a general’s uniform with a small dotting of medals on his chest.

They shook hands while Anne said, “General Taylor served as a major. He was stationed in St. Louis when the war came stateside.”

“St. Louis?” Northfield said. “I heard some things here and there during my time serving. You put up a hell of a fight.”

“We all did,” General Taylor said with a hint of sadness.

“Where did you serve?”

“I served in Raven 404,” he replied.

General Taylor and Rayne exchanged a glance. “Rayne told me how well you fought during the escape,” the general said.

“Raven 404? It all makes sense.”

“I just did what I could, sir,” Northfield said.

“So, Mark,” Anne said, “I hope you’ve given some thought to Stormrise.”

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“I want to help,” he said. “The Network’s gone too far, too fast.

As far as how I think I can help…” His face darkened slightly.

“To be honest, I haven’t given it much thought. I’ve been worried about Geralt.”

Anne frowned. “I understand. We’re all hoping he pulls through.”

“If his leg gets infected and he doesn’t get the medicine he needs… I don’t want to even think about it. But I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“There’s hope,” Anne said. “Medical supplies are our biggest priority right now. In fact, General Taylor has an operation tonight that aims to acquire some.”

General Taylor elaborated, “The Network runs convoys through the abandoned city of Brainerd. The city is remote, so the convoys are occasional and isolated. We have reason to believe a convoy tonight will head through with the supplies we need. I have a team in place to take the materials.”

“It will hold us over for a little while,” Rayne said.

“And help Geralt if he needs it,” Northfield said.

“Yes,” Anne said.

“Along with finding a more long-term solution,” Rayne said.

“We can’t rely on sporadic convoys, especially as Stormrise grows and the battle with the Network gets hotter.”

Anne nodded in agreement. She turned to Northfield and said, “We have two short-term goals, Mark. The first is to grow.

We can’t challenge the Network without more active members and support from the public. This goal, however, can’t be achieved without the second: we need to keep Stormrise’s morale up.

Without our own morale, we can’t hope to garner support from others. After all, who will believe in us if we don’t first believe in ourselves?

“As part of that morale effort, I’m making a speech tonight at our assembly to celebrate our rescue of you and Geralt. If you’re willing to help us, I think the first way you can do so is to give a small speech of your own.”

“A speech?” Northfield said. “I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I’m unwilling. It’s just… I don’t know if I’d really boost morale. I mean, what would I even say?”

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The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

“I’ll leave it up to you,” Anne said. “I want your words to come from you, not me. Just remember: be honest.” *** The hours passed, and Northfield mulled over what he might say during his speech, but nothing came to him. How could he put hope into the hearts of people he didn’t know? He could hardly give himself a good pep talk when he needed it.

So he decided to ask for help. Odell had once been a preacher; speaking to the masses was something he had experience with.

He found Odell in the cafeteria, helping put away the tables and organize chairs for the assembly.

“They’re putting you to work already?” Northfield joked.

Odell shrugged. “I saw people starting to set up in here, and I didn’t have much else to do.” He glanced past Northfield. On the opposite side of the cafeteria, Aubrey was helping set up chairs.

“She came in to help a little after. She’s always eager to help, despite her grumblings.”

“Have you two talked?” Northfield asked.

“No,” Odell said, turning away from him to pick up another chair. His tone indicated that he didn’t want to speak further on the subject.

Northfield looked around and asked, “Do you need more help?”

Odell said, “I appreciate it, but I’m sure you have more important things to attend to. From what I’ve heard, you have a speech to prepare.”

“Yeah, I do. Word travels fast around here, huh?” Northfield said. “In fact, that’s why I came to you.”

Odell set down his chair and turned toward him. “Is that right?”

“I’m not exactly a profound orator, and I just want to make sure I say the right thing. Do you have any advice for me?”

“Did Kaminski give you any guidelines?”

“Honesty. That’s pretty much it.”

“Hmm,” Odell said, scratching his chin. “Drink water beforehand. Not too much, or you’ll have to pee. Keep it short 50

Calvin B. Fisher

and sweet as well. Gives you less to fret about and generally goes over better with a crowd.”

“Water. Keep it short. Got it,” Northfield said. “Thank you.”

Odell studied him. “You’re stressed. Are you afraid of public speaking?”

“Not any more than the average person, no,” Northfield said. “It’s just… This isn’t a high school science speech on the mitochondria, you know? People care about this.”

Odell put a hand on his shoulder. “I haven’t known you very long, Mark. But even in that time, I’ve realized that you’re just about the most genuine man I’ve met. Just let people see that, and it’ll all be alright. People connect to authenticity.”

Northfield mulled that over before he said, “Thanks, Odell.”

But Odell’s attention wasn’t on him anymore. He gazed across the cafeteria at Aubrey, pain knotting his face.

Northfield decided not to press the issue; Odell didn’t look to be in the mood for a talk about what happened between them.

“I’ll see you later,” Northfield said before ducking out of the cafeteria. He returned to his room and brainstormed.

If only you were here, Jess. How many times do I think that per day? But right now, well, I really wish so. You’d walk through this with me. You’d tell me if I was gonna say something really stupid.

I guess we’ll find out, huh? I’m just afraid of letting these people down, Jess. I don’t want to let them down. *** He had completely forgotten to take Odell’s advice and drink water. Now he sat up on the stage alongside Rayne Simpson and General Taylor with a bone-dry mouth. There was another empty seat to his right, which was reserved for Anne Kaminski.

She stood at the podium, as calm as lazy ocean waves, waiting for everyone to settle in.

He decided it was too late to get up and grab water. Anne was about to start her speech.

The entirety of Stormrise at the base was gathered in the cafeteria, save for the guards on active duty and those working 51

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

in or occupying the infirmary. The hundred or so people sure looked like a lot, arranged in rows that reached the back wall.

He focused on the kids in the audience, of which there were about ten. Two were infants. The little children had trouble staying still in their chairs, and their parents scolded them. There were another seven teenagers.

Erik sat with his family. Becca’s big glasses reflected light. She gave Northfield a small wave, and he waved back.

What if I frighten the kids? What if I make them sad?

He didn’t have more time to consider his fears. Anne put up a hand to silence the audience and draw their attention. One of the babies cried for a couple of moments before quieting down.

“Hello, everyone,” she started. “As you’ve all heard, Mark Northfield and Geralt Salb arrived at our base last night.”

A cheer spread through the crowd. She waited for it to pass before she continued.

“We’ve been going through a rough patch lately. But all of you, each and every one, has toughed it out. You’ve kept your heads focused on our mission, and you’ve continued your labors.

I want you all to know how proud I am of you.

“This win, it means something. When you plant crops, you have to be faithful to them. You have to labor over them, even when you can’t see the results immediately. Well, today, we get to see the first signs of blossoming.”

Another cheer arose.

Anne Kaminski let the moment pass. Her face became mournful, and she said, “Geralt Salb was injured during the mission, and he is resting in the infirmary. We hope for his quick recovery. Let’s have a moment of silence for him and the brave men and women we lost during the mission.”

After the moment of silence passed, she listed the fallen’s names and said a kind word or told a story about each of them.

She said, “I knew these men and women, some better than others. But for all of them, I think I can safely say that they would want us to keep planting seeds. Our work is just beginning. We’ll continue to hit rough patches. I can guarantee it. We’ll lose more loved ones. But if we continue on, as we have been, the crops will 52

Calvin B. Fisher

continue to sprout. Slowly but surely, we’ll have a harvest.”

She let another pause pass before she said, “And now I’ll let Mark Northfield say a couple of words.”

Applause roared through the cafeteria. Northfield forced himself not to shrink away from the stand as he approached it.

He gripped it tightly and was reminded once again of the dryness in his mouth.

He started, “Life is pretty surreal. Not too long ago, I was behind bars. The last thing I’d thought I’d be worried about was giving a speech. Well, here I am now, with sweaty palms and cottonmouth.”

His comment drew a couple of chuckles.

“All right, I guess I’ll get on with it.” His gaze fell to the center of the podium. “My wife passed on a while ago. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. But sometimes, when I look around, I feel kind of relieved, in a messed-up way, that she isn’t here to see what the world’s become.”

He forced himself to meet the eyes in the crowd, and he said, “I want the world to be better. I want it to be a place that would make her happy. I want it to be a place that honors those we’ve lost along the way. I don’t know how to make that happen, not exactly. But I know what we can do. We can remain steady. We can help those we love. We can pray for them, and encourage them. Then, ever so slowly, we watch the world change. At least that’s what I hope for.”

He left the podium, and stillness followed. When he sat down, he once again studied the eyes in the cafeteria. He hoped his words helped someone, anyone, out there. But now that he’d said his words, they felt right.

I guess that’ll have to be good enough.

Anne Kaminski returned to the podium, and she said, “Our work will continue tomorrow. But tonight, we rest and take some time to appreciate our victory. There are snacks and drinks at the serving stations. Enjoy, and remember why we’re doing this.”

A mix of emotions pervaded the festivities. There was cause for both sorrow and celebration. The mission had been successful but at the cost of lives. With that in mind, it was hard for anyone to get too carried away.

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The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

Northfield met a whirlwind of people throughout the night, as most of Stormrise’s members wanted to introduce themselves.

There were so many new names that he doubted he would remember any of them by the morning. Remembering names was never his strong suit.

He tried not to chide himself too much for that fact, though.

He would have time later to get to know people, hopefully in a less crowded environment.

Odell hovered by the bowl of spiked punch, cup in hand.

Northfield weaved his way over to the older man.

“Mark,” he exclaimed in an overly jolly way. Odell scooped him a cup of the punch and held it out. Northfield waved it away.

Odell shrugged and held on to the cup.

“Having fun?” Northfield asked.

Odell nodded. A warm, fuzzy smile crossed his lips.

“Celebrate, Mark. We’re alive. I’ll be honest, and I didn’t want to say it, but there was a minute or two that I thought we were done for. But we made it out. We did.” He studied the cups in his hands. He drank from the one that he had offered Northfield. It appeared that he wouldn’t let the drink go to waste.

Northfield considered whether he should tell Odell to slow down. The sight of Odell intoxicated surprised him. He had assumed Odell didn’t drink, but he didn’t know why.

He felt a hand clasp his shoulder. It was Leo. Grimness marked his face.

“It’s Geralt,” he said. “You have to come. Now.”

54

4 “I ain’t taking back what I said,” Geralt said. “I come out of this with both of my legs, or I don’t come out at all.”

He sweated profusely; his hair was matted, and his pillow was damp all the way through. He gripped the sides of his bed so tightly that the frame creaked when he shifted back and forth.

Dr. Cohanan turned to Northfield. She said, “He’s running a temperature of 102.”

“Really?” Geralt interjected. “And I thought it was just hot in here.”

She ignored him. “His wound is festering, and a rash is traveling up his leg. He has an infection—there’s no denying it— and it’s spreading.” She crossed her arms. “There are three ways this can go. The first is that we get the antibiotics we need. The second, failing that, is that we operate on the leg. If we remove it—” “No,” Geralt said. “Not a chance.”

She gave him a stern look. “Then that would leave the third option. The infection keeps traveling up your body, reaching your heart and killing you.”

“Well, this sounds pretty simple to me,” he said through bared teeth. “You get whatever magic beans you need to fix my leg, and I walk out of this stupid room.”

“That’s not in my control,” Dr. Cohanan said. She turned to Leo, who stood at the doorway of Geralt’s room. “Is there any news on the ambush?”

“It should happen any moment now,” Leo said. “Our guys will report when the mission is completed, so we should get news soon.”

55

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

“Good,” Dr. Cohanan said. “Then we can all hope for the best.” She put a hand on Geralt’s bed and said, “In the meantime, Geralt, I suggest you think long and hard. Living life with one leg isn’t—” Geralt interrupted. “Uh-huh. How about I hack off one of yours first? Then I’ll listen to lectures about how great life will be.” He reached out suddenly, grabbing Northfield’s wrist. His palm was clammy, and his fingers dug into Northfield’s skin. “If I pass out, or fall asleep, or whatever the hell, don’t let them touch my leg. You hear me?”

“I won’t. I promise,” Northfield said before adding, “But, man, I don’t want you to die.”

Dr. Cohanan said to Geralt, “You’re competent and sane.

You’re capable of making your own decisions, as much as I may not like them. I won’t violate your autonomy, Geralt. You have my word.”

“Yeah, that’s great,” Geralt said. “But sorry to hurt your feelings. I don’t trust you yet.” He met Northfield’s gaze. His steely eyes were almost pleading. “Northfield, promise.”

“I promise,” he replied.

Geralt looked down and scrunched his brow. “I’m sick of you all looking at me like I’m a goldfish. Everybody, get out. Dr. Cohanan, if you’ve gotta do something, then do it, or get out, too.”

Leo and Northfield left Geralt’s room. Odell sat in the waiting room, tapping his foot restlessly.

“How is he?” Odell asked. The gravity of the situation seemed to have sobered him up; his liquor-fueled jolly had entirely faded.

Northfield filled him in before he asked Leo, “You said we’d hear from the ambush team any minute?”

“Yeah,” Leo said. “General Taylor and Rayne are overseeing the op as we speak. Widow Team is on standby.” He tapped the radio on his belt. “If something happens, we’ll be the first to hear about it.”

They didn’t have to wait long, although it felt like an eternity.

Leo’s radio crackled to life.

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Rayne’s grave tone spelled bad news from his first word. “Op’s gone ass up. The Death Corps were ready. Our boys are pinned.

Get ready ASAP. We’ve got a rescue to make.”

“God help us,” Odell muttered.

Northfield’s head spun. If they didn’t get the medicine, then…

Leo stood up. “Aw, hell.”

He darted out of the room, not wasting time on Northfield or Odell.

Northfield couldn’t just sit here.

“Odell,” he said. “Can I trust you to look over Geralt?”

“Of course,” Odell replied. “But what are you—” Northfield didn’t let him finish. He stood up and found Dr. Cohanan, who was stepping out of a patient’s room.

“I’m heading out. Odell’s going to keep watch for me. About Geralt—” “I won’t go against his wishes, Mark. I promise.”

He replied, “Because if you do, he’ll kill you. And I’m not sure I could stop him.”

He rushed out of the infirmary without waiting for Cohanan to reply. He ran to the armory, where Widow Team was already almost finished gearing up. Erik wasn’t with them due to his injured arm.

Rayne said, “We haven’t forgotten about the medicine, Mark.

We’ll still retrieve it if we can.”

“But the rescue comes first,” Northfield said.

“Yes,” Rayne replied.

Northfield furrowed his brow. “Take me with you. I want to be a part of this.”

“Mark—” Rayne started to say.

Northfield interrupted, “You’re down a man. Seems I could fill that slot. And we’ve already fought together. I know how to work with your team.”

“You’re valuable, Mark. If you die, what that could do to morale… Kaminski would—” “Kaminski could spin me into a martyr and motivate people all the same.”

57

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

Rayne looked at the other members of Widow Team and assessed their reactions. Their expressions went from neutral to approving.

Leo said, “We could use another gun. I say we should bring him along.”

Rayne gestured to Northfield. “If that’s your choice, I won’t stop you. Get ready.”

They sped out in an armored vehicle capable of fitting eight comfortably, along with a stretcher in case somebody received a grievous wound.

The town they were heading to was thirty minutes away.

Along the way, they received radio updates from General Taylor and the leader of the ambush party.

The ambush party had set up on the second floor of a candy shop on the corner of Brainerd’s Main Street. The heavyset brick walls had been blown out by mortar fire from the war. The ambush party had waited for the Death Corps vehicle to cross Main Street. They had lain tire spikes across the road, which the snow had hidden well.

The vehicle had passed over the treads and blew out its tires, but that was where the mission went awry.

The Death Corps, evidently, had been prepared for some sort of ambush. They filed out of the vehicle, weapons ready, firing at the ambushers. The ambushers were now pinned on the second floor of the candy shop, fending off the Death Corps as well as they could. The Death Corps must have sent for reinforcements.

Widow Team would get there first, but even then, they could only count on ten or fifteen minutes before more hostiles showed up. Widow Team had to hit hard—and quickly.

There had not been confirmation of whether the Death Corps vehicle indeed carried medical supplies or whether it was a setup from the get-go.

Widow Team arrived in Brainerd. Two-story brick buildings surrounded them; it had an old-town feel, one ruined by the signs of death and destruction from the apocalypse. Just looking around, Northfield felt a sense of loss, although maybe that was just his moroseness due to the medicine being at risk.

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Calvin B. Fisher

Please, God. Let us get our hands on the medicine. Let us save Geralt. Let us save the rescue party.

The leader of the ambush party cried through the radio, “Hurry! They’re making their break, heading up the stairs—” They pulled onto Main Street. Samuel, the resident driver of Widow Team, pulled the vehicle to a screeching halt behind a column of decrepit cars parallel-parked on the street. The cars would provide them with cover for their approach.

They filed out of the vehicle. Northfield gripped his assault rifle tightly. He felt like he was spiraling. This was all so out of his control. Whether they’d get to the rescue party in time, whether they’d get the medicine. Whether he’d catch a bullet to the skull while they were at it.

One of the Death Corps soldiers, presumably the officer, barked out orders. Northfield counted four of them on the street.

The ambushers had reported eight Death Corps soldiers in total.

The other four must have been on the offensive, breaking past the Stormrise troops’ fire from the second floor and heading up the stairs.

An enemy soldier mounted a light machine gun on the hood of a car and opened fire. The CHUT CHUT CHUT of the weapon rattled Northfield’s bones.

Above it, he could faintly hear an exchange of gunfire in the candy shop. The Death Corps soldiers had reached the ambush party.

Rayne commanded Northfield to stay low. Sticking their heads into the onslaught of machine gun fire would be suicide.

Leo crept behind the cover of cars, slowly, until he was out of the machine gunner’s cone of fire. He lifted his rifle, aimed, and took a single breath.

The other Death Corps soldiers spotted him, but it was too late for the machine gunner. His head cracked open. He collapsed, leaving the machine gun still, the smoke from its barrel billowing in the strong wind.

Leo’s advance left him isolated from the others. The Death Corps officer noticed this, and he commanded two of his men to take advantage.

59

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

“Defend Saturn,” Rayne commanded, using Leo’s callsign.

Northfield couldn’t get a good sightline on the soldiers advancing on Leo. Cars blocked his view, and all he saw were the occasional flashes of a murky black leg, an arm, or the crown of a head.

Leo would be exposed to the soldiers soon. Northfield was the closest to him and had the best shot at helping. Northfield needed to reposition himself on the other side of the vehicles.

He dashed across to Leo’s side of the street. While he stepped up onto the sidewalk, his foot slipped on a patch of ice, and he tripped over the curb.

Stupid, stupid, he thought, catching himself with his hands.

Here he was, exposed and unready, right in view of the Death Corps soldiers.

They averted their attention from Leo and opened fire on Northfield. Ahead of him was a grimy newspaper stand blotted by patches of rust. He dove behind it as the bullets whizzed by, curling himself as tightly as possible and ducking his head.

Bullets cracked right through the stand; it sure as hell wasn’t bulletproof. All he could do was stay still, brace against the offensive, and hope a bullet didn’t brain him.

Well, I got their attention away from Leo. So there’s that. Great job, Northfield.

On the other side of the street, Rayne furiously directed Samuel and Andy to assist.

Samuel and Andy crossed the street, unleashing fire on the Death Corps soldiers. Their offensive gave Northfield enough reprieve to pop up from behind the mailbox and aim his rifle at the enemy. One of their featureless, opaque helmets was exposed a little too much and for a little too long. Northfield pulled the trigger, and the soldier dropped dead.

There were two soldiers left on the street, along with the four in the candy shop. Rapid exchanges of gunfire came from the candy shop’s second floor; the Death Corps and the Stormrise fighters were clashing. The Stormrise fighters didn’t have long, Northfield feared.

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The closest Death Corps soldier, the one nearest to Leo, tossed a smoke grenade ahead of him. The grenade burst, filling the street with a chalky white cloud.

Now that the soldiers on the street are outnumbered, they’re buying time until their buddies kill the Stormrise fighters. Then it’ll be six on four. They’ll have a way easier time holding out until reinforcements arrive.

Rayne was aware of this, too; they needed to push forward.

He gave hand signals, ordering Northfield and Leo to advance on the street and secure the medical supplies. Rayne, Andy, and Samuel would push into the candy shop. Hopefully, they would make it in time to sandwich the soldiers between themselves and the resistance fighters.

While the smoke cloud gave concealment to the Death Corps, it also allowed Widow Team to push forward.

Leo put his hand on Northfield’s shoulder before they advanced. “They’re gonna be waiting for us,” he said.

“I’ve got your back,” Northfield replied.

“Yeah, just don’t trip again.” Leo looked ahead at the cloud and squinted behind his gas mask. “They know it’s a waiting game, and they know we have to push. If I were them, I’d set up shop a bit behind the cloud and wait to tag us as we run through it.”

Ahead, there were more cars parked along the street, and there was an alley on the left side. Their target vehicle was on the right and was what their enemies would be protecting.

With all that in mind, Leo said, “If we come through on the left and hug the wall, the cars will cover us, and we’ll have the alley to duck into if things get dicey. Think that’s our only option.”

“Yeah, sounds like it,” Northfield said. “Let’s go.”

They crouched low and entered the wall of smoke.

The cloud extended to the doors of the candy shop, just reaching the back doors of the crashed Death Corps truck. Rayne’s group slipped into the candy shop with minimal resistance.

As soon as Northfield and Leo broke through the cloud, the two Death Corps soldiers on the street opened fire at them.

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The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

had retreated a block behind the smoke cloud and had mounted their weapons on a car, overwatching the vehicle with medical supplies. Northfield and Leo weren’t reaching the medical supplies without taking out the soldiers first.

Leo and Northfield stayed low behind the cars, inching forward. Above, he could see the cratered candy shop. Leo and Northfield were pretty exposed to it, even on the opposite side of the street. If the Death Corps started shooting at them from there, things would get dicey. They would just have to rely on Rayne and the others to do their job. The gunfire was intense up there, and he had no idea what was happening.

As Leo and Northfield moved forward, they popped up from behind cars in alternating intervals, exchanging fire with the Death Corps soldiers. The bullets flew back and forth, shredding the buildings on the main street of Brainerd brick by brick. Their advance was slow. Too slow. If reinforcements showed up, then Northfield didn’t think they had a chance of making it.

Leo’s bullet, or maybe Northfield’s, got lucky and hit one of the soldiers. He reeled back from the van, falling out of sight.

Northfield hadn’t seen where the bullet had hit.

Leo and Northfield, both trained fighters, sensed the opportunity. Without the need to communicate, they charged ahead. They shot in alternating intervals, forcing the remaining soldier in fighting condition to remain behind the car.

They rounded the vehicle the soldier had hidden behind; he had his weapon up, poised to shoot. Leo shot faster, putting two rounds dead center into the soldier’s chest.

Northfield sought out the other soldier, whom one of their bullets had hit, to make sure he presented no threat. There was a trail of blood going back from the truck; the soldier had crawled away. He sat against a nearby car, his weapon forgotten by his side. Instead, he was in the middle of a throwing motion, with a grenade nestled in his palm.

“Go to hell,” he yelled. Northfield raised his weapon and shot him down, but not before the grenade was in the air.

Northfield wasn’t the target.

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The back doors of the Death Corps vehicle were open; the soldier must have opened them in the cover of the smokescreen.

The grenade landed in the compartment, right among all the medical supplies.

What followed next was hell.

A blinding light flashed behind them. The deafening roar of an explosion followed, along with a shock wave that caused Northfield to stumble. He turned around to see a jet-black column of smoke rising from the van. Ashes rained down, shimmering specks that died out nearly as quickly as they’d materialized.

And in the center of it all, the Death Corps vehicle burned.

Flames spilled out of the windows, the busted back doors, and the charred breaches in its hull.

Instantly, it was clear that not one bandage, not one pill, not one syringe could be recovered from the wreckage.

The strength in Northfield’s legs gave out, and he fell to his knees. Geralt’s aid was burned, dead, right there in that van.

63

5 More bad news quickly followed. Rayne and his team had neutralized the Death Corps soldiers in the candy shop, but they were too late. All of the Stormrise fighters were dead. The last of them to die, whose name Northfield learned was Kenneth, hadn’t gone peacefully.

He had been wounded when the Death Corps stormed the candy shop. When the Death Corps soldiers realized that they wouldn’t leave the shop alive, they executed Kenneth at pointblank range.

The funeral would have a closed coffin.

“More funerals,” Samuel muttered. “Lord, I hate funerals.”

Northfield helped load the bodies into their van. He needed to keep moving. Otherwise, his whole body would just go numb.

He couldn’t think about Geralt. He couldn’t think about the medicine, which had been just right there, up until it vanished.

Nausea flooded his stomach. Moving the bodies didn’t help. But he didn’t dare throw up, or he’d be stuck with a vomitfilled mask until they reached home base. It was just one more reminder of the world they lived in.

After the bodies were handled, Widow Team loaded up in the van and sped off. They had escaped before enemy reinforcements could arrive, but in light of the bodies surrounding them and the lack of medicine, this glimmer of success seemed dim.

Northfield clutched his rifle tightly and lowered himself so his head almost hung between his knees.

Jess, you always knew the magic words to make me feel better.

But I think, now, even you wouldn’t have any.

64

Calvin B. Fisher

Oh, God. What happened? What the hell happened? We were supposed to get the medicine and get out. Geralt was supposed to get it.

His eyes met the hastily wrapped remains of Kenneth, and his nausea somehow reached new heights.

I thought you’d save them, God. I just… I really thought you would. I don’t know why. I don’t know why. Am I an idiot for thinking you would?

Rayne reported the status of their mission to Stormrise.

Northfield didn’t listen; everything passed by in a dull buzz until they reached home base.

When they disembarked from the van, Rayne put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll handle our fallen. You go to Geralt.”

Northfield nodded, not saying a word as he pulled off his gas mask. What could he say?

He walked down the hallways of the repurposed school, feeling like he would stumble with every step. When he reached the infirmary door, he hesitated. His breathing was ragged. He didn’t know how he would do it. He didn’t know how he’d face Geralt after he’d failed him.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Odell and Dr. Cohanan stood in the hallway, just outside of Geralt’s room.

When he approached, Dr. Cohanan said, “Without antibiotics, we’re left with the two other options. Amputation or letting the infection spread.”

“I know,” Northfield said solemnly.

Dr. Cohanan said, “Geralt is still adamantly against amputation. He’s convinced there’s another way. Either way, he’d rather die first.”

Odell said, “I tried talking to him, but he’s not listening to me.”

Dr. Cohanan crossed her arms and said, “Amputation consumes our very low supply of morphine. I’m not going to waste it on a man that doesn’t want to live.”

Odell said, “Mark, you talk to him.”

Northfield looked down. “If he isn’t gonna listen to you, then why would he listen to me?”

65

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

“He respects you,” Odell said. “In a way that’s rare for a man like him. You might be able to get through to him.”

Northfield breathed in deeply, steeling himself. “I’ll try.”

He stepped into Geralt’s room. A stink lingered in the air, so thick that Northfield felt like he was swimming through it.

The combination of sweat, infection, and waste was just another reminder of his failure. He struggled to avoid retching, but he instead continued on.

Geralt stared him down the entire time. His face was pallid, but his eyes raged with a deep fire.

“You botched the job,” he said, snarling.

“Geralt…,” Northfield started. He stopped himself and looked down. “We failed. The Death Corps destroyed the medicine. All of it.”

“Can’t trust any-damn-body these days,” he said. “If it was me out there in the field… If it was me, we would’ve come back with every ounce.”

“That may be,” Northfield said. “But we’ll never know. I’m sorry, Geralt. I truly am. The medicine’s not here, and that’s something we have to deal with.”

Geralt waved his hand; it landed limply by his side. Even that little movement took a huge amount of effort. “The Network has more medicine. That van ain’t their entire stockpile. I can say that much. We just need to jump another van and—” “There isn’t time, Geralt,” he said forcefully. Geralt had to understand the reality of the situation. “Not for you.”

“Easy for you to say when you’re not on this bed,” Geralt exploded. “You go to the chief, whatever the hell her name is, and tell her to find another van.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” he said. “Chief Kaminski’s number one priority is to find medicine. Not just for you but for everyone.

If she knew of anywhere else to get it, we’d already be there.”

Geralt stared at him. “Giving up, just like that, huh? If you were on this bed, I bet you’d be feeling a hell of a lot different.”

“It’s not about feelings,” Northfield said in frustration. “I’d move mountains to help you. But I can’t. I just can’t.”

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Geralt leaned against his damp pillow and stared at the ceiling. Northfield gave him time to process his thoughts. Geralt didn’t speak for a while.

When he finally did, he was resigned. “Never thought I’d die in bed like this. Ain’t exactly glorious. But I guess there’s worse.”

“Don’t do this,” Northfield said. “Don’t give up—” Geralt cut in angrily, “I ain’t gonna live as part of a man.”

“That’s the size of it, then?” Northfield asked. “You lose a leg, and you’re not a full man anymore?”

Geralt gave him a hard glare. “This ain’t the old days anymore.

I ain’t gonna go to a physical therapy session after my morning coffee, with a little stop at the grocery store after. It ain’t like that anymore. People respect strength. Without it, you ain’t got nothing. I ain’t gonna live if I have nothing.” He lowered his head.

“Without my leg… it’s over.”

“Physical strength isn’t the only type of strength,” Northfield said.

“It’s the only type that matters anymore,” Geralt said.

“No, it’s not,” Northfield said. “You really think all of the Yellowbacks followed you because they thought you could bench-press the most?”

“Of course not,” he replied. “But nobody would’ve followed me without two legs. That I can tell you for damn sure.”

Northfield crossed his arms and thought for a moment. “All about strength, then. Is that what you think Stormrise versus the Network is about? Just violent arm-wrestling?”

“Ideals are great and all,” he said. “But nobody’s betting on a horse they think ain’t got a chance.”

“Back in Cumulus, I didn’t think the Coalition had all that much of a shot against the Network. But I still tried to help them.

Where does that fit into your calculus?”

“Well, I always thought you were an idiot,” Geralt said. He cracked a weak albeit shit-eating grin, and Northfield couldn’t help but smile.

“Okay then,” Northfield said. “Forget about me. What about Nathaniel?”

Geralt’s face darkened at the mention of his brother.

67

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

Northfield closed his eyes and grimaced. The memories were hard to dwell on. He said, “I held on to him, Geralt. I tried everything in my power to hold him up. Your brother didn’t want to die. But he let go willingly.” He grimaced again. The memory of Nathaniel falling flooded his brain, the image of him smacking the concrete below.…

He pushed the memories out and continued. “He did it because he believed in the Coalition’s mission. Winning or losing, strength or weakness didn’t have anything to do with it. If he cared about winning, well, he would have never left the Network. Without him, the Coalition’s mission would never have even been a dream.”

He gestured to Geralt, and he said, “Stormrise wanted you as much as me. They didn’t save you for your strength. They want your advice, your guidance. You’re a leader, with or without a stupid leg. I see that. Nathaniel would see that. And if you think it’s only us who would, in this entire world, then you’re just an idiot.

“Nathaniel died for something, Geralt. You said it yourself.

You’d be dying for nothing. Do you think he’d want that for you?”

Geralt’s face remained sullen. His brow furrowed, and he stared ahead. Long moments passed.

Finally, he said, “Tell the doctor to do it.”

Northfield breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Geralt.”

The former Yellowback leader continued staring forward as if the featureless white wall held all of the world’s secrets. Clearly, Geralt was done talking.

Northfield left the room and told Dr. Cohanan that Geralt had consented to the operation.

“You convinced him,” Odell observed. “What did you tell him?”

“What he needed to hear,” Northfield said. His legs felt like giving out. He put a hand on Odell’s shoulder. “I’ve just gotta… I need some air. I can’t be here while it’s happening. Could you get me once it’s done?”

“Of course,” Odell said softly.

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Northfield headed to the front doors of the school. He slipped on his gas mask and stepped outside. Past the parking lot, he found a tree with branches wide and dense enough to blot out the sun, even in the barren winter. He leaned against the trunk and let the bitter winds assail him, their cries piercing his ears. The cold seeped into his bones, and soon enough, he was shivering.

Yet he stayed there, unable to move, and he tried to imagine stillness.

69

6 After the operation, Geralt didn’t want to talk to anyone.

In fact, he didn’t want anyone to even visit him; he banished everyone from his room, save for Dr. Cohanan. Northfield didn’t try to push him. He would give Geralt the time he needed to recover.

Despite the tragic deaths of more Stormrise fighters, a positive buzz was making its way around HQ. The cause was news from the Network’s broadcast stations in New Medea.

Private conversations between General Arkland and the Nexus, the commanding body of the Network, had leaked to the public. All of the leaked audio had been recorded during the manhunt for Mark Northfield, Geralt Salb, and Widow Team.

All the pieces of leaked audio painted the same picture: General Arkland doing everything in his power to capture the fugitives, with the five Nexus Chairs inhibiting him at every turn.

Protests broke out in response to the leaks. The protesters were angry at the Network for stifling General Arkland, claiming responsibility for the fugitives’ escape rested on their shoulders.

They called for General Arkland to be given greater power.

Half of the news stations supported the protestors and their goals, while the other half decried them.

The Stormrise members were equally split. A lot of them saw this division between the Nexus and General Arkland as an opportunity they could capitalize on.

Others had a more skeptical view. They figured it was an inside game of some sort. If the conversations had been private between General Arkland and the Nexus, who else could have 70

Calvin B. Fisher

leaked the audio but Arkland himself? They thought that Arkland was too dangerous and too cunning by half.

Eventually, the protests culminated at the Nexus’s building.

The Death Corps didn’t put a stop to them. Given the Death Corps’ history with protests in the city, this development disheartened even the optimistic members of Stormrise. The protests wouldn’t be allowed to continue at the front doors of the Network’s leadership unless someone in that leadership wanted them to.

The concerns were warranted when a Network assembly was announced, scheduled for a few days later.

When the day came, members of Stormrise crowded around the television in the cafeteria, awaiting the assembly with anticipation but mostly dread.

The assembly took place in the city square, and it was filled to the brim with people. None of them were protesting. There was an eerie peace to it all, which fueled Stormrise’s suspicions that the protests were orchestrated by General Arkland.

The general took the center of the stage, gripping the podium tightly. The Chairs of the Network sat behind him, an implicit gesture of support for whatever General Arkland was about to announce.

Not all of the Chairs looked happy to be there. The Chair of the Network, the Chair of State, and the Chair of Outreach couldn’t mask their feelings from observant eyes. Their downcastness, their disheartenment, was apparent.

General Arkland’s voice boomed. “I won’t let the elephant sit in the room. The leaked audio is real. While we hunted the terrorists, the Nexus and I clashed. This conflict contributed to the terrorists’ escape. There’s no denying it.

“This cannot happen again. Stormrise wants us divided more than anything. If we’re unified, Stormrise can’t do anything to us.”

He gestured to the Nexus. “We care about this city. We spend most of our waking hours thinking about New Medea and what’s best for her people. What we need right now is unity. The Nexus has decided to step down from leadership. I will assume authority over the city.”

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A clamor of shock erupted from the crowd in the main square; indeed, a similar clamor arose in Stormrise’s headquarters.

General Arkland patiently waited for it to die down.

He continued, “The change won’t impact your daily lives.

Your lives will continue as is. The main changes will be up top.

All Network departments will now answer to me. With this unity, we’ll respond more quickly to crises, and we’ll have more controlled, consistent reactions to them. The city will be safer. I guarantee it.”

He turned to the Chairs again. “Now, let us all give the Chairs a round of applause. We have a lot of reasons to be grateful for them. The city wouldn’t be where it is without them.”

General Arkland clapped along with the crowd. His claps were slow, deliberate, and piercing, amplified by the podium’s microphone.

He turned his attention back to the audience. “I won’t be answering any questions at the moment. More details about this change will be revealed in the coming days. But in the meantime, know that our efforts will be entirely focused on keeping you safe.

“Soon enough, Stormrise will be a memory. A vapor in the wind. But until that day comes, we need to be strong. All for the one.”

With that, General Arkland departed the stage, with the Chairs filing in silently behind him.

Stormrise’s cafeteria was loud with chatter. Everyone discussed the ramifications of the change in leadership.

Northfield was sitting next to Aubrey, so he asked her, “Do you really think the Chairs stepped down voluntarily?”

She scoffed. “Those jerks, walking away from power because they want to? No way. General Arkland forced them out.”

Northfield said, “So General Arkland’s got the reins now… Is this good or bad?”

“From what I’ve heard, he’s smart. Calculated. Level-headed.

And willing to stomp the boot down hard. I’d say it’s bad, Mark.

Very bad.” She craned her head, looking across the cafeteria. She scowled.

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Northfield followed her gaze. Odell had been looking at them, but he turned away.

“Him and his puppy dog eyes,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t believe him.”

“He wants to talk to you,” Northfield said. “He’s been working up the courage, I guess.”

“I’m sure he has been,” she said. “Odell always wants to talk.

He’s a talker, that’s for sure.”

Northfield watched Odell. He was talking to the members of Stormrise around him, but he didn’t appear too engaged in the conversation.

“What happened between you two?” he asked.

“I figured he hasn’t told you,” Aubrey said. “He never changes, Mark. This is what he does. He paints himself as a saint when that’s the furthest from what he is.” She squinted at Odell.

“Reminds me of my dad. And that isn’t a good thing. If you want the story, get it from him. I’m not gonna do him the service.”

With that, she stood up and left. Northfield turned back to meet Odell’s eyes. The sadness ran deep in them.

All Northfield could wonder was, What did you do? *** “I knew this moment was coming. The minute that the other Chairs raised their hands in support of you,” the Chair of the Network muttered bitterly. He was disheveled. The hair remaining on his head jumped every which way. He wore a checkered robe with pajama pants and slippers.

He sat at his coffee table, behind which stood a panel of windows that overlooked the city. Neon-drenched buildings sprouted like flowers, perfect for nourishment—or to be stepped on.

A cup of coffee steamed on the desk. Next to it lay a snubnosed revolver, undoubtedly loaded.

His eyes were tired, the bags under them deep-set, but they were nonetheless incensed with rage.

General Arkland took a step forward. His own pistol rested snugly in its holster.

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The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

The Chair of the Network snatched his revolver, fumbling with it before pointing it at Arkland. The general didn’t flinch.

He was surprised the Chair had managed to point the barrel in the right direction.

“Come on, Rudolph,” Arkland said. “Think through this. I’ve got twenty men just outside your front door. What do you think my orders are if you kill me?” He narrowed his eyes. “There are only two ways this ends for you. One is peaceful and dignified.

The other is you pleading for the pain to end, drowning in your own tears and snot.”

The Chair’s barrel wavered. A nasty scowl took over his face.

“But you’ll be dead. Payback.”

General Arkland stared him down, unimpressed. Rudolph didn’t have the guts to pull the trigger himself. He never did.

But people were unpredictable in this world, and anyone could be underestimated. If General Arkland was wrong about Rudolph, well, he supposed that he would, in fact, be dead. He wondered how the blackness would feel.

General Arkland said, “We’ve worked together for years. I thought I’d give you the dignity of taking care of this personally.”

“Dignity,” the Chair scoffed. “Right. That’s what this is all about. Dignity.”

“These are your last minutes on Earth,” General Arkland said. “Do you want to spend them bickering? Because that’s just fine with me. Or would you rather have a drink together?”

The Chair raised his revolver, aiming it square at Arkland’s forehead. His scowl intensified into something beastly. His hand dropped, as well as his head.

“Top-left cabinet,” the Chair said, referring to his kitchen.

Arkland fetched a bottle of whiskey and glasses.

“Ice?” Arkland asked.

“Why not?” Rudolph asked bitterly. Arkland returned, pouring them drinks and sitting on the other side of the table.

General Arkland leaned back, staring out the window. He took a long sip from his glass, as did the Chair.

“We built this city up, Arkland,” the Chair said. “From ash and rubble to this.”

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Arkland didn’t respond, instead taking another sip.

The Chair said, “Are you going to kill the rest?”

General Arkland said, “Just you, the Chair of Outreach, and the Chair of State. I can work with the others.”

Rudolph shook his head bitterly and said, “You said you’d let us retire. Fade into the background. I knew it was bullshit. I told the others….”

General Arkland said, “They knew it, too. Of course, they knew. How does it feel, knowing that your own friends signed your death warrant instead of making an enemy of me?”

Rudolph didn’t answer, instead staring at the rim of his glass.

Arkland finished his glass and poured himself another. “You would’ve eaten yourselves alive, eventually.”

“That’s not true,” Rudolph insisted.

Arkland shrugged. “Believe what you want.”

They both watched over the city.

Rudolph said, “It’s not too late, Arkland. We could still work together. Look at all the good we’ve accomplished…”

Arkland scoffed. “Good? Is that what you’d call what we’ve done?” He gave Rudolph a hard glare. “You know what happens at Section 808. And Section 763. And all the rest.”

Rudolph gestured to the buildings outside. His face grew red with indignance. “Better than what things used to be. Scrounging around and killing each other for scraps.”

“Is it?” Arkland said.

“Well, if that’s what you really believe, why don’t you just leave? Go ride out into the wastelands and carve out your own little life there. If all the good—” “‘Good.’ ‘Bad.’ All your moralizing is why I could never stand you, Rudolph,” Arkland said. “As if you ever did things because you thought they were righteous. Your morality is a veil you can hide behind, nothing more. I don’t need a veil. I never did.” He scowled and added, “I’m tired of arguing. Finish your drink, Rudolph, and let’s get on with it.”

Rudolph did as he was asked, downing his drink. He paused for a moment before picking up the bottle and taking a few more swigs. He wiped his mouth.

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Arkland said, “The way I see things, we both have guns. Do you want to finish it or have me do it?”

“Up yours, Arkland,” the Chair said. “I’m not letting you pull the trigger.”

Rudolph raised his revolver and pressed it against his own temple. His hand started to tremble. He squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled intensely, but still, he didn’t pull the trigger. He lowered his hand, defeated.

The General stood up and drew his pistol. “Don’t be ashamed.

It’s not easy to pull the trigger when you’re not ready yet.”

He pointed the pistol at the Chair, but Rudolph raised his hands.

“Wait… just one last request.”

“I’ve got places to be, Rudolph. A city to run.”

“Just… please.”

Arkland tilted his head, indicating for him to go on.

Rudolph pointed at the windows, and he said, “Can we just… do it there? I want to look out at the city.”

Arkland gestured for him to get up. Rudolph knelt in front of the windows. He took in the lights of the city one final time.

“So pretty,” Rudolph said. “It really is so pretty, Arkland.”

Arkland pulled the trigger. The closest window shattered, and the neighboring ones were stained red.

He left the body for his men to clean up, departing the room.

He left the skyscraper and got into his vehicle, where his assistant, Jane Sloan, was waiting.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Well enough,” Arkland said. He had blood on his sleeves, he realized. He let the stains be.

Sloan didn’t question him further. Instead, she said, “There haven’t been any Stormrise attacks on our vehicles since Brainerd.”

Arkland said, “Our counter-ambush rattled them, I’d wager.

They’re reassessing how they should attack us in the future.”

“I doubt the reprieve will last long,” Sloan said.

Arkland nodded. “They need supplies. That much is clear.”

He clasped his hands together. “With all of the lakes in this region, they aren’t having trouble with food or fresh water. Raw 76

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materials they can salvage and recycle. Fuel might be a pressure point, but they can probably scrounge enough to scrape by. The same goes for weapons and ammunition.

“But medical supplies expire. You can’t scavenge them quite as easily. And they don’t have the infrastructure to manufacture them themselves. Medical supplies are their biggest weak point.

If they want to fight a war against us, they need the ability to heal their fallen.”

Sloan added, “The need isn’t only technical. Think of how lacking supplies would affect morale—when fighters are dying from infection when screams echo from the infirmary because there’s no morphine.”

Arkland considered their options. A plan crystallized quickly.

“If they want medical supplies, then let’s give them medical supplies.”

“Sir?” Sloan said.

“Inch them closer and closer to New Medea. Draw them across the gas line. Then we’ll spring our trap.”

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7 Over the next few weeks, spirits at Stormrise slowly started to lift. There were a couple of successful raids, bringing muchneeded medical supplies to home base: morphine, antibiotics, antiseptic, bandages, the works. The inflow was more of a stopgap than a solution; Stormrise was one bad day away from falling back to where it had been. However, everyone was nonetheless relieved by that stopgap, especially Stormrise’s leadership.

Geralt was angry when he heard the news. He said, “They couldn’t have gotten this crap a couple of weeks ago?” He leaned his head against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I’d still have my leg….”

Northfield sat in a chair by his bed, arms crossed. Geralt had started letting him in for visits. They were always brief, often made briefer by Geralt kicking him out. One wrong word could send the former Yellowback into a fury. Northfield let his anger roll off of him as best he could. However, he caught himself starting to watch his tongue around Geralt just a little bit.

The Yellowback always kept blankets over himself when Northfield was in the room. He wouldn’t let Northfield see his bandaged stump, and he did everything to hide it.

Dr. Cohanan had told him that she had cut high above the knee. Geralt would have difficulty walking, even with a prosthetic.

But that sort of thinking was still months down the road.

Northfield said, “The Network has mech suits. Who knows what other tech it has? We might find you a cool robo leg one of these days.”

“I don’t want a robo leg. I’m not a Bionicle,” Geralt said. “I want a flesh-and-bone leg.”

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Northfield was about to say that wasn’t an option, but he held his tongue. That, he knew, would send Geralt into a frenzy.

Instead, he looked up at the ceiling. After a moment, he said, “My wife had cancer.”

Geralt didn’t respond.

Northfield continued, “Cervical cancer. It hit after the war started. Bad timing. But the treatment was working for her.

Radiation, you know. But then the bombs dropped.

“I managed to find her after the bombs, somehow. I did everything I could to save her. The group we fell in with, well, they didn’t have treatment. But we looked. We looked and looked and looked.”

His gaze fell, and he stared at his shoes.

A lump caught in his throat, just for a moment. There was more to the story, but he wasn’t going to delve further into it.

Geralt didn’t need to hear it.

He met Geralt’s eyes. The Yellowback was staring at him, his mouth set like stone, his piercing eyes hard to read.

Am I holding back because Geralt doesn’t need to hear the rest?

Or because I just don’t want to think about it?

Northfield ignored the thought and said, “Bad timing is one of the most frustrating things in the world. Pisses me off real bad, too. But it happens, man. It just happens.”

With that, he stood up and left Geralt to his thoughts. He wasn’t in the mood for a tongue-lashing if it came to that.

He ran into Dr. Cohanan in the hallway. His expression must have been downcast because she put her hand on his shoulder and said, “He’ll come around. It will just take some time, is all.”

“Yeah,” he said, trailing off. “I never got a chance to thank you for what you did. You were… stubborn and persistent. With the supply situation here, you could’ve easily just thrown your hands up and called it a day.”

She shrugged, staring off at Geralt’s door. “Amputation… it’s not something I’ve ever gotten comfortable with. The sawing of muscle and bone… the phantom limbs they get after. Gives me chills that don’t go away.

“I went to med school to be a pediatrician. Not many amputations in that field, I can tell you that.”

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“But you had to learn,” Northfield said.

She nodded grimly. “We doctors had to learn how to do everything. Same with the nurses.”

Northfield turned his gaze to Geralt’s door as well. “I can’t imagine being able to do what you did. I don’t think I have it in me.”

She was quiet for a moment. She said, “You’re a soldier.”

He thought it was a strange turn in the conversation, but he said, “Yes.” “You don’t enjoy killing, do you?”

That was an easy one to answer. “No, I don’t.”

“But you learned how to. If you were a doctor, you would’ve learned this, too. The only difference between you and me is that I went to a couple extra years of school.” She grimaced. “Have a good day, Mark.”

He went to his room; after talking to Geralt, he needed some time to himself. He sat on his bed and leaned against the wall, looking down at nothing.

How about that, Jess? That was the first time I talked about how you died since I can remember.

His eyes started to water.

You held on as long as you could. I’m so proud of you. You know that, right? I’m so proud of you. You were so strong.

But I… Well, Jess, you know. I don’t want to get into that right now.

I somehow thought that we had more time. I prayed and prayed. I thought we’d find you help right in the nick of time. I guess God decided not to answer that one.

Geralt’s leg is gone. Stormrise fighters died before we could save them. More prayers unanswered. Maybe your voicemail really is full.

I could send a carrier pigeon instead, but I’m sure a storm would roll right in and thunderbolt it out of the sky.

He leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling.

I’m kidding, God. But you knew that already, didn’t you? I’m not angry, either. I’m just… I’m not sure what to do. Do I have the words wrong? The tones? The timing? I’m not expecting you to answer every prayer. But… just the big ones. Only sometimes.

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I haven’t worked out a percentage that would satisfy me yet, but I’ll let you know. He smirked. Kidding again, God. Kidding.

Yeah, I know the world doesn’t revolve around me.

But having some idea of when you’ll turn the knob of fate a little bit for me… I don’t know. It might help. Just a little. *** “How’s he doing?” Erik asked.

Northfield shrugged. “About as well as you’d expect. I don’t know. How’s someone supposed to react to losing a leg?”

“His wound didn’t even seem that deep, either,” Erik muttered.

He stared into the depths of his coffee cup. “Damn.”

“Language,” Sydnee chided gently.

Erik glared at her, but his look softened. His eyes shifted to Becca, who was sitting next to her aunt.

“Darn,” he said instead.

“He’ll be all right,” Northfield said, sounding more confident than he felt.

“He’s a fighter.” Erik chuckled to himself. “I mean, the mouth on that guy….”

There was a lull in the conversation as they stabbed away at their breakfast. Fish, wild rice, and coffee were on the menu that morning. Becca didn’t touch her food. Instead, she was absorbed in the book that she was reading.

Erik asked her, “Whatcha reading?”

“The Princess’s Sword,” she answered with a degree of impatience. It sounded like she had fielded this question many times before.

Erik sighed, the sigh of a father just trying to make conversation. He pressed on, “Did she get the sword yet?”

“That happened in book one, Dad,” she said.

“Well, what book are you on now?”

“Three.”

“Three?” he said with playful astonishment. “If she has the sword, then what’s she up to now? Celebrating?”

“She has to get the goblet now.”

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“A goblet? Ooh. Now, I do like goblets,” Erik said, running his fingers through his thick beard.

Sydnee glared at him. Erik’s eyes twinkled with mischief.

Northfield asked Becca, “You like fantasy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Me too,” he said. “Have you read The Lord of the Rings?”

She looked up from her book. “The Lord of the Rings?”

“It’s a good one,” he said. “You might like it.”

She nodded thoughtfully, then returned to her book.

Erik couldn’t quite leave her alone, though. He asked, “So what happens when she gets the goblet?”

“She’ll find her mom,” she said.

“Find her mom?” Erik said. “Ain’t that more important than finding some goblet?”

“She needs the goblet first,” Becca explained in a tone that made it sound obvious.

“What’s a goblet got anything to do with it?” Erik asked. “Is there a compass inside or something?”

She didn’t answer. She returned the book for a moment but pulled away quickly. She asked, “Why don’t you talk about Mom?” Erik’s expression didn’t change much, but Northfield noticed a darkening in his eyes. “I… It ain’t something I like talking about much, Sweetheart.”

Becca returned to her book, but her lips quivered slightly.

Sydnee glared at Erik. He sighed and opened his mouth to say more.

A group of three young kids approached the table, two boys and a girl. The girl was slightly taller, and she had hair cropped to the start of her shoulders.

“We’re gonna play four square,” she said. “Becca, do you wanna come?”

Becca shrugged and mumbled something. Erik gently nudged her and said, “Go on and play.”

“I’m almost done with the chapter,” she protested.

“The book will be waiting when you’re done,” he said. “Nice and patient-like. Now go on.”

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Becca reluctantly put the book down, and she went along with her friends.

Relief washed over Erik. “Saved by the bell,” he muttered, downing the rest of his coffee. “Maybe we ought to get her on a different book series.” He turned to Northfield. “The Lord of the Rings? That perked her up. Maybe the library’s got them lying around.”

“Well, if that’s true, she better move quickly,” he said with a grin. “I may snatch them up first.”

Erik shook his head, but he had a smile on his face, too.

Sydnee eyed him expectantly and said, “You have to tell her eventually. You know that, right?”

Erik stood and said, “I’m grabbing some more brew. Anyone want some?”

Northfield shook his head.

“Erik…,” Sydnee started to say, but he was already walking away. She sighed and said to Northfield, “He and Andy. Cut from the same obstinate cloth.”

Northfield nodded toward Becca in the distance. “She’s a good kid.”

“She is,” Sydnee said. “Especially given everything that’s happened in her life.”

He took a sip of his coffee. He considered asking questions, but he didn’t want to pry.

He didn’t have to ask because Sydnee said, “Way back when, Erik got involved with a girl named Allison. Never liked her, and I told him so.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Just a feeling I had. You know, just one of those senses you get about people. But I didn’t have a good reason, which is exactly why Erik didn’t listen to me.” She chuckled to herself and said, “Stubborn, again. He won’t go in another direction unless you pull his chain really hard. But it didn’t matter much. Pretty soon, it was too late. He got her pregnant. Right before the apocalypse.

Not a good time to bring a kid into the world.”

“I can’t imagine,” Northfield said.

“Erik was determined to stick by Allison and make it work.

It was tough, Mark. Scraping our way through those days. But 83

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Allison made it, and she gave birth to Becca. Beautiful girl, even when she was just a little peanut.

“Soon as that girl was out, though, Allison left town. We don’t know where she went.” Sydnee frowned. “She was scared, I think.

Scared of having to raise an infant in the apocalypse. I get it, Mark. I do. That’s the most frustrating thing.

“It devastated Erik. Absolutely devastated him. He even tried to look for her for a time. I was the only shoulder he had to cry on, and God, did he use it. But we got through.”

Northfield said, “It was big of you to step in and raise Becca, too.”

She brushed off the praise. “Wasn’t any choice in it. Family’s family, and you do what you need for them.”

“So Becca doesn’t know, then,” he asked.

She shook her head. “We told her that Allison died. Hell, she probably did. Most people didn’t make it through those early days. But when she was little, we figured that was easier for her.

Easier than saying her mother didn’t want her. If I were a kid, that would mess me up real bad.” Her lips curled into a frown.

“But she’s gotta learn the truth, eventually.”

“Erik doesn’t think so?” he asked.

“Erik doesn’t think. Period,” she said, chuckling at her joke.

“I don’t know. What I know is that he keeps pushing it back and back and refuses to talk about it.” She shrugged. “I don’t know when the right time is. It’s gonna hurt her either way. But I figure that’s better than lying to her forever. It’s one thing to tell a fouryear-old an easy lie so she doesn’t get too damaged mentally. But once she starts asking more about her mom, I don’t know. Seems like that’s well past time.”

Erik returned and sat back in his chair.

Sydnee said, “Erik—” He held up his hand. “Not now, Sydnee.”

She exhaled sharply, but she didn’t push the issue further.

Erik changed the subject. “Andy’s been talking a lot about you.”

Sydnee blushed, but she tried to play it off by saying casually, “What’d he say?”

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“Oh, I don’t know. This and that,” Erik said, that twinkle of mischief returning to his eyes. “Why? Do you care?”

Her blush deepened, but she shrugged and said, “I’m just curious, is all. When someone’s talking about you, you wanna know what they say, right?”

Erik said, “Today, he talked about how much fun you and him had playing checkers last night, even though you whupped him pretty hard.”

“Anything else?” she asked.

Erik shook his head.

“That’s it?” she said, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. “Just that checkers is fun?”

Erik said, “Yeah. But he mentions you a lot. Almost every day. Doesn’t say much, usually, and he’s casual about it, but still.”

She nodded; it was hard to read exactly what she was thinking.

She took a sip of her coffee and said neutrally, “Well, I’m glad he enjoyed playing checkers.” *** Shortly after Northfield, Andy, and Erik’s family left the cafeteria, they noticed a crowd forming at the end of the hallway, made up of fifteen or twenty people. A bad feeling quickly spread through Northfield, settling in his bones. His combat instincts kicked in. He exchanged glances with Erik and Andy, and they had similar reactions.

There weren’t any gunshots or explosions; the base wasn’t under attack. Something else caused the clamor ahead.

His combat instincts relaxed, as did those of the others.

Still, the bad feeling remained. Cries and shrieks and other forms of distress echoed off the lockers. The crowd moved toward them swiftly.

Soldiers in the center of the crowd barked orders, commanding onlookers to move out of the way. They pushed four stretchers.

Numbly, Northfield realized that the infirmary was behind him.

Northfield and Andy stepped to one side of the hallway, and Erik’s family the other, to let the stretchers pass.

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Northfield gasped in horror at the victims that lay atop them.

Their bodies were mangled, with deep cuts littering their flesh, with muscles and tendons exposed. Northfield recognized the work of shrapnel when he saw it. Burns covered them, too.

They had been caught in an explosion of some sort. With the damage to their bodies, they must have been close to the point of impact.

A smell of death, rot, and decay hung thickly in the air. A number of onlookers had to flee to avoid vomiting.

The pain the wounded felt was immense. There was no doubt about that. Their inhalations were labored.

“My god,” Andy whispered next to Northfield. It was all there was to say.

The dread in Northfield’s bones somehow deepened, for he recognized the victims on the back two stretchers.

Michael and Connie, the Stormrise fighters that had rescued him, Geralt, and Widow Team from New Medea.

Before he could process his thoughts any further, the stretchers had already wheeled past. The onlookers left in the stretchers’ wake were ashen and wide-eyed. Word would travel around the base. Northfield didn’t think there was any way to exaggerate it or make it sound worse than it truly was.

Dr. Cohanan would have her hands more than full. Northfield was no doctor, but he couldn’t imagine the victims had any shot at survival. He had seen people in this sort of condition before.

None of them had made it. But he hoped they would. He prayed they would.

Andy and Erik stood there, dumbfounded, just like the rest.

Sydnee had the sense to cover Becca’s eyes.

They convened with Erik’s family in the hallway. Erik gave Becca a big hug. He pulled away, wiping away her tears. He smudged her glasses in the process, and he pulled them off to clean them. He scrubbed them, somehow only making the smudges worse.

He put them back on Becca’s face, offering her a toothy grin.

“Better?”

“Uh… uh-huh,” she said through sniffles. However, her glasses clearly weren’t any better.

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Sydnee sighed, and she said, “Erik, it’s a wonder you can put your shoes on in the morning.”

There wasn’t any meanness behind the comment. She took off Becca’s glasses and cleaned them herself. While she did so, Erik stood up, leaning over to Northfield and Andy.

Under his breath, so Becca couldn’t hear, he said with despair, “She’s gonna have more nightmares. She’d finally started sleeping well. And now this.”

“She didn’t see anything, at least,” Andy whispered back.

“Yeah, but she’ll hear,” Erik said. “The way people are gonna talk about this, there’s no way she won’t. And that’ll be enough to give her plenty of nightmares.”

Northfield glanced in the direction of the infirmary. His fingers twitched.

Michael and Connie. I owe them my life. The least I can do is try to pay them back.

“Dr. Cohanan and the nurses probably need help,” he said.

“I’m gonna go see if they need a hand.”

He turned to see Erik and Andy glancing in the same direction. They had the same thought.

“I’ll come, too,” Andy said.

Erik bent down to give his daughter another big hug. “There, there, girl,” he muttered, pulling her close.

In her father’s embrace, she looked up at Andy. Even through the smudges, her eyes pleaded for Andy to stay.

Northfield said to him softly, so she couldn’t hear, “That girl needs all the love she can get right now.”

Andy nodded, kneeling next to Becca.

Northfield made his way to the infirmary alone, weaving through the throng of people. A crowd of twenty or so had formed in front of the infirmary, worried chatter spreading among them.

Rayne Simpson stood at the infirmary’s door, urging the crowd to break up. “Go on, go on. There’s no point to you all just standing here. Go about your business.”

When Northfield reached Rayne, he said, “I’d like to help if I can.”

Rayne nodded grimly and stepped aside.

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The infirmary was chaotic. The few nurses scrambled to and from rooms, shouting orders at each other. Dr. Cohanan did the same, moving even faster between the rooms.

When one of the nurses saw him, she stopped and said, “The hell are you doing here? No spectators. We’ve got our hands full.”

“I’ve got no medical experience aside from standard first aid,” he said. “But still, if there’s something I can do, I want to help.”

She considered him for a moment before she said, “You want to help? I can find something for you to do. But you better hustle.

And listen to instructions quickly. You hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He steeled himself to see the horrific injuries again, and he stepped forward. *** Michael and Connie died an hour later, pain filling their last moments. Somehow, they were the lucky two out of the four.

Two hours later, the last two survivors passed away. When the last man sucked in his final shuddered breath, Dr. Cohanan took off her gloves and threw them harshly into the trash can.

“I need a break.” She turned to the lead nurse and said, “Janette, can you cover while I’m gone?”

A few of the nurses had learned to perform the duties of a field doctor; Dr. Cohanan couldn’t be the only one. So the nurse said, “Of course. Things are, well, quiet now. After…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Her gaze fell to the dead fighter on the bed.

Dr. Cohanan said to Northfield, “I think you’re done here, too. Come sit with me?”

He stripped off his own gloves. They hadn’t gotten as dirty as Dr. Cohanan’s. He had operated as an errand boy for her and the nurses, fetching whatever they had needed from outside the room. He didn’t know how much help he had truly been, but he supposed it didn’t matter now.

Michael and Connie and the others are with you now, Lord. I hope the pain of their deaths fades from their memories while they are at your palace. I hope this was all a dream for them.

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Michael and Connie, I tried. With my hands and also with my prayers. And yet you’re still gone.

“Sure,” he said to Dr. Cohanan. Some air sounded nice. It wouldn’t be fresh air, stuck in this toxic hellhole as they were, but it would be fresher than the air in the infirmary.

Rayne Simpson and General Taylor waited patiently outside.

There was pain in the general’s face especially. These were his men, operating under his orders. The guilt weighed on his soft, bagged eyes. Along with him and Rayne waited the families of the wounded, now-dead soldiers.

Dr. Cohanan gave them the terrible news. The families broke down, as expected. Some of them wanted to see the bodies. Dr. Cohanan recommended against it, especially for the two children present. The family members followed her advice, save for one of the victim’s fathers—Michael’s father. A tired, haggard man with a dense beard, he looked as if the entire world had collapsed in on itself.

Northfield learned that Connie had a twin sister. He hadn’t known that.

Northfield hung in the background while Dr. Cohanan answered Simpson’s and Taylor’s questions. From the surviving fighters, they had learned the story. They had ambushed a vehicle that they had thought contained medical supplies. However, the vehicle had instead been rigged to blow. Michael and Connie, along with the other two fallen fighters, had been caught in the blast.

After her debrief, Simpson and Taylor dismissed her swiftly.

They could see the exhaustion rife on her face.

Northfield and Dr. Cohanan searched for an isolated place where there wouldn’t be many people that walked by. Neither of them wanted to field questions or otherwise engage in small talk.

They found a bench in one of the farther wings of the room, and they sat down. Dr. Cohanan exhaled loudly and rested her head on her hands.

“We’re low on morphine again. I gave them as much as I could, but it didn’t seem to help much.”

“You did what you could for them,” he said.

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“Next time something like this happens, we may be out of morphine. Their cries of pain might go unanswered because I wasted the medicine.”

He said, “What were you gonna do? I mean… Lord, we both saw them. You had to give them morphine.”

She thought about that, then shook her head. “Maybe. I appreciate your help, but I just… I don’t want to talk about it.

I asked you to come out here specifically because you’re not a nurse or a doctor. You’re not somebody I see every day in that damned infirmary. Right now, that’s the last place I want to think about.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “What do you want to talk about, then?”

She said, “You lived in Cumulus. What’s the city like?”

He shrugged. “I actually lived outside the city, in the boonies.

I didn’t go to Cumulus much. It doesn’t seem like many people live outside of New Medea’s city limits, do they? Well, besides us.”

“No,” she said. “New Medea was always so technologically ahead. Everyone wanted to be there. And when the Network got rid of the gas in the city, that spelled the end for the communities outside. They withered away as people sought better lives in the city. It’s only us and the Network outside of New Medea now.

Until you cross regional lines and get to Cumulus, of course.”

At the mention of the city, Northfield returned to Dr. Cohanan’s question. “The times I visited Cumulus, well, I guess it was… It’s got some similarities to New Medea. Both cities love neon. But in Cumulus, the neon was mostly used by stores, bars, that sort of thing. Most of the citizens had to use electricity sparingly, so they would light candles at night. There was a pale sort of glow that came from the buildings. It was beautiful, in its own sort of way.”

“Do you miss it over there?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t really a home for me. Nowhere has been, not since—” “—before,” she finished for him.

He nodded.

She said, “I haven’t heard anything about the Network out west. You know, way past the Rockies. Some days I think about 90

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getting in a car and just driving that way. Pedal to the metal until I find something new. Something away from here.” She smiled wistfully. “Of course, it’s a stupid thought. There’s probably a sea of gas between here and anything resembling civilization; if there is anything, I’d run out of gas mask filters first. But still, it’s nice to think about.”

He said, “Maybe there’s a beach somewhere out there.

Somewhere untouched by all of this. A quiet place where I could just let the sand fill between my toes. It sounds nice.”

“Yeah,” she said. After a moment, she added, “You’ve got a habit of diving back into the thick of it, don’t you? Cumulus, New Medea… How do you do it? How do you just keep diving back in?”

“Stubborn as a mule,” he said, cracking a smile. “But I guess I just need to know things can get better. I’ve just gotta keep pushing towards that.”

“And if things can’t get better?” she asked.

“Can’t let myself go down that route,” he said. “Not yet.”

She sighed. “I wish I could have your optimism. But I just don’t.”

“If you don’t think things can get better, then why stay with a group like Stormrise?” he asked.

She didn’t respond. She stared forward, seeming to look at nothing in particular.

Abruptly, she said, “You met Dr. Mitchell, right?”

“At the Happiness Clinic? Yeah. We stopped there on the way back from New Medea to stabilize Geralt.”

“Well, he won’t be there anymore,” she said. “I spoke with Chief Kaminski. We’re pulling the plug on the halfway house.”

Her forward stare intensified. “The victims today… they were closer to his halfway house when they got injured. But he didn’t have any supplies to help them, so he directed them to home base. Not much point in a halfway house if it can’t aid people.

So he’s returning here.” She paused and added, “Besides, what happened today… I’m not doing that by myself again. Hopefully, he and I can train up more people, too.”

“I guess that’s good news, in a way.” He asked, “Another pair of hands, right?”

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She shrugged. “Feels like we need a hell of a lot more than one more pair of hands.” She stood up. “I should get back. Thanks for helping, Mark. And for talking.”

Before he could respond, she was already gone, her coat trailing down the hallway. After she left, he couldn’t remain sitting still for long. Images of Connie and Michael’s scarred faces just wouldn’t leave.

He went off to find some menial chore to help with because sitting still felt like death. As did so many other things these days.

Still, he thought about Connie and Michael.

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8 “The Network was ready for the ambush from the start,” General Taylor said. “The convoy didn’t even have medical supplies. The principal van had instead been rigged to blow.

When our men opened the back doors… bam. That was the end of it.” He scowled and rubbed his temples. “Our first action item is apparent. We need to exercise more caution during these ambushes. We need to vet our targets better.”

Rayne Simpson said, “The Network’s wizened up to our need for medical supplies. Any transport carrying them is going to be prepared for ambush. Widow Team should take the lead on any missions to acquire them.”

“I agree,” Anne Kaminski said. General Taylor nodded in agreement, too.

Stormrise’s leadership had included Northfield in the meeting due to his experience with the Network.

Northfield narrowed his eyes and said, “Even if we make a clean getaway with supplies, the Network will make us pay for it. Their game’s bigger than keeping pills and bandages from us.”

“Hearts and minds,” Kaminski said. “You’re right. We’ve received reports from our agents in New Medea that the prices of hospital visits are dramatically increasing. Grumbling has started in the city. It seems the Network’s gearing up for something.”

“We need those supplies,” Rayne said. “There’s no question.

We won’t be able to fight. Worse yet, nobody will want to fight.”

General Taylor said, “Even so, I’d hate to blithely walk into one of the Network’s traps.”

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Anne Kaminski crossed her arms. “My immediate concern is our morale. The Network’s attack rattled everyone down to their core. If we’re so disheartened that we can’t fight anymore, then it doesn’t matter what people in New Medea think. We still need to go for the supplies. Rayne, we’re relying on you and your team.

Don’t let us down.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rayne said.

With that, she dismissed them. Northfield walked through the hallways with Rayne.

Northfield said, “The Network is scheming up something. I can tell. I’m afraid that we’re already in the spiderweb, and we just don’t know it yet.”

“We can only act within our own power,” Rayne said. “Past that, we’ll have to wait and see.”

They didn’t have to wait long for the Network’s threads to reveal themselves. *** On the Network News Channel, New Medea’s most popular news station, a giant Breaking News banner scrolled across the screen with the title Terrorists blow up medical supply vehicle. The anchors, a woman in a vibrant red dress and a man wearing a tie of the same color, appeared grim. Not a single hair was unruly on their heads, and their faces were spotless. Despite their gloom, Northfield had a sinking feeling that the report wouldn’t swing in Stormrise’s favor. He and many others were watching the news report in the cafeteria.

The woman started, “I’m Casey Cooper, along with Dale West, to bring you the NNC nightly news. Moments ago, the Corps disclosed another horrible attack by the terrorists known as Stormrise. At 12 p.m., Stormrise assaulted a Network supply truck. The terrorists detonated an explosive weapon, killing the driver and destroying the supplies.”

The man jumped in. “Words can’t adequately explain the atrocity. We have images of the tragedy, and all we can do is show them to you.”

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Cooper said, “The images are difficult. They may be traumatic to some viewers. If you have young children present or are easily sick of the stomach, we advise that you change the channel.”

An indignant clamor rose in the cafeteria as the footage played. The Stormrise members watched, aghast, as images of the truck wreckage were displayed.

“This is bullshit,” someone shouted.

The male reporter, Dale West, said, “The driver has been identified as Officer Rob Carey. He is survived by his wife, Halley, and his daughter, Jane.”

The Death Corps officer’s image was shown, followed by his family’s.

Northfield frowned. “This guy… he sacrificed himself for the Corps? He was willing to die as a red herring?”

Odell rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Maybe he didn’t have a choice. Maybe he’d done something wrong, and they gave him a choice: this fate or a worse execution. Or he possibly didn’t know about it. After all, it’s not uncommon for soldiers to haul cargo without knowing its contents.”

Northfield knew there was some truth to that from his days as a Network mercenary. He said, “Well, either way, the NNC sure aren’t gonna tell us.”

“You can count on it,” Odell muttered.

The female reporter, Casey Cooper, said, “Our best guess is that Stormrise is attacking medical supply vehicles as a means to cripple us. After this horrible attack, the Network is slowing the transport of medical materials in order to take added precautions against another attack. Expect to see a price increase at your next hospital or pharmacy visit.”

Dale West said, “Expect a general uptick in inflation, too.

We’ve brought on our financial analyst, Doug Jones, to comment.”

The NNC broadcast droned on, but hardly anyone in the Stormrise cafeteria was listening anymore.

“Do you think people will believe the Network? That we’re just bombing medical vehicles now?” Northfield asked Odell.

Odell sighed and muttered, “We are after medical supplies, aren’t we? There’s a little bit of truth mixed in with a lie. That’s the Network’s specialty. Who knows what people will believe?”

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Odell’s eyes were bleary and had a faraway look to them.

“Hey, man, are you okay?” Northfield asked.

“Oh?” he said, blinking. He rubbed his face. “I’m fine. Just haven’t gotten much sleep lately, that’s all.” Odell changed the subject. “The Network wants to back us into a corner. They want every step we take to stoke further hatred of us. If they can heap every one of the city’s problems on us, the better.”

“Are the shortages in the city real?”

“It’s hard to say. I think only the Network knows that, truly,” Odell said. “But it’s a city of a million. Consider the fact that there are a hundred people at our camp, give or take. Any convoy we steal can hardly be considered a drain on their resources, although the reality of the situation hardly matters if people believe the story all the same.”

“I guess the question, then, is how we reach the people,” Northfield said. “How can we pierce through the Network’s media wall and get them on our side?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Odell said. “I sure don’t have the answer. I suppose it’s a good thing, then, that I’m not in charge here.” There was a moroseness in his voice, which faded slightly when he said with a shrug, “Someone will tell me to jump and how high. I’ll just have to hope it’s in the right direction.”

With that, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked away. His back was hunched over, and he looked a decade older.

Different, Northfield thought. He’s been different since he arrived here. When I met him in New Medea, there was a… calm direction to him. He knew where to go, what he needed to do.

That’s gone now. He looks like he’d just walk right into a pit if someone removed the ground in front of him.

It’s Aubrey. Ever since he reunited with her, he hasn’t been the same.

His mouth curled into a frown.

The same? Who am I to say? What do I really know of Odell?

He helped us, but I didn’t know him before. And now I don’t feel like I know him after.

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But he helped us, without question, in our time of need. It says enough about a man’s heart, at least for me.

He thought about Aubrey. I wish I could help mend their relationship. But how can I do that when I don’t even know what’s happening? I’d just muck it up.

He walked to Geralt’s room in the infirmary. Along the way, he passed Dr. Mitchell, the doctor from the Happiness Clinic.

“Hey, Doc,” Northfield said. “Good seeing you again. When did you get to HQ?” “Just now,” Dr. Mitchell said. He glanced in the direction of Geralt’s room. “You’re here to visit Mr. Salb?”

“Geralt?” Northfield said. It took him a moment to reply; hearing Geralt referred to as Mr. Salb sounded strange. “Yeah.

Yeah, I am.”

“I was just about to go in, too. I wanted to see how he was doing.” He frowned. “I heard what happened.”

“Wasn’t anything you could have done, Doc,” he replied.

“I know,” Dr. Mitchell said. He gestured to the room. “After you. I’ll follow.”

The former Yellowback leader was sitting up against his pillows, watching the news on a TV that he had convinced the nurses to wheel in. Thick blankets covered him from the waist down.

Geralt shot a side-eye at Dr. Mitchell. “What, did they fire the pretty one?”

“No,” Dr. Mitchell said. “I’m here to help Dr. Cohanan. You probably don’t remember me. I’m the doctor that first saw you after your escape from New Medea.”

“You’re right. I don’t remember you. I don’t remember much after that RAID soldier skewered me. Then again, you ain’t got a mug that stands out.” Geralt gestured to his missing leg and said, “But clearly, you did a bang-up job.”

Dr. Mitchell lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Geralt. If I could have done more…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Geralt said. “You know what you can do with your sorry? Start a donation pool. I figured I’d use my right shoebox as the deposit box. I ain’t got a better use for it nowadays.”

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Dr. Mitchell appeared chagrined. He nodded and said, “I wish you well, Geralt.”

He slipped out of the room.

Geralt shrugged. He aimed the remote at the TV. The news station was showing images of the wreckage again.

He growled. “The Network’s pinning this whole enterprise on us. I could’ve told you they would do that. First thing I would’ve done is get snapshots of what they did to our guys. Then I would’ve printed a heap of posters. I would’ve passed them out in the city, told everyone that the Network blew up their own vehicle, then watched the Network scramble to react.”

Geralt crossed his arms and leaned back against the pillows.

“You’ve got to get ahead of things like this. Harder for the Network to lie about us if we spread the word first. People believe the first person that tells them something.”

Northfield smiled. Geralt scowled in reaction. The former Yellowback said, “The hell are you grinning about?”

“It’s a good idea, is all,” he replied. “This is why we need you, man. If you would’ve told Chief Kaminski to do that, well, maybe the Network really would be scrambling. You know how to lead.”

Geralt scoffed and turned his attention back to the news report, dismissing the comment like it was nothing. But Northfield saw his chest puff out just a little.

Geralt didn’t speak for a while, and Northfield was about to head out. Just as he took a step toward the door, Geralt said, “I had a dream last night.”

Northfield stopped. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Geralt squinted and rubbed his eyes. “Same one.

Twice in a row now.” He gestured to his missing leg under the blanket. “I’m in this bed, but my leg is there. I can move it, and I can feel it. But then I get visitors. People walk into the room and tell me I don’t have my leg. I think they’re crazy. It really starts to piss me off.”

He pointed at Northfield and said, “You come in, one of the last. You try to be all empathetic and soft. And it just makes me even more mad.” He looked down at the foot of his bed. “Nate comes in last. I’m all riled up by then.” He chuckled to himself 98

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and said, “My brother could piss me off better than anyone. In his haughty, science-ass voice, he insists I don’t have a leg. I scream at him. I scream and scream until he finally leaves.”

Geralt shrugged limply. “Then I wake up and see that you all were right all along. But do you know the damnedest part of the whole thing?”

“What?”

With a soft bitterness, Geralt laughed. “I still feel my leg. It hurts like a mother, I can tell you that. Makes me feel insane, Mark. Like I’m in some in-between place. Dr. Cohanan says it’s phantom pain. But it don’t feel so phantom to me.”

“I don’t know what to say, man,” Northfield said. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry. I wasn’t looking for you to console me.” He muttered, “Don’t even know why I told you.”

He changed the channel. When another news station popped up, he scowled. “Is watching the news all people do in the city? There’s got to be a game on or something.” As he flipped through the channels, he said, “Dr. Cohanan’s gonna release me tomorrow. She kept me here so long to make sure I didn’t go jump off a bridge or something. She either just now realized I’d have some trouble jumping, or she doesn’t think I’m a danger to myself anymore.”

“You’re not, right?” Northfield asked with concern.

Geralt said, “If I wanted to off myself, I would’ve just said no to the surgery. I didn’t just want my leg hacked off as a last bucket checklist item.”

Northfield ignored the sarcasm, and he said, “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re leaving this place. A change of scenery will be good for you.”

Geralt said, “I’m moving from one bed to another. Not much difference to me.” He waved Northfield away. “All right, go on.

Don’t you got better things to do than mope around here?”

Northfield shrugged and left; when Geralt was done talking, he was done talking. Still, the former Yellowback was on Northfield’s mind as he walked down the halls.

All right, God, so I guess asking for Geralt’s whole leg was a tad too much, in your view. How about a robo leg, then? Is that something we’d be able to work out?

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I mean, the Network has the means for sure. If it can create an armored suit that can jump around like an amped-up rabbit or super tank armor that eats missiles for a light breakfast, then a prosthetic’s gotta be easy, right? It wouldn’t really even require a miracle on your end. I’m not sure what your budget for those is these days.

Jess, I wonder what you would’ve thought about Geralt. Sure, he’s rough around the edges. Not exactly a respectful guy.

And there’s the little detail that he led a gang of raiders that terrorized Cumulus for the better part of a decade.

Neither my story nor his has gone how I thought it would have.

But I know Geralt’s not done. Not yet.

So tell him that for me, God, in your own special way. Before or after the robo leg is fine by me. *** The next month was quiet. Stormrise didn’t make any big moves; Chief Kaminski didn’t want to risk a catastrophe where a lot of her people would end up injured, and she didn’t have the supplies to heal them. Instead, Stormrise focused on its allies and operatives in New Medea, attempting to counter the propaganda churned out by the Network.

Without much news in the way of Stormrise, the Network’s media apparatus was treading water. Websites published the same articles with slightly different wordings, recounting crimes they accused Stormrise of. Opinion heads on news channels offered “new perspectives” on these events, although the perspectives all seemed quite the same.

Assessing Stormrise’s success at spreading its message was difficult. Kaminski couldn’t reliably gauge public opinion through the Network’s monopoly on the media.

Stormrise leadership, though, wasn’t too confident. Without much movement in the conflict between Stormrise and the Network, the public’s passion and interest were waning. Their anger at the Network was slowly fading in the rearview mirror as they turned their focus back to their own lives.

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The feeling of stillness was prominent at Stormrise headquarters, along with growing dread. Stormrise was on a treadmill; if you weren’t moving forward, the tread would sweep you off your feet and fling you into the abyss.

Widow Team went on scouting and scavenging missions to abandoned cities. The scouting missions didn’t turn up much, while the scavenging missions had limited success. They hauled back abandoned computer electronics, which Dimitri used to repair fraying parts of his setup. He was especially happy with the new monitor they brought him.

“Man, if this were the old days, I would’ve gamed for like twelve hours a day on this bad boy,” he exclaimed.

“Great,” Leo muttered. “Is this what we are now? A glorified delivery service?”

The effort was well worth it, however. The next week, Dimitri summoned Stormrise’s leadership, along with Mark Northfield and Geralt Salb, into his operations room.

Geralt used a wheelchair. He wore a thick blanket over his waist to hide the stump. He didn’t like looking up at people, either. Whenever he did, the hint of a scowl crossed his face.

Dimitri had a topological map of the nearby region pulled up on his shiny new monitor. There were pins of various colors stuck to it.

He said, “General Taylor’s scouts have been patrolling the area, as you all know. He’s asked me to chart the coordinates of all the movements we’ve seen of the Death Corps. Red pins are for military patrols. Green pins are for transport vehicles. Blue pins are for helicopters.”

“What have you found?” General Taylor asked.

Dimitri said, “The Network knows we’re after medical supplies, so it’s been playing games with us, trying to lure us in with honeypots. More vans rigged to blow, ambushes laid out, the whole nine yards. Makes our job pretty darn tricky.

“So what do we know? Well, we know the Network does most of its manufacturing outside of the city boundaries, most likely using slave labor from the people they’ve gone and snatched up.

The transport of materials generally goes into the city, not out.

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“To keep things running, we know the Network has to continue transporting materials into the city, regardless of the threat we present. So we know the medical supplies we need are still getting into the city. There are real targets out there we can hit. The question is how to tell which ones are real and which ones are safe to hit.”

“We all know that,” General Taylor said. “Come on, get on with it.”

Dimitri said, “So this is what I figure. The real transport will have some level of security; it won’t be a honeypot that we’ll be itching to strike. At the same time, the Network won’t want to draw undue attention with too much security, either. If it did, the Network would be showing its hand, right?”

“What do you mean?” General Taylor asked.

Dimitri said, “The Network is trying to lure us to attack.

Well, if all of their important shipments have an absolutely crazy amount of security, then we’d be able to tell the real versus fake shipments pretty quickly.”

Anne Kaminski nodded. “The Network isn’t as concerned about us getting medical supplies as we are about getting them.

Its primary concern is keeping us guessing. Keeping us on our toes and hurting us every time we’re wrong. Plus, every time we attack, it gives the Network more fuel for its propaganda.

Especially when we’re unsuccessful.”

“And to be realistic, the Network has limits, too,” Dimitri said. “It can’t send a giant caravan along with every important shipment. It can’t fully protect everything from every angle of our attack. More efficient for them to divert and distract.”

“Okay, we get it,” General Taylor said. “Keep going.”

“Sorry,” Dimitri said. “Just… you’re the ones making the decisions. I just want to make sure you have all the information you need to make the right ones.”

“You’re fine, Dimitri,” Chief Kaminski said. “Continue.”

Dimitri pointed at a green pin on the map. It was on the gasfree side of the gas line, on a lesser road that led off the main highway and went north. Before the war, the road had been widely used. Now it seemed mostly abandoned. Until now, apparently.

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“There’s a caravan that runs through here. Every Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. I think the Network varies it to keep from having a predictable schedule. It’s a large supply truck that’s guarded by two Hounds with turrets.”

“On a minor road, with sufficient but not attention-grabbing protection,” Rayne said. “Sounds just about like what the Network would use.”

“Okay. Let’s say the caravan carries valuable materials,” General Taylor said, tapping the pin on Dimitri’s monitor.

“Don’t, ah, touch the monitor, please,” Dimitri said.

General Taylor glared at him, but he nonetheless moved his finger off the screen. He said, “How do we know that truck carries medical supplies? At this point, I’m not prepared to send our people against two Hounds for more AKs. We have enough weapons already.”

“Well, I took note of the trucks’ license plates that our guys reported,” Dimitri said. “I reached out to some of our contacts in the city to keep an eye on the city’s docking stations. They saw one of the trucks with a matching license plate unload. Sure enough, there were medical supplies.”

General Taylor exhaled in frustration. “You should have led with that, Dimitri.”

“Well, I wanted to build up to it.”

Chief Kaminski stared at the pin. “How big of a supply truck was it?”

“One of their Class-6s.”

She gasped. “Class-6?”

“What’s a Class-6?” Northfield asked.

“The Network has classifications for its supply trucks. A Class-6 is about a semitruck trailer in size.”

“The last medical shipment we took was from a Class-2,” Chief Kaminski said. “A not-full one at that. If this Class-6 is full, then we can say goodbye to our medical supply problem for the foreseeable future.”

Northfield crossed his arms and frowned. “If all that is true, then I doubt the escort Hounds are filled with normal soldiers.

I bet they’re packing heavy exo soldiers, along with a couple of RAID soldiers.”

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General Taylor said, “I agree. No way that this would be easy.

Dimitri, if we were to attack, how long would reinforcements take to arrive?”

“The nearest Network patrol routes are thirty minutes out.

The nearest helicopter route we’ve seen could get there in fifteen.”

“We can’t just steal the semi-truck outright, either. We have to assume it has tracking software,” Rayne mused. “We’d have to load the supplies into our own vehicles. We’d have to be quick.”

Chief Kaminski turned to Geralt. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Yeah. Soakin’ it all up like a sponge.”

“If you were going to attack the caravan, how would you do it?”

Geralt pondered the question for a moment. “The Hounds are the biggest threat. The exos can pin us for more than fifteen minutes with their heavy weaponry, believe me. And their armor makes them tough nuts to crack.” He rubbed his chin. “But they’re like turtles, aren’t they? If we tip ’em on their side, then they ain’t gonna get on their feet so easily. I’d find where the road dips into ditches on either side, then blow the Hounds. Don’t worry about destroying them. Just tip them into the ditches. I bet the exos will get stuck. We’ll be able to bug out before they finally get around to stopping us.”

Northfield said, “Which would just leave the RAID soldiers.

The Network’s ramped up production on them, but I bet there still aren’t a lot of units out there. The transport probably just has one or two, at most.”

General Taylor said, “If we send Widow Team, along with a support unit of ten of my fighters, I think they’d stand a good shot while still being mobile enough to get out in time.”

“I agree,” Rayne said.

Northfield frowned at the pin. “Taking medical supplies from the hospitals is gonna kill us.”

Chief Kaminski said, “If the Network is still hauling Class-6 shipments into the city, then it isn’t cutting down on medical deliveries like the news reports claim. These supplies won’t reach the hospitals. I can guarantee it. They’re being hoarded for the Death Corps, most likely.”

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“That could all be true,” Northfield said. “But the people won’t see it that way. This is exactly the ammunition that General Arkland’s looking for. We’ll get crucified for this.”

“He’s right,” Dimitri said. “I’ve been surfing forums on the internet. I sense people’s resentment over this already. We might be lighting a fire.”

“The hell does that matter when your people are getting wounded?” Geralt said angrily. “You just watch what happens when a guy loses an arm, and he finds out it’s because you didn’t like the optics.”

Chief Kaminski crossed her arms, squinting in thought. She said, “We need the supplies, no two ways about it. Whatever comes after, we’ll deal with it.”

105

9 You know what I’m missing most about you right now, Jess?

Your massages. You always gave such great ones. My muscles are feeling tight, I can tell you that.

The other members of Widow Team joined Northfield in the armory, readying their gear. General Taylor’s support team also prepared in the armory. Six Widow Team members and ten of General Taylor’s men put their total forces at sixteen.

Leo Smalls cleaned a big sniper rifle; he would provide overwatch from a hill that overlooked the highway. Samuel Perez stuffed submachine gun magazines into his vest; hopefully, he wouldn’t need to use the weapon. He was one of the three drivers responsible for loading up the medical supplies and bugging out with Widow Team.

Rayne Simpson watched over them, arms crossed and standing straight. He had a look of calm determination. He would handle primary communications between the teams, as well as with Dimitri and General Taylor, who would be providing intel support from headquarters. General Taylor stood next to Rayne, and he had a stoic expression.

Andy Liu and Erik Smith sat on the same bench, readying assault rifles. They would join the arrowhead of the attack along with Northfield.

He finished cleaning his assault rifle. He studied it, and he decided to clean it again. He wouldn’t get a jam while out in the field. Not today.

Back into the fire again. I hope today’s not the day, Jess. I hope you don’t take that the wrong way. But I’ve got promises to keep.

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And I just… I need to see, Jess. I need to see that things can get better. I can’t explain why. I just need to.

“What’s wrong, buddy?” Erik asked Andy. “I know we ain’t heading to a pizza party, but you look like you’re walking to the gallows.”

It was true; Andy looked particularly glum. A deep frown marked his face, and his shoulders slumped.

“Sydnee and I got into a fight,” he said.

“What about?” Erik asked.

“Nothing,” Andy said. “That’s just it, man. We were walking together, and I said something. And then it just blew up into this whole thing when it didn’t have to.”

“Well, what did you say?”

“I brought up one of my exes, and—” Erik groaned. “You’re an idiot, man…”

“What?” Andy said. “She’s my friend. And I thought that—” “Well, you thought wrong.”

Andy looked away, his face reddening. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter what the fight was about. What matters is that it happened.

We left on the wrong foot. You never do that, man. Not before a mission. If that was the last time I ever saw her….”

“Don’t talk like that,” Erik said. “You’ll see her again. You’ll apologize. And she’ll forgive you. Sydnee’s got a better heart than either of us deserves.”

“I don’t know, man. You never know, and the thought that I may never—” “Cut it out. You’ll be okay,” Erik said. “I’ll protect you because Sydnee would kick my nuts into my throat if I didn’t. Becca would, too. So start thinking about how you’re gonna say you’re sorry. Because if you shove your foot into your mouth again, then you’ll really have something to worry about.”

“Why?” Andy said with a smirk. “Because you’ll beat me up?”

“No,” Erik said. “Sydnee will do a fine job of that, believe me.”

Northfield couldn’t hold back a smile. Remember when I was that bashful, Jess?

Once their weapons were ready, Erik and Andy grabbed RPGs, as did two of General Taylor’s men.

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When everyone had prepared, they gathered in front of General Taylor. He said, “Our friends’ and families’ lives very directly depend on this mission. We need this win, and I know you all can deliver it. Remember the fallen and those who will fall without our work today. You’re doing this for them.”

They boarded three armored vans; one contained Widow Team, while the other two contained General Taylor’s men.

Widow Team was Alpha Team, and General Taylor’s team was divided into Bravo Team and Charlie Team.

The vans were spacious. The teams needed ample space for the supplies, and they prioritized that over having maneuverable or combat-focused vehicles. With their planned ambush, neither of the latter should be necessary.

As Stormrise headquarters faded from view, an unsettling feeling rose in the pit of his stomach.

Let this mission be a step toward a better future, God. I’m asking for that. A step forward. *** The day was hot for the winter. The temperature sat just above freezing, and the thick layer of snow covering everything had started to melt. It created a sloppy mess that made a squelch noise whenever they took a step. At least Northfield’s fingers weren’t freezing off his hands. He called that a win.

Andy, Erik, and Leo lay next to Northfield on a ridge that overlooked the road. They kept silent; the convoy would arrive any minute. Andy and Erik had their RPGs slung over their backs so they wouldn’t touch the snow.

The convoy consisted of three vehicles: one Hound at the front and one at the rear of the supply truck. Andy, Erik, Leo, and Northfield’s job would be to attack any threats from the lead Hound.

Farther down the ridge, General Taylor’s men lay in two more groups. The closest was part of Bravo Team. They would handle any threats from the supply truck and disable the vehicle. The farthest group down was part of Charlie Team, and they would handle the rear Hound. They had RPGs of their own.

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Rayne lay in the center of the groups, assuming field command. He held a detonator in his hand.

Behind them, the three Stormrise trucks waited on a road that met up with the highway. When the attacks began, the trucks would descend on the supply truck like a pack of wolves, ravaging its innards for all their worth. Samuel occupied the lead Stormrise truck.

After the attacks, the trucks would be responsible for picking up the members of their respective teams and escaping.

The plan sounded simple enough. And if it was executed correctly, it would go quickly. Hours of planning, hours of waiting, all for a couple of minutes of action. The contrast always felt odd to Northfield.

He worked his fingers, making sure they stayed nimble and fresh. He might be facing exo and RAID soldiers soon. The thought made him sweat.

A RAID soldier had stabbed Geralt and taken his leg. Lord knew what other damage they could do.

“Sight on Tango. Tango is rounding the bend. I repeat, Tango rounding the bend. Over,” the point man of Charlie Team radioed.

Northfield felt himself tense up. A large patch of trees stood ahead of them, and the highway curved around it. The convoy was rounding the highway, and it would soon come into his view.

Ten minutes, he thought. Just ten minutes and this should be over. If everything goes well. Yeah, that’s one hell of a caveat.

“Still as stones, men,” Rayne said through his radio. “Attack on my mark.”

The convoy seemed to be moving awfully slowly, but Northfield knew it was just his perception. Time was doing what it always did, extending itself like a snake when you really wanted it to just slither on by.

“Steady,” Rayne said. “Hold. Hold.”

The Hounds’ turrets swiveled back and forth, but they didn’t home in on the attack party. The convoy hadn’t seemed to notice them. The Stormrise men remained as still as stones, just as Rayne had said.

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The Hounds’ turrets swiveled toward them, finally catching sight of their enemy. But by then, it was too late. The convoy’s vehicles were parallel with Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie Teams.

Rayne clicked his detonator.

Explosions erupted under the Hounds; the blasts were caused by airburst mines that Stormrise had planted on the road. The Hounds rocketed into the air, landing on their sides and tipping into the ditch on the far side of the highway.

The supply truck swerved, but it didn’t react fast enough. Its front-left tire dipped into the pothole that the leading airburst mine had created. The sudden decline caused the driver to violently twist the wheel in surprise. The truck careened into the ditch as well.

The Bravo Team men on the ridge fired a rocket at the front of the semi, ripping a hunk of metal and the front wheel to shreds.

The supply truck wouldn’t be mobile anytime soon.

“Now, now, now!” Rayne yelled.

The teams headed down the ridge. Leo and a member from Alpha Team remained on the ridge with his high-powered rifle, offering overwatch support.

Andy and Erik had their RPGs up, while Northfield had his assault rifle at the ready.

The back doors of the lead Hound ripped open, and something leaped out in a blur.

“RAID soldier,” Northfield yelled.

“Didn’t see where it went. Did you?” Erik said.

“No,” he replied.

He peered through the scope of his rifle, trying to find where the RAID soldier had gone. That was his number one priority.

They heard the wrenching of metal in the Hound; it was a high-powered, hydraulic noise.

“Exo soldier is in the Hound,” he yelled. Their suspicions had been correct; the Network had packed this convoy with hightech troops. It confirmed, at least to him, that the convoy was legitimate. However, in light of the threat they now faced, that affirmation didn’t give him much solace.

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A flurry of gunfire flew at them, and he dove to the ground.

The highway sat atop the hillcrest, so the ground could protect him from the incoming bullets if he lay flat. The gunfire had come from the front of the semi. The muzzle flashes came from behind a glowing, vibrating shield; the RAID soldier had taken cover behind the semi to get his shield up, and now he was attacking back.

Leo fired at the RAID soldier; the angle of his bullets could hit the RAID soldier above the shield. The RAID soldier ducked back behind the semi, and another blur appeared as he repositioned himself.

“We need guns on that RAID unit,” Northfield yelled.

Rayne saw, and he directed half of Bravo Team to assist with the RAID soldier. Another RAID soldier emerged from the rear Hound, so he dispatched further forces to fight him.

Deep pounding continued to come from the nearby Hound.

The exo inside was repositioning himself, trying to find his footing. If he managed to get to his feet, Stormrise would have more than a handful to deal with.

The screeching of tires echoed behind them. The Stormrise vans were rounding the road, getting on the highway. They needed to pack them up with supplies from the semi—and quickly.

The RAID soldier appeared again, this time from behind the Hound. He was crouching, his body covered by his shield.

Northfield, Erik, and Andy had reached the top of the hill, and they hid behind the highway shoulder.

Andy popped up and loosed an RPG on the RAID soldier.

The soldier was too quick, even for a rocket. He repositioned himself to avoid the rocket’s detonation.

Leo still fired on the RAID soldier. The soldier lifted his shield to block the sniper’s shots. Bravo and Alpha Teams shot at the soldier from various angles. One of the bullets hit the RAID soldier in the chest. The soldier stumbled back, still holding his shield high. More bullets followed, killing him.

With one RAID soldier dead, Stormrise could focus all of its forces on the other. The RAID soldier, elite as he might be, couldn’t withstand their combined forces. He fell to their onslaught.

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A soldier in the rear seat of the semi had survived. He stumbled out, rifle raised and ready to fire. Stormrise dropped him quickly.

The Stormrise trucks pulled up to the rear of the semi.

“Everyone, start loading up!” Rayne yelled.

“What about the exos?” Erik asked, nodding back to the thundering noises coming from the Hound.

Rayne said, “It’ll take a lot of effort to kill them. These rockets might not even do it. We’ll be wasting time when we can just load up and bug out instead. Let them squirm.” He raised his voice and spoke to everyone. “You hear that? The exos are live. So put some fire under your feet.”

One of the Stormrise soldiers put a thermite charge on the back door of the semi’s trailer. The charge detonated, and orange and yellow sparks marked where the metal had been eaten away.

A moment of hesitation spread among the men; they worried that the blowing of the doors would trigger a boobytrap explosion from inside the trailer, as what had happened to their comrades.

However, the trailer remained still. Their hunch had been correct; this convoy wasn’t a trap.

They entered the trailer. The air was slightly colder inside; the trailer was being refrigerated. Rows and rows of bins, boxes, and various other containers were stacked on the floor. A cursory glance at the labels showed that they held gauze, IVs, and surgical tape.

“Crack one open,” Rayne said. “Make sure these are legit.”

Rodeo didn’t waste time ripping open one of the boxes. He pulled out a package of gauze and said, “Hell yeah, boys! We’re in business.”

Hoots and hollers rose from the Stormrise men. Rayne waved them down. “Time for that later. Load everything up. Prioritize the medication.”

They formed two trains, passing boxes from the semi-trailer into their three vehicles.

Samuel and a Stormrise fighter kept an eye on the two exo soldiers clambering in the truck. Periodically, Rayne would ask them for a status update on the exo soldiers.

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“Still struggling to get out,” Samuel said. “We’ll need to thank Geralt for that little idea.” He pointed at the turned-over Hound.

A dent was growing on the top side. “He’s trying to bang his way out the top, though. We need to speed this thing along.”

Rayne nodded. He shouted to his men, “Move like your lives depend on it.”

And they did. Northfield shifted so many boxes that he could hardly keep count. His breaths were ragged by the time one of the Stormrise fighters declared, “We’re full!”

“You heard him!” Rayne yelled. “Everybody, pack in. Let’s go!”

He radioed Leo, who came sprinting down the hill to meet them at their vehicle.

A fist ripped through the Hound to their left; it punctuated their need to go. Nobody wanted to face an exo soldier.

They piled into the trucks, with Samuel taking the wheel of Alpha Team’s truck. The exo soldier ripped open the rest of the Hound’s wall, forcing his way out. He lumbered with his giant minigun, swiveling it toward their trucks.

“Step on it!” Erik yelled. The tires squealed before finding their grip. The trucks sped away from the highway. A stream of bullets arrived in their wake, but the trucks were too far away for the shots to find their mark.

Northfield cheered along with Andy, Erik, and Leo. Their excitement withered quickly when General Taylor and Dimitri radioed in.

Dimitri said, “Scouts have spotted a helicopter headed in your direction.”

Rayne cursed. “Reinforcements weren’t supposed to get here so soon.”

Dimitri said, “Maybe the Network changed its patrols. Or we just got plain bad luck that one was flying so close to here. Either way, that’s the situation.”

Rayne said, “How far out is it?”

“It’ll catch sight of you in about five minutes.”

Rayne said, “The woodland roads are about five minutes out, with the tree coverage and the way the roads splay out. If we get 113

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to those roads before the bird spots us, it’ll have a tough time tracking us. What sort of ordnance is the bird carrying?”

“It was flying too fast for the scouts to tell.”

He radioed Bravo and Charlie Teams, ordering them to step on the gas.

“Keep those rockets ready. We may be in for a fight,” Rayne told Widow Team grimly.

The next three minutes were painfully quiet, slow, and tense.

The woods appeared at the horizon, small, scraggly nubs that grew into looming columns as they drew nearer.

“Do you hear that?” Leo asked.

They shook their heads until a moment later when they could all hear it: a low thrum-thrum-thrum noise, which seemed to infest the very air they breathed. The noise came from the helicopter.

Rayne and Leo peered out the van’s back windows. The windows were just two small slits, so there was only room for those two to look out.

“The helicopter isn’t at the horizon yet,” he declared. “We still have a chance to lose it. Step on it, Red.” Samuel responded, “Believe me, boss, I’m doin’ just that.”

The forest branches reached out to them, fingers of a withered crone. The sight provided the comfort of shelter yet also unease.

There was no telling whether those fingers would wrap them in a tight, loving embrace or whether they would pluck them up and shove them into the oven.

God, put the wind to our backs and the wind to the helicopter’s front. Come on, just a fat gale wind to blow it back. That wouldn’t be too hard, would it?

Indeed, the wind was blowing at their backs. However, God seemed to forget about the gale wind since the helicopter appeared at the horizon to their rear.

“The helicopter’s here,” Rayne said, and their hearts collectively fell. The woods alone could hold respite for them no longer; now that the helicopter had sight on them, shaking its tail would be no easy feat. They had to contend with the threat.

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“The helicopter can only follow one truck if we split up,” Rayne said. “But it will follow one of us. No way around that. We need to slow down and make sure the helicopter comes after us.”

He radioed Bravo Team and Charlie Team to continue on. Samuel slowed their truck, allowing the others to get a commanding lead.

“Well, since we’re here, let’s blow up that tin can,” Erik said.

“Agreed,” Rayne said. “Rodeo and Skullbeard, you’re going to fire rockets. The close quarters are a problem. Watch where you’re aiming. If you aim too far left or right, the blowback could damage the cargo.” The boxes and containers had been stacked along the walls, so there was an alleyway in the center of the cargo area.

Rayne ordered Samuel next. “Red, that means you have to orient the truck so Rodeo and Skullbeard have shots.”

“Got it,” Samuel said.

Rayne commanded Northfield and Leo, “You’re on smallarms duty. Shoot at the copter. Any gunners are your targets. If you don’t get sights on one, just shoot at the heli. Some noise might cause it to miss. Or you could get lucky and hit the pilot.”

The helicopter drew nearer. It hadn’t yet opened fire; they surmised that the helicopter didn’t have a minigun or another high-volume weapon. Otherwise, the helicopter would have opened fire on them already.

“Maybe it’s just a transport heli,” Andy offered.

“I don’t think so,” Leo said.

Andy and Erik held off on opening fire. Their rockets were unguided, so they had to aim manually. Shooting too early would only mean wasted ammunition.

The helicopter came into range just as Bravo Team’s and Charlie Team’s trucks crossed into the woods.

“Fire!” Rayne yelled.

Andy and Erik aimed and unleashed their rockets, one after another. The helicopter swerved, but it didn’t matter; the rockets would have missed their target either way. Northfield and Leo shot at the helicopter, but they didn’t seem to do any damage.

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The helicopter continued to make evasive maneuvers upon its approach, but it still didn’t fire upon their truck. The reason why became quite apparent to Leo as he aimed through his magnified scope.

“They’ve got RAID soldiers aboard that thing,” Leo declared.

Northfield’s stomach turned to jelly. “How many?”

“I spot three,” he said.

“Aw, hell,” Andy said as he loaded another rocket. “There’s only six of us. We can’t take on three of them.”

“They won’t all land on our truck,” Rayne said.

Their plan dawned on the rest of Widow Team. The Corps planned to drop a RAID soldier onto each truck. Splitting up wouldn’t do them much good now. Not when all the helicopter had to do was fly over a truck, drop off a RAID soldier, and head to the next truck.

Andy and Erik finished loading their rocket launchers, but it was too late by then. The helicopter was right over their heads, and they didn’t have a shot.

“The RAID soldier will land soon,” Rayne said. “Switch to close-quarters weapons. Get ready. Saturn and Viking, cover Red.” Viking was Northfield’s codename on Widow Team; he still hadn’t gotten quite used to hearing it.

Rayne, Erik, and Andy organized into a semicircle so there wouldn’t be a risk of crossfire. Northfield and Leo faced the other way and watched the front, driver, and shotgun windows. Samuel continued driving.

They heard a soft thump on the roof. The RAID soldier had landed, just as they had predicted. Northfield fought the urge to tighten all of his muscles, keeping nice and loose.

Six of us and one of them, he thought. The raw numbers are on our side, at least.

Even with that thought, he didn’t feel all that great about the situation.

Samuel tried to shake off the RAID soldier, swerving the truck as violently as he could without losing control of the wheel.

“Did I get him?” Samuel asked when he righted the vehicle.

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“Didn’t see him fall off the back,” Erik said. “So I’m thinkin’ not.”

The RAID soldier appeared in a sudden, swift movement.

His head popped up outside the driver’s side window, and a weapon was aimed at Samuel’s head. Northfield and Leo shot at him, shattering the window.

Samuel cursed loudly, bracing as bullets whistled by them.

The risk of friendly fire was there, but it was better than letting the RAID soldier pop his head off on purpose. However, Leo and Northfield were deft marksmen, and they avoided hitting their ally.

The RAID soldier ducked out, and neither man thought his shots had hit him.

“He’s trying to take out Red!” Leo announced, using Samuel’s codename. The RAID soldier’s plan made sense; killing the driver would cause a crash, rendering Widow Team immobile and reeling.

Rayne nodded to Andy and said, “Skullbeard, join Viking and Saturn up front in covering Red.” Northfield scooted up into the side passenger seat, while Andy took his prior spot behind the front seats.

Just as his rear hit the seat and he brought his gun up, the RAID soldier appeared again. This time, the RAID soldier popped up in front of the dashboard, aiming his pistol with his shield up. They opened fire on him; Northfield’s position gave him a small opening at the side of the RAID soldier’s shield.

The RAID soldier realized this; he disappeared again in that trademark electric-blue blur.

The dashboard was shattered now, too. Glass glinted off the surfaces around them.

Above, the helicopter thudded ahead, seeking Bravo Team’s truck to drop off RAID soldiers.

“Bravo, the heli is inbound to your position. Shake it, or expect at least one RAID soldier. Do you copy?” Rayne said into his radio.

They waited for the RAID soldier to attack again. Northfield, Leo, and Andy watched the front windows, their weapons raised, 117

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ready to fire at the slightest hint of movement. Rayne and Erik did the same with the back of the truck. Samuel tried swerving the vehicle again to throw the RAID soldier off. His attempt didn’t appear successful.

There was a loud shearing and ripping noise above them, directly over the center of the truck’s roof. The RAID soldier had ripped a hole in the roof in nearly an instant. As soon as they could react and swivel toward the threat, the RAID soldier dropped into the storage area with them.

He held his shield up, a collection of small circular plates that vibrated with blue energy. They opened fire on him, but he was already on the move.

He charged at Erik, ramming him against the wall. Erik cried out as electricity coursed through his body. His assault rifle clattered to the floor.

Three deafening blows erupted, and Erik shouted in agony.

In the course of a second, the RAID soldier had put three bullets into his chest.

“No!” Andy cried out.

They fired at the RAID soldier, but he moved too quickly. He jumped up, disappearing out of the same hole he had made.

Erik was splayed out on the ground, his head rolled back, blood pooling around him. They couldn’t do anything to help him, not now, not with the RAID soldier still presenting a threat.

Helping Erik would invite a bullet to their backs.

The RAID soldier swung through the back opening of the truck and charged at Rayne. His shield rammed into the Widow Team leader. This time, it was Rayne crying out in agony.

Instead of just shooting Rayne, the RAID soldier deactivated his shield. The vibrating plates all sucked back onto his arm like water down a drain. He seized Rayne by the throat and held him up as a shield, exchanging his electric shield for one made of flesh and bone.

None of them had a shot on the RAID soldier, not with him holding up Rayne.

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windows, with enough room that they could avoid hitting him.

But now, the RAID soldier entirely hid behind Rayne, moving him about to make acquiring a target much more difficult. They wouldn’t hit the RAID soldier, not without hitting Rayne.

It was why he took out Erik first, Northfield realized. Erik was next to Rayne. He was the only one who would have a shot on the RAID soldier.

But now Erik was lying in a pool of his own blood.

The RAID soldier aimed his pistol around Rayne and started to pull the trigger with impunity.

The first two shots went awry; even though the distance was short, the RAID soldier’s accuracy was limited with his moving hostage. However, it wouldn’t take many more to kill them all.

“Shoot him, dammit,” Rayne yelled. “Shoot him—” He was cut off by a single gunshot. The RAID soldier seemed to freeze for a moment before he collapsed, releasing Rayne’s neck.

Erik leaned forward ever so slightly, holding up his smoking rifle. “Heh. Looks like I got the last tickle, you—” He let go of the rifle and fell back. His strength was draining rapidly, and holding himself up was too much of a burden to bear.

“Erik!” Andy yelled. He rushed to one of the supply containers and opened it, taking out gauze. He started wrapping Erik’s wounds.

Rayne radioed Bravo Team. “Bravo Team, Charlie Team, come in.”

Charlie Team reported in; they had fought off the RAID soldier on their vehicle and managed to take out the helicopter. It was welcome news, but their spirits were dampened when Bravo Team failed to report in.

“Dammit, Bravo Team, come in,” Rayne said.

There was no reply, only the crackle of static.

“Last they reported, they took the left road,” Rayne said to Samuel. “Take us to them.”

“Yes, sir,” Samuel said. He glanced back at Erik. “Is he gonna—” 119

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“We’ll do what we can for him,” Rayne said. “Just focus on the road. Those men need our help, too.”

“Copy that,” Samuel said.

Rayne reported to General Taylor and Dimitri. The general ordered Charlie Team to converge on Bravo Team’s last position as well.

Erik coughed; it was a wet sound. Behind his mask, he had coughed up blood.

“Dammit,” he muttered. “Sydnee’s gonna be so… pissed.”

“Don’t say stuff like that, man,” Andy said as he continued bandaging Erik.

Erik weakly waved away Andy’s hand. It was a small gesture, but Andy got the message. “This is it for me, man. My stupid… bloody curtain. Just stop. I don’t wanna be monkeyed about. I just want to… rest.”

“You can’t go,” Andy protested, holding his hand tightly. “You just can’t. Sydnee and Becca need you.”

“They did,” Erik said. “But that can’t be how it is anymore.

It’s you, Andy. You’ve got to be there for them. Understand?” He swallowed; it was a struggle. “Sydnee is… Don’t mess it up with her, man. I’ll haunt you from the afterlife if you do. I mean it, man.” He turned to the other members of Widow Team. “You’re the backup team, all right? You help out if they need it…”

Rayne knelt next to him and met his eyes. “I promise you.

I’ll do everything in my power to help them until the end of my days.”

“I know it,” Erik said softly. “I know it because you’ve always…”

His voice faded out, and just like that, in the mutest of flashes, his life had vanished. Andy still clutched his fallen friend tightly, his own hand trembling.

Rayne put a hand on his shoulder and said nothing. None of them had anything to say.

The silence passed too quickly. Samuel yelled, “I’ve got a sight on Bravo Team’s truck.”

The truck had swerved off the road and run into a tree. The back compartment was open; inside, they could see the bodies 120

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of Bravo Team sprawled out, staining the compartment red. The eerie blue eyes of the RAID soldier’s helmet shimmered in the shadows. At the sight of Widow Team’s truck, the RAID soldier disappeared in a blue blur.

Widow Team exited their truck, weapons up and at the ready.

They scanned the area for the RAID soldier.

A small trail of blood led out from the back of the van.

Northfield knelt and studied it.

“He’s hurt,” he declared. He followed the trail with his eyes, and he pointed to show the others. The blood pools were distant from each other because the RAID soldier moved so fast.

“Behind the tree, next to the bushes!” Leo called out.

The RAID soldier skulked low under the bushes. His weapon pointed up. His shield was disabled; the neon would have drawn his enemies’ attention. When Widow Team spotted him, he disappeared in another blur.

“Ain’t in the mood for hide-and-seek,” Leo growled.

“Check on Bravo Team,” Rayne told Andy. “See if any of them are still breathing. Viking, you cover him.”

“Got it,” Northfield replied.

Andy hopped into the back of Bravo’s truck. It didn’t take him long to announce, “They’re all dead.”

The news didn’t come as a surprise to any of them, although it remained unwelcome.

Charlie Team arrived at the scene, parking their vehicle next to Widow Team. Charlie Team exited the vehicle and joined their allies in search of the RAID soldier.

Northfield heard a swaying in the branches above—and a small crunch. He looked up and saw the RAID soldier overlooking them all, waiting for the prime opportunity to strike.

Northfield opened fire on the soldier. His bullets found their mark, and the RAID soldier plummeted from the treetops. His body hit the forest floor with the crunch of metal and the squelch of flesh.

Leo shot the RAID soldier again to make sure he was dead.

Widow and Charlie Teams gathered together. Rayne ordered Samuel to see if Bravo Team’s vehicle was still operational.

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Bravo Team’s truck came to life with a weary, choked roar, but it could drive back to base, carrying its medical supplies and fallen soldiers. It was a sliver of good news that couldn’t hope to stack up against the deaths.

Rayne ordered Samuel and two members of Charlie Team to bring Bravo Team’s truck back to base. He figured Samuel was the best equipped to fix the truck if there were any problems on the road. Rayne would drive Widow Team’s truck back.

Leo glanced at the RAID soldier. “Should we take him back to base, too? Maybe Dimitri can salvage the armor.”

Rayne shook his head. “With the Network’s limited supply of that armor, I’d be surprised if they’re not tracking each and every piece. I’m not going to risk bringing a tracking beacon to base.” He glanced at Widow Team’s truck, then at Bravo Team’s.

Grimly, he added, “We already have enough bodies to bring back with us.”

122

10 The work of Widow and Charlie Teams wasn’t done yet.

When they were a safe distance from the woods and well past the gas line, they searched each and every medical container for any tracking devices; they feared the Network might have put one into the supplies in hopes of finding Stormrise’s base.

Fortunately, that fear did not materialize today. The rest of the drive to base was a somber affair.

I prayed for a step forward, God, Northfield reflected. Maybe you’ve got your big inner workings behind this, but it doesn’t feel like a step forward at all. We got the medical supplies, that’s true.

So maybe this is all ingratitude on my end.

He glanced down at Rodeo’s body, covered by a flimsy cloth.

You give, and you take, God. It just… It feels like you took too much this time.

Northfield leaned back and closed his eyes. Why Erik? He’s got a daughter, sweet as a button. She’ll have a hole in her heart now, one that nothing can fill. If you had to take someone, you should’ve taken me. Then that girl would still have a father to hold.

Flashes of Connie’s and Michael’s burnt, scarred faces on those gurneys plagued him. He recalled Elena’s and John’s deaths in Cumulus. He recalled them all, and now Erik, churning in one big vat of mourning.

How many? How many more?

Stormrise held remembrance services for each of its fallen members. Erik’s was last. The ceremony was held in the cafeteria.

They didn’t have a mortician to prepare the bodies for death, so the coffins remained closed.

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Eulogies were given by Chief Kaminski, Rayne, and Erik’s sister, Sydnee. Northfield didn’t really hear any of them. His focus was on Erik’s daughter, Becca.

She stared at his coffin. It was a simple wooden thing built from the trees outside. The tears hadn’t really come yet, not the brunt of them. Disbelief marked her saucer eyes, like at any minute, her father would spring out of the plain box, announcing the scene was all a big joke.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen a child mourning. I hope this is the last. God, I hope this is the last.

After the ceremony, Widow Team put on their gas masks and carried the coffins out of the base. There was an open patch in the woods nearby that they had been using for burials. Sydnee and Becca joined them; they weren’t ready to say goodbye. Not yet.

Simple crosses made of two branches marked each grave.

The graveyard was filling up awfully quickly. Too many crosses marked the earth.

They found an open spot for Erik, and they took out spades and started shoveling. The earth was still frozen, so the work was slow and grueling.

“If Erik saw us struggling with this frozen dirt, do you know what he’d say?” Samuel said. “He’d say to hell with burying me.

Just toss me into a lake and be done with it.”

“Maybe then he’d finally catch his stupid fish,” Leo said.

Everyone laughed. Even Becca let out a small giggle.

“This is just what he’d want, you know?” Andy said. “He’d want us to be joking. To be making fun of him, even.”

“He would,” Sydnee agreed. “He’d want us to laugh, not cry.”

Leo stuck his shovel into the ground. He looked to Sydnee and Becca, and he asked, “What do you say? A final roast for Erik?”

Sydnee knelt by Becca, looking her eye to eye. She asked, “What do you think? Should we joke around with your dad one final time?”

Becca looked down, then up to the clouds. “But… Daddy won’t be able to poke fun at us back. He likes—liked—doing that.”

“Oh, he will,” Sydnee said. “He’ll be chirping at us from heaven, I’m sure.”

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Becca thought about it, and she nodded. She giggled softly to herself, and she said, “I think… I think I’ll be able to still hear him snore from heaven.”

Everyone laughed, and the final roast of Erik had officially kicked off.

While the hole deepened, they passed the time telling stories about Erik and poking fun at his big, blustering personality.

It took hours, fighting against the unyielding dirt, but those hours went by quickly. Eventually, they had a hole in the earth big enough to fit the coffin.

After they buried Erik, Andy knelt over his friend to pay his final respects. When he was finished, Rayne put his hand on Andy’s shoulder.

“I just hope that… I hope Erik knows…” Andy said, trailing off. “Aw, hell. I hope he knows how much we loved him.”

“He does,” Rayne said. “He does.”

He pulled Andy to his feet and put his arm over his shoulder.

Sydnee and Becca joined Andy, wrapping arms. The other members of Widow Team joined in, too. They stood over Erik, arms around one another.

At long last, they left Erik. The wind picked up, whistling through the trees. They were glad for the noise, for the movement.

Leaving Erik in stillness and quiet felt wrong. *** “Gotta admit, they’re pretty good at this,” Geralt said, chuckling bitterly.

He lay in his bed, watching an hour-long Network News Channel segment on TV. Northfield sat in a chair beside him, leaning forward.

Very few others at base had a TV in their room. Doctor Cohanan had suggested that Geralt be provided with a TV to keep him occupied while he was bedridden after his surgery. After his bedridden period had ended, however, he commanded that the TV stay. Once he chewed out the poor Stormrise member who tried moving the TV, nobody had tried again since.

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The news segment showed documentary-style coverage of the struggles in hospitals and grocery stores due to supply shortages. Northfield and Geralt had seen a number of similar documentaries over the past few weeks.

Cameras attached to the Network Hounds had captured Stormrise stealing the medical supplies; it was the ammunition the Network needed to fight its propaganda war. The Network wasted no time playing the attack on every news station in New Medea, plastering it on websites and even posting images of the attack on billboards and city posters.

They paired this propaganda with news about a sharp increase in costs across the board, especially the costs of medical treatment and supplies. Even standard pain pills had reached nigh-unaffordable prices.

Currently, the reporter was interviewing a grocery store owner. He was a round, friendly-looking man with one of the bushiest mustaches Northfield had ever seen. A pair of too-small glasses put pressure on his nose.

“Bread, I think that’s the worst of it,” the grocery store owner said. “Been weeks since I’ve gotten a bread shipment of any kind.

The shelves are just sitting empty now.”

“Why bread?” Northfield asked himself. “If the Network’s gonna cut down on the food supply, why that?”

Geralt shrugged. “When everything went to hell, people foraged and hunted for food. People had to scrape together flour and grains and make their own bread. But for years now, people could buy premade loaves from stores. All civilized-like. Take that away, make them make their own bread again… it reminds them of what things were like in the dark days. Puts them back in that scavenging mindset. They panic.”

“That almost sounds too sinister and calculating, even for the Network,” Northfield said.

“It ain’t,” Geralt said. “As I said, the little news people are good at what they do.”

The news segment transferred focus to a hospital. The reporter interviewed doctors, nurses, and patients who all shared their perspectives on the shortage.

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The most gut-wrenching interview was with a man who had recently lost his daughter.

“She was just… in pain, you know?” he said, wiping his eyes.

“But the doctors couldn’t give her nothin’. She was always so brave and strong but… it was too much, you know?” He paused for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. “I held her hand. That’s all I could do. Nobody… nobody deserves what she had to suffer through. Especially her.”

The reporter moved on to interview other people, but Northfield was still thinking about the father wiping tears from his eyes.

“Do you think some part of this is our fault?” he asked Geralt.

“What?” he said. “Are you serious? We took one truck’s worth of their pills. Look at how they’re keeping back the food now, too.

The Network would be pulling this crap if all we pawed off them was a friggin’ granola bar.”

“But still,” Northfield said. “Even if the Network is pulling back supplies solely as a PR strategy, it wouldn’t be able to take that route if we hadn’t stolen supplies. We gave the Network an opening to exploit. And real people are hurting as a result.”

“Real people?” Geralt scoffed, gesturing to the TV. “These are just paid actors for all we know. The Network’s done it before.”

Northfield thought again of the father and the sorrow in his tear-rimmed eyes. “I don’t think so. Not this time.”

“Well, say that’s so. This is a tactic the Network’s used before,” Geralt said. “Hurt people until we stop. The Network used it when we were escaping the city, remember? And it didn’t stop you then.”

“Because it’s a bad game,” Northfield said. “If we give in whenever the Network hurts people, it’s never gonna end. We can’t give in to that tactic.”

“Well, there ya go,” Geralt said. “You already had your answer.

I gotta say this, though. If you’re gettin’ squeamish when you’re on our damned team, I worry about what the aimless schmucks in the city think.”

“Yeah,” Northfield said. “I guess that’s my worry, too.”

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“Then again,” Geralt said, “you’re just about the biggest softie I know. So maybe there’s hope that the common people have a bit tougher skin than you do.”

“I hope so,” he said. On TV, the reporter was covering the increased looting as a result of the shortages. “They’re gonna need it.”

Geralt grew bored of the news report, so he changed the channel. A hockey game had started between two of New Medea’s teams. Northfield figured it was a good time to leave. *** The Network continued hammering home that every cost increase was solely Stormrise’s doing. Its media apparatus asked, “What has Stormrise ever done for you, anyway?”

The messaging was effective. Public opinion of Stormrise pivoted sharply. Stormrise’s agents and contacts in the city reported a growing impatience with Stormrise’s tactics, even among those who had been sympathetic to their cause. Very few people were interested in joining them or supporting them with money or resources.

The loyal supporters of Stormrise had shrunk to those who had lost a loved one to the Network’s kidnapping operation. No amount of propaganda could clear the bitter taste of the Network from their mouths.

However, this loyal base was small, relative to the city’s size, and their voices were getting drowned out.

The wave of public opinion had turned against Stormrise.

Stormrise had to be careful, lest that wave crash into them and destroy them.

Chief Kaminski summoned a leadership meeting to discuss their next steps. General Taylor and Rayne Simpson were present, along with Northfield and Geralt for their outside perspectives.

“We’re underwater,” Chief Kaminski said. “No two ways about it. The question is, what do we do from here?”

“We need to lie low for a little while,” General Taylor said.

“The Network will eventually do something heinous that will make the public flinch.”

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“And how long will that wait be?” Rayne asked.

“This is the Network we’re talking about,” General Taylor said. “It can’t help itself. If the Network wasn’t mistreating people, then we wouldn’t be here in the first place, would we?”

“I don’t doubt the Network will mistreat people,” Rayne said.

“My worry is whether people will find out about it. Ever since General Arkland’s taken control, they’ve been more organized.

Their public relations has operated on a unified front.”

“We’ve also given the Network something it didn’t have before,” Chief Kaminski said. “An enemy. Whatever’s going wrong, they can pin it on us.”

“And who knows how long they can play that out?” Rayne said. “Unless we do something.”

“But what, exactly?” General Taylor asked. “Raid more supply trucks? We have the supplies we need, and all we’d do now is inflame the public.”

“No, we both agree on that. No more supply trucks,” Rayne said. “But we need momentum all the same. We were after medical supplies so badly because we wanted to fight. We have them now, but we won’t fight? We lost lives for them, Earl.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” General Taylor said darkly.

After a pause, Geralt spoke up. “Your first priority’s gotta be your own people. Forget about the public for a second. How are the people around here gonna feel when we just sit on our hands?

After what they’ve lost to get these supplies? It’s gonna be a kick in the nuts; I can guarantee it.”

“You’re right,” Chief Kaminski said. “Some sign of action, some sign of forward progress, is critical for our people. But we need to walk a careful line. We’re close to the point of no return with the people in New Medea. If we tick them off much further, well, then convincing them to join us may become impossible.”

They all considered her words.

“Black and white,” Northfield said. “When I joined up, it was black and white.”

Rayne said, “What are you talking about?”

Northfield said, “I struggle over what’s right and wrong often.

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the wrong. When I was running through New Medea, I saw the missing people posters. I heard from people about the loved ones that had been taken. The Network’s violation of people’s rights was a clear crime if I’ve ever seen one. A crime against their dignity and soul.

“The issue makes it pretty clear that the Network is no good, and it’s an issue that people are pretty keen about acting on.

But we’ve moved our attention away from that goal. We’ve been preoccupied with building our ranks, our reputation, and our resources.”

“We have to,” Rayne said defensively. “We can’t beat the Network with gumption and a positive attitude.”

“I know,” Northfield said. “I’m not saying we should’ve done anything else. But still, it’s given General Arkland the opportunity to muddy the waters. To make everything seem a whole lot grayer.

“People won’t risk their lives for morally gray. That’s what General Arkland knows, too. As long as we’re seen as bad, it doesn’t matter what people think of the Network in the end.

“People will risk their lives for morally white, though. And we need to shine the light on the most clear-cut example. We need to find the people that the Network’s taken, wherever they are.”

“Your head’s in the right place,” General Taylor said. “But it’s not as simple as saying so. Believe me, if we had an easy way to find where these people are being taken, we’d already be there.”

“We’ve seen a number of Network vehicles head northward, deeper into the gas,” Rayne said. “But sending a group of guys to tail them is borderline suicide. It’s just us and the Network out here. It’s pretty easy to tell when you’re being followed.”

General Taylor added, “Besides, even if we did send guys out and they happened to come across something without being discovered, what exactly could we do about it? We don’t have the numbers yet.”

“Right now, it sounds like it’s hard to grow our numbers anyway,” Northfield said. “At what point would you feel comfortable doing something? If we wait too long and opinions 130

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about us keep going south, it might become impossible to get the numbers you want.”

“He’s got a point,” Geralt said.

“So you want to do something about it,” General Taylor said.

“What’s your idea?”

“Well, instead of trying to track the Network from outside New Medea, why not try to get intel from inside the city?” he asked. “Somebody in that city’s gotta have a location of where the missing people are going. Then we don’t need to worry about tailing anyone.”

General Taylor said, “Again, you’re not saying anything that we haven’t already considered. We’ve tried to tap our resources in the city. Nobody knows what’s happening to these people. It’s the Network’s best-kept secret.”

“What about a guinea pig?” Geralt said. “You find a brave and stupid volunteer and get the Network to capture them for some meager crime. Then we trail ’em.”

Anne Kaminski shook her head. “We already know where the Network takes prisoners initially. Prisoners are generally taken to a CDZ for processing.” Northfield recalled that CDZ stood for Corps Domestic Zone. In short, CDZs served as the Network’s version of a police station. “There’s a reason we haven’t tried trailing the Network from a CDZ. Once the prisoners leave New Medea, we’re back to the difficulty of trailing the Network outside city limits for long periods.”

“Well, the Network’s taking people and moving them,” Geralt insisted. “That leaves a trail. Somebody’s gotta know about it.”

“Whoever knows, they’re very high up in the Network chain.

Dimitri tried to crack the Network’s security system to get travel logs, but he couldn’t get through. And if he can’t, then I don’t know anyone who can,” General Taylor said.

“But finding them hasn’t been our priority,” Northfield insisted. “We’ve been tapping people for help finding supplies, haven’t we? We’re not all hands on deck. If we send everyone in the city sniffing after where the missing people are going, a stone will turn up.”

“What makes you so sure?” General Taylor asked.

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“This is why most of your agents in the city joined up,” Northfield said. “I bet a lot of them have friends or family missing.

If you give them leave to search, they’ll do everything possible to find them. I believe someone will find that trail.”

“Okay,” Rayne said. “Say we let our people loose to start searching. Who knows how long it will take for a lead to materialize? Weeks or months, at the very least, if anything turns up at all. What will we do in the meantime? Sit on our hands?

That brings us right back to the problem I was talking about earlier.”

“If we tell people that we’re trying to find their missing friends and family, they’ll be patient,” Northfield said. “We have a good goal. They’ll get behind it.”

Geralt added, “Use the goal to double down on recruiting people, too. They’ll be more itchin’ to sign up if they know the very first thing they’ll be doing is trying to find their missing buddies.”

“By the time we find wherever these missing people are, we might have enough people to do something about it,” Northfield offered.

They turned to Chief Kaminski. She crossed her arms and said, “This seems like the right move to me. General Taylor, tell Dimitri to send the word out to our agents in the city. It’s high time we go hunting.” *** Northfield kept his training gear in his locker; it was sweaty and far past needing a wash. One of the classrooms had been converted into a laundromat, with stacks of washers and dryers that had been scavenged from nearby towns.

Widow Team’s training, as well as General Taylor’s training for the other Stormrise fighters, had already commenced for the day. Because of this, the locker room was vacant when he arrived.

Soon after sitting down on the locker room bench, he heard footsteps behind him. The man entered the row of lockers behind Northfield. Then he heard an odd noise.

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It was a soft sob, he realized. Then he heard Rayne’s voice.

“I’m sorry, Erik,” Rayne said. “I remember, years ago, we made a bet. Do you remember it? You were always blustering and making bets, so I know they were a dime a dozen for you.

Especially since this one didn’t have any stakes.”

Northfield didn’t want to interrupt Rayne. So he left his locker closed and stood up. His clothes could wait.

Rayne said, “You may have forgotten, but I didn’t. We bet on who would last longer in this hellhole. To tell you the truth, it’s always a bet I wanted you to win. Especially when Becca came along. She’s a good girl. You’ve left the world someone good. You should be proud.”

Northfield crept out slowly. On the way to the exit, he passed the row of lockers Rayne was in.

His leader sat on the bench, his head low, drowning in his thoughts. His shoulders sagged, and he breathed long and ragged breaths. His arms wrapped around his head, but tears glistened on his cheeks.

He sat in front of Erik’s locker, which had been emptied out

by Erik’s family. It remained open and vacant.

“We put you to rest,” Rayne said. “So I should let you rest. But I had to bother you, just for a little while.”

Northfield slipped out of the locker room, leaving Rayne to mourn undisturbed.

133

11 General Arkland cut into his steak, and crimson juice oozed out. Perfectly cooked, he thought. He’d have to pass the compliment along to the chefs later.

He sat at the head of his long dining table, which was draped with a white cloth. He had guests over tonight, after all. On either side of the table, halfway across, sat his Head of Science and his Head of Resources.

The Head of Resources, Nancy McRoberts, was formerly the Nexus’s Chair of Resources. She was a cunning woman with no true convictions that Arkland knew of, save for the fact that she despised Stormrise. She believed them to be brutish lowlives with guns, and she had no desire to be ruled by them.

Besides her distaste for Stormrise, McRoberts tended to go wherever the wind blew. She had no trouble casting off the other Chairs of the Nexus when she felt their usefulness had expired.

She watched, unblinkingly, as Arkland slew the Chairs that didn’t side with him. They’d been colleagues of hers—which, he could tell for certain, hadn’t meant they were her friends, if she even knew the meaning of the word. She was a woman Arkland would always be wary of. However, her quick thinking and cold rationale tended to serve him well. Plus, her detachment enabled her to perform her job most admirably.

The Head of Resources had a number of duties pertaining to the city’s procurement of resources. This included the city’s food and energy supplies. Past that, her job included another secret duty. She had been responsible for the acquisition of human resources as part of the Network’s Dark Hour Initiative.

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Hubert Bowler had formerly been the Nexus’s Chair of Research and Development. Bowler now served as Arkland’s Head of Science. The role was similar to the one he had possessed under the Nexus, except now he had greater reach and influence.

The Head of Science was a visionary; even General Arkland could admit that. He played a significant role in all of the Network’s technical advancements, perhaps the greatest of which was his success in clearing the toxic gas from New Medea. In addition, he directed the development of the exoskeleton suits and RAID armor.

The Dark Hour Initiative had been the Head of Science’s brainchild; he had convinced all of the other Chairs of its multifaceted benefits. Arkland inherited the project when he took over.

At the far end of the table sat Jane Sloan. She was Arkland’s second. She served as his secretary, his advisor, and whatever other roles he needed assistance with. She performed her tasks efficiently or found someone who could.

General Arkland finished his glass of wine, relishing the silence. He experienced it so little these days.

The Head of Science squirmed in his chair, his plate already clean. He gobbled his dinner due to his discomfort. The Head of Science didn’t particularly enjoy social situations, which was just fine by Arkland. It was a lever he could use to apply pressure when the need arose.

The Head of Resources cut her steak methodically, eating small bites. She didn’t seem to mind the silence. Perhaps she was enjoying it, too.

Jane Sloan shared occasional glances with General Arkland.

It amazed him how much she could communicate with just one glance. He could tell she wanted him to get this meeting going.

He set down his fork and knife.

“Thank you for meeting here,” he said. “I hope you’re enjoying the meal.”

“It’s very good, General,” the Head of Resources said.

“Good. It’s about time we got down to business,” Arkland said. “You both know why we’re here: the Dark Hour Initiative. I want updates.”

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General Arkland only allowed discussions about the Dark Hour Initiative in secure rooms, where security had done a sweep for recording devices. Fortunately, security had done just that in Arkland’s penthouse before his guests arrived.

Eager that he could talk about something in his line of expertise, the Head of Science cleared his throat.

“Progress on the OGRE mechs has been steady. I would say two months, or maybe three, before we’re able to have a small rollout of two or three units.” Sweat built up on his brow; he picked up his used napkin and wiped away the marks. “That is,” he added, “if we get more manual labor.”

“Manual labor?” the Head of Resources exclaimed. “What do you need more for?”

“There was an oversight in the initial design of the arm and leg joints,” the Head of Science said. “When bent at certain angles, the joints couldn’t bear an adequate weight. The arms and legs have to be rebuilt from the ground up. That means more raw materials, which in turn means we need more scavengers to pluck from the wasteland. Metals, especially copper, are our biggest need. Copper facilitates the current of electricity, so it’s necessary for circuitry—” “I get it,” General Arkland said. “I’m assuming, then, you also need more labor for the construction of the devices. Your scientists would hate to get their hands dirty, after all.”

The Head of Science nodded rapidly, wiping more sweat from his brow.

The Head of Resources said, “He needs more labor. It’s hard, harsh work. People have to leave the city’s comforts and live in the wastelands. We can’t afford to pay the salaries we’d need to do the work without retainant labor. Yet we can’t take any more people from the city, either. It would undo the months of work we’ve spent demonizing Stormrise. We would be giving our enemies a new rallying cry.”

“That we agree on,” General Arkland said. “No more kidnappings in the city. So it sounds like we have an issue here.”

The Head of Resources exchanged a glance with the Head of Science.

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The Head of Science wiped his brow and stuttered before beginning, “Nancy and I talked, and we have a solution.”

His tone didn’t inspire much confidence in Arkland. “What solution?”

The Head of Science exchanged yet another glance with the Head of Resources. Arkland was beginning to despise that.

The Head of Resources said, “Project Augustus.”

Arkland squinted. New Medeans selected for the Dark Hour Initiative were taken to retainant camps and routed into two categories. The first was slave labor for the Head of Science’s projects and the Head of Resources’ supply initiatives for the city.

The other New Medeans were sent to participate in Project Augustus, another brainchild of the Head of Science, one that the Chairs of the Nexus had gotten on board with. The project was going to initially be named the Bowler Procedures, after the Head of Science, but he didn’t want his name tied to the project.

The goings-on of Project Augustus were seldom talked about.

Even in a secure area such as this, the Head of Science only ever discussed the results.

General Arkland could look at Project Augustus unflinchingly, but he nonetheless spoke around the issue, too.

He could capitalize on the tension it caused the former Chairs of the Nexus.

“What about Project Augustus?” he asked.

“We’ve received all the data we could ever need,” the Head of Science said. “And that’s coming from me of all people. The research has been successful, by my metrics. It’s outlived its usefulness.”

The Head of Resources added, “If we route the subjects in Project Augustus to the OGRE project, at least the ones still able to work, it will alleviate Hubert’s labor needs. Furthermore, Project Augustus is toxic to our reputation. If the people of New Medea ever found out….”

She didn’t need to finish the thought. The Head of Science said, “It’s better if we wipe our hands clean now and prevent that risk.”

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General Arkland narrowed his eyes and asked him, “If you don’t get any more labor, how much does that delay the OGRE mechs?”

The Head of Science was caught off guard; clearly, he had hoped that Arkland would just approve their plan.

“It would double the timetable, at least,” the Head of Science said. “Five months, maybe six or seven, before the limited rollout.”

General Arkland crossed his arms. “So be it. Project Augustus stays.”

The Head of Science stuttered, “Sir? I… ah… I really don’t—” “Our military forces outnumber Stormrise by hundreds to one,” Arkland said. “We have superior technology. We already have exo soldiers and RAID soldiers that far outpace the grunts that Stormrise has. You’re a mathematics man, Bowler, so you tell me. Are three or four mechs really going to make a difference in that equation?”

The Head of Science swallowed. “No, sir. I don’t believe they would.”

General Arkland said, “That’s your problem, Bowler. You’re a slave to your own curiosity. You pushed Project Augustus in the first place because, deep down, you were curious. But now that your curiosity has withered on that subject, you’ve pivoted over to more robotics. You’ll justify it however you see fit. The true need is irrelevant to you.”

The Head of Resources said, “You’re not wrong about any of that, General. A few more months for Bowler’s mechs isn’t a dealbreaker. However, my biggest concern is still the risk that Project Augustus presents for us. I don’t see what benefit we’re getting from it. If there is one, it certainly doesn’t warrant the risk.”

General Arkland said, “You two may not see the benefit of Project Augustus, but I do. Bowler, you’ll have to continue your OGRE project with the manpower you already have. With that said, we’re done here.”

Jane Sloan remained quiet, but she gave General Arkland a quizzical glance as the Head of Resources and Head of Science departed.

After the servants had cleared the table, Sloan and Arkland moved to the massive windows that overlooked the city.

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Dusk would arrive soon; the sky was a blaze of reds, pinks, and purples, bathing the city in a burning glow. The plethora of animated billboards flashed in a dizzying array below. New Medea was a city always awake, always moving, so much so that even the buildings appeared alive.

Jane Sloan said, “Permission to speak freely, General?”

“Always, Sloan,” he said.

“I didn’t want to question you in front of your subordinates, but I have to admit, I’m not sold on your choice. The Head of Resources has the right of things, it seems to me. What makes Project Augustus worth it to you?”

General Arkland didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “Have a glass of wine with me, Sloan.”

He retrieved glasses and a nice bottle of wine from his liquor cabinet. He poured liberally for both of them; it was a deep red, which looked even redder in the pre-dusk haze.

He took a long sip and swirled the contents of his glass around. She did the same.

“I’m going to tell you a story, Jane,” he said.

She was taken aback, he could tell, although she didn’t show it. He rarely used her first name.

He said, “I was stationed out of St. Louis during the end of the war. The city was thoroughly decimated at that point, but we’d sent the last Lighthouse Battalion scrambling. I suppose that is one nice thing about a private military: all its soldiers are bought and paid for. When the going gets tough, and the money becomes meaningless, their boots hit the road real quick.

“But not before Lighthouse fired off the bombs. All we’d fought for, and we still lost everything in the end.”

Arkland scowled, and he took a swig of his wine.

He continued, “The chaos that followed… well, you know.

Military communication broke down and organization fractured.

My battalion and I were left to fend for ourselves. We and the civilians we sheltered. They included my wife and daughter.”

He took another swig. He said, “At that time, I was an officer serving under General Beckham. He led us well, as well as he could.

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“I thought he was a good man. Up until he slipped into the room my family was staying in and killed them. Throttled my wife and daughter with his hands.”

He held out a clenched hand to demonstrate. Sloan stared at him, eyes agape.

He said, “Their faces were black when I found them. The marks on their throats were purple and clear. I never learned why he did it. Maybe he was angry and wanted to take it out on someone. Or maybe he did it just because he could. Either way, there had always been a little monster inside of him. He was not a very good man, after all.

“He didn’t bother denying it. Everyone knew. But the apocalypse had begun in earnest, and people thought Beckham was their best shot at survival. So they lived with what he had done, and not one soul lifted a finger against him. They let him lead for an entire year.”

Jane Sloan asked, “Why didn’t you take matters into your own hands?”

General Arkland smirked bitterly. “Because I didn’t want a revenge killing. I wanted justice. I wanted him to be tried and judged, and only then did I want to see him hanged on a lamppost. But it didn’t matter to anyone else, apparently.”

He finished his wine and said, “A few months later, new survivors arrived at our camp. Built, combat-ready men.

Former soldiers of the Lighthouse Battalion who had shed their uniforms and blended in with the survivors. The very people who had tried to kill us then tried to join us. Again, everybody knew it. But all people cared about was the combat-ready part.

Protection, after all, was the most important virtue. I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed my bags and left. After putting a bullet between Beckham’s eyes.”

He poured himself more wine. “Every survivor at that camp deserved to rot for what they chose to live with. But it didn’t matter to them as long as they were living.

“That’s all of us, Sloan. You. Me. The people that survived up to this point aren’t worth more than the clothes on our backs.”

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He gestured to the city with his full glass of wine. Some spilled onto the floor, but he didn’t bother to wipe it up. “Whether it’s me atop this ash heap or another, what does it truly matter to anyone?

“Bowler started Project Augustus to sate his own deranged curiosity. But I see another purpose, Jane. It’s giving people a measure of what they truly deserve. If there’s any purpose to be scraped up in this hellscape, I think those retainant camps are mine.

“My view is a far cry from the arrogance the Nexus or Stormrise possess. They think they’ll bend the world to their own vision. But I think they’ll find that it doesn’t bend so easily.

We are what we are.”

He turned to meet Sloan’s eyes. He asked, “It’s not a vision most would be on board with. Can I count on you to be by my side?”

She met his gaze unflinchingly. “I was nothing before you found me. No family. No friends. No home.” She looked out to the city. “I don’t owe this world anything, General. But I owe you.

I’m by your side. No matter what you face. Or what you do.”

He poured her more wine. They drank in silence as they watched the sky go dark.

141

12 At Stormrise headquarters, the next month consisted of little more than daily routines. Widow Team and the other Stormrise combat units went out on scavenging runs to abandoned towns and scouting missions to assess the Network’s activity in the region, but that was the extent of their work in the field.

Otherwise, they trained to remain in battle-ready condition, and they did menial chores and assignments around the base, as did all Stormrise members.

These chores ranged from acquiring food from the expansive forests to repairing malfunctioning energy panels on the roof, replacing light bulbs, and sweeping the floors.

Spring arrived, and the snow had started to melt. It now resided mostly in the belly of the forests, where sunlight seldom reached.

They waited for news from New Medea about where the missing citizens might be, but the city’s agents hadn’t yet found any worthwhile leads. So they took each day one at a time, waiting for the call to jump into action.

To break up the doldrum of their daily slog, Widow Team had a poker night. To add excitement, they had a big wager. Whoever won would get the week off his daily chores, save for combat training, with the other members of Widow Team picking up the slack for him.

The going of the game was slow: an hour in, each man had roughly the same number of chips that he started with.

“You’re all too conservative,” Samuel muttered, holding his cards close to his face. “Folding before the first flop near every damned time.”

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“Oh, shut up,” Leo said. “You’re playing the exact same way.”

“It’s still your turn, Sam,” Rayne said. “Either bet or fold.”

Samuel grumbled and threw a couple of chips down, matching the current bet. Out of everyone, he had the smallest number of chips, but not by much.

“See, that was your chance to bet big. To take a risk and prove you’re not a hypocrite,” Leo said. “But you mucked that up, too.”

Samuel pointed at the pot in the center. “But playing conservative is my thing. It’s always been my style. You’re all copying me, and it’s messing with my flow.”

“You’re ridiculous, man,” Andy said. “Remember how pissed you’d get at Erik for always betting big? And now you’re mad that nobody’s betting big. There’s no pleasing you, is there?”

There was a pause at the mention of Erik.

Samuel shrugged and said, “I’ll be happy when I’m winning.”

“And look at that,” Leo said. “We’ve arrived at the answer to this little mystery. You’re just mad because you’re losing.”

“All right, lay off the bickering,” Rayne said. “I should’ve known better than to expect a nice night of cards. Not with this lot.”

Samuel grumbled again, but he didn’t say anything more.

Andy was sitting next to Northfield. He leaned over and said softly, “We had to stop playing cards together because it would always go the same way. Erik would bet crazy amounts on stupid hands, sometimes ones he had no right winning. And if he got lucky on a hand or two, he’d use his newfound chips to bet big every time. Drove Sam insane, and the rest of us, too, to be honest. The night would always end with somebody flipping the table and leaving.” He glanced back at the table. “But without him, well, it’s…”

Northfield finished for him. “Boring.”

“Yeah. It’s boring.”

They played a couple more hands to similar effect. Everybody bet small, so the movement of chips from one man to another was painfully slow.

“We’re gonna win the war before we’ve finished this game,” Leo muttered.

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In the next hand, Samuel slid a large number of chips into the center of the table.

“Well, look who’s got a big hand,” Leo said flatly.

“You don’t know,” Samuel said. “I could be bluffing.”

“Uh-huh,” Leo said.

Players folded around the table until it was Northfield’s turn.

He studied his cards. They were middling, at best. If Samuel had a decent hand, he would almost assuredly beat him. Judging by Samuel’s barely contained excitement, that seemed pretty darned likely.

He debated folding. Instead, he slid forward a pile of chips to match Samuel’s.

“Oh, now we’ve got a game,” Andy said.

Rayne was the dealer for the round. He flipped the first set of cards. Samuel was hesitant to raise his big bet even further, so he called each time. After all the cards were revealed, Samuel and Northfield had one final round of betting.

Samuel looked his cards up and down. He checked, still reluctant to bet more.

Northfield slid another pile of chips into the pot. He met Samuel’s gaze, trying to keep his face as blank as possible.

Samuel’s face was knotted in concentration as he tried to figure out whether to match Northfield’s bet or fold.

“You’re… you’re bluffing, aren’t you?” Samuel said.

Northfield didn’t answer, still trying to keep his face neutral.

Samuel cracked a big grin. “You are.” He slid his chips in to match the bet. When he and Northfield revealed their cards, it wasn’t even close. Samuel greedily pulled in the pot, with a smile threatening to split his face in two.

“Ha! I knew it,” he said.

“Sorry, man,” Leo said to Northfield.

“Don’t be,” Northfield said. “It was fun, at least.”

Leo thought that Samuel was a bit too happy from his win, and he was determined to take him down a peg. Andy and even Rayne were livened up a bit, too, and they bet bigger. There were bigger losses but bigger wins as well, and everyone seemed to settle into a groove.

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Rayne, Northfield, and Andy folded early on a hand. As Leo and Samuel raised bets, matched them, and studied each other for tells, Rayne put an arm on Andy’s shoulder. Northfield dealt cards that round, and he couldn’t help but overhear the men at his side.

“How are Sydnee and Becca?” Rayne asked.

Andy looked down, his face twisting into a grimace. “I mean, you know… Not well, I guess. Sydnee’s pulling through. Erik’s not the first sibling she’s lost. Sad as it is to say, it’s a grief she’s been through before. But he was her last left, so I guess that hurts in its own special way. She puts on a strong face in front of Becca, but when she’s alone… she just wants to be held. So I hold her.

“Becca’s worse. She’s stopped crying as much, but now all she wants to do is read. She’s always kinda been that way, but now she throws a tantrum when you take her book away.”

“Better in a book than reality, for her,” Rayne said.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Andy said. “Still, we don’t know how long to let her grieve before really trying to, you know, stop that.”

Rayne said, “She’s been cooped up in this school. Everything here is going to remind her of her father. Of course, she wants to escape. You should take her on a walk outside. Let her feel the wind, feel the trees. Some distance from this place, even if it’s a small amount, will help.”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” Andy said. “Except for the toxic gas. Sydnee will never go for it. Even with a mask, if Becca’s somehow got cracked or broken… It’s too big of a risk. I mean, there’s a reason none of the kids here are allowed to go outside.

Chief Kaminski made a firm rule of it.”

“I understand,” Rayne said. “But I think that girl needs this. I truly do. Let me talk to Anne about making an exception. Maybe for some of the older kids, too. You convince Sydnee.”

“I’ll try. But I’m not sure I can succeed, sir.”

“Well, if you can’t convince her, I’ll give it a shot,” Rayne said.

Leo shouted in joy; he had won the hand. Samuel wasn’t too upset. He was still riding off the high of his initial win.

After that hand, luck slowly turned in Leo’s favor. He won hand after hand. The chips in his opponents’ possession dwindled, 145

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and they were eliminated one by one. Northfield ran out of chips first, followed by Rayne and Andy. Samuel and Leo battled in the final hands, but by then, it was too late. Leo had too many chips, and he could out-bet Samuel.

“Well, the table’s still upright, so I’m calling this a win,” Andy said as Leo pulled in the last pot.

“Don’t speak too soon,” Samuel said. “I haven’t decided whether I’m gonna kick it over yet.”

There was a smile on his face when he said it, though, so they knew the table was safe. They put away the table and chips, and they headed off to their rooms.

It was late, close to 1:00 a.m. The hallways were vacant, save for the guards on duty. Northfield was caught off guard. Then he spotted Odell sitting on the ground between rows of lockers, leaning against one of them.

“Odell?” he said.

The older man hadn’t noticed him. He turned his head and blinked. A lazy smile crept onto his face. “Mark? Come sit down.”

He slapped the ground next to him. There was a slight lack of coordination to his movement. Concerned, Northfield sat next to him.

Odell pulled a flask out, drank from it, and offered it to Northfield.

Well, that explains the lack of coordination.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Northfield said, holding up his hand. Odell shrugged and took another pull. Northfield asked, “What are you doing out here?”

“Here? Why, I live here. Don’t you?” Odell said. He smiled smugly, clearly pleased with his wittiness.

Northfield wasn’t. He just stared at Odell.

Finally, Odell relented. He held up his flask and said, “I found myself a nice flask. And tonight’s as good as any to drink.”

“The drinking part is obvious. I guess I’m wondering why you’ve decided to stuff yourself between some lockers in the dead of night to do it.”

Odell sighed and put down the flask. His hands were trembling. Northfield expected another deflection. Instead, Odell said, “I just… I don’t know how long I can keep doing this.”

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“Doing what?”

Odell hung his head. “I wanted to see Aubrey for years. But seeing her every day, seeing her glare every day… It just brings me back. Each and every day. It’s driving me crazy, Mark. It is.”

Northfield frowned. He knew Odell’s relationship with Aubrey had troubled the man, but he hadn’t imagined finding Odell like this. The situation was worse than he thought.

“I haven’t asked what happened,” Northfield said. “I haven’t pried. But I think you’ve gotta tell me. You’re gonna keep going downhill if you keep all this to yourself.”

Odell’s eyes widened, and there was real horror in them. “No. No, no, no. I won’t have you look at me like she does. I won’t.”

“I promise that I won’t,” he said. “I just want to help, man.

That’s all.”

Odell didn’t reply for a while. Then he took a long pull from his flask and wiped his lips.

“Before the bombs fell, we saw the signs coming, so we prepared at our church. By the time the bombs came, we had built up a good stock of supplies to survive on, and we intended to shelter everyone that came to our doors. Aubrey and her family were some of the first to take shelter with us.

“But as more and more people came, I grew nervous. I feared the day when our supplies ran out. I didn’t need to, Mark. I really didn’t.

“Aubrey’s best friends, Abigail and Marissa, showed up at our doorstep. We still had room to spare, Mark. But I was scared. I just was. So I turned them away.”

Odell looked straight down at the ground. Grief filled his voice.

“Two young girls, Mark. And I turned them away to fend for themselves in the apocalypse when we had enough room. We did.

“I lied about what happened. I told everyone that they just never showed up. Maybe they didn’t get their gas masks on in time when the bombs hit. Or maybe they had been killed by looters. I looked Aubrey in the face and lied to her. I held her as she cried about her friends. Friends I may as well have killed with my bare hands.

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“For years, Mark. I lied about it for years, probably hundreds of times. But Aubrey found out. The truth always manages to wrestle its way out. Even here now, with you. I hadn’t wanted you to know. But now you do. And yet, I always lie and lie and lie.

Shows what I know.”

Odell drank from his flask. He was afraid to meet Northfield’s eyes to see what his friend thought of him.

Northfield folded his hands together, and he thought for a moment. “I’m not gonna sit here and judge you, man. I’m not excusing what you did, either. But that happened at the beginning of the apocalypse. Nobody knew what was going on. Everyone was scared out of their mind, and then some. Everyone acted in ways they weren’t proud of. Including me. I’m not proud, Odell.”

Odell smirked, but there was a bitterness on his lips. “Tell me, Mark, was any of your bad done against kids?”

“No,” he replied. “At least not directly.”

“Then it’s an entirely different thing,” Odell said. “Don’t act like they’re the same.”

Northfield frowned with concern. “Okay then,” he said.

“Let’s say you deserve the bottom rung of hell. Even if that’s true, where does this oppressive guilt get anyone? It’s not helping you.

It’s not helping Aubrey. And it’s not helping anyone else. You’re punishing yourself, but to what end?”

Odell didn’t react. He stared at the lockers ahead of him.

Northfield wasn’t sure if he was even listening.

He put a hand on Odell’s shoulder and said, “I know it’s not the same. I know. But I’ve got real guilt, too. And all I can do about it is pray to God for forgiveness and try to help people.

Turn the feelings outward. Otherwise, it’ll destroy me from the inside. Take it from someone who struggles with dwelling, too.

All this anguish doesn’t do anyone any good.”

“It’s not God’s eyes I see every day,” Odell said. “It’s hers. How can moving on mean anything if she doesn’t forgive me?”

“You can try to mend the wound as best you can,” Northfield said. “But it’s up to her to forgive you, not you. She may never be ready. And that’s something you have to accept. Because just

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waiting around, hinging your life on her forgiveness… That’s no way to live, man.”

“I know it, Mark,” Odell said. “And yet, try to see her eyes every day and tell me you wouldn’t feel the same.”

He lifted the flask to his lips, and he started to chug what remained. Gently, Northfield pulled it away from him.

“Time for bed,” he said. “Come on.”

Odell didn’t argue; he was too tired. He tried to stand up, but he stumbled on his feet. His back hit the lockers with a loud thrang that echoed through the empty halls.

Northfield put an arm around him and helped him to his feet. He and Odell walked, step by wobbly step, to Odell’s room.

Northfield laid him down on his bed, pulling back the covers and tucking him in. There was a small trash bin nearby; Northfield pulled it to the foot of his bed.

Odell started to mutter. Northfield wasn’t sure if Odell was talking to him or to himself.

“Why? Why’d I have to be alone at the door? If my assistant pastor would’ve answered the door, or if I hadn’t been by myself… then… then I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be here.”

Northfield sat by the bed until the muttering stopped and Odell settled into a soft snore. He crept out of the room, wary of the sleepers on the surrounding bunks. Luckily, they hadn’t been awakened during Odell’s entry.

He returned to his own room and lay down. Although he had training with Widow Team bright and early, he couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Odell, which led him to start thinking about Jess.

Jess, when I held you for the last time… I couldn’t believe it. I thought we had more time. I thought we had more time.

And I just… I can’t think about your death often. Because then, I start thinking about what I could’ve done differently.

But I know… I know you don’t want me to dwell on it. So I’m trying not to. I’m trying to keep pushing forward.

But to hear your voice, to hear you tell me that everything will be okay in the end. If I could hear that one more time…

149

13 Helen leaned against her shovel, pausing for only a moment to wipe the sweat and grime from her forehead. The muscles in her back felt like one big knot, and turning to the side even a little bit would send a twinge of pain through her body.

She gripped the shovel and returned to whittling away at the scrap pile before her. After all, what could she do but ignore the pain? The slave camp didn’t exactly have a chiropractor or a massage parlor that she could use.

She chanced a glance back at the guard watching over her and the retainants nearby. He stood there idly, his assault rifle pointed toward the ground. The black faceplate held no expression. The damned faceplate. Hatred burned through her for only a moment before she suppressed that, too.

Elliot was gone. She had to accept that now. Her brother was gone.

It had been months since he was taken. Not a sign of him ever since. Hardly anyone else had ever returned from the Interior.

Why did she think he would be so lucky? Luck didn’t seem to be on their side, seeing as how they were trapped in this place.

As she scooped up scraps of metal and tossed them into the furnace, the pile before her increasingly reminded her of dirt before a grave. Shoveling and shoveling into a seemingly endless vat that swallowed everything up.

At least a gravestone. Wasn’t that the least, the very least, the Network could do? Let her see her brother’s body? Let her get some closure?

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She shoveled for who knew how long before she again reached the point of exhaustion. She leaned against the shovel, gasping with long breaths that still felt too shallow, and wiped her brow.

Glancing back, she saw two guards escorting a prisoner toward their station. She used to feel pity for new arrivals, but she couldn’t even muster that much feeling anymore. Cold, dark apathy, right where her heart used to lie.

The prisoner was of average height, with an entirely shaved head. A large bandage covered his left eye. Smaller cuts marked his other cheek and chin.

There was an intensity to his uncovered eye, a ferocity that she found off-putting. It was a soft sea green color, though, the color of shallow ocean waves amidst a storm. The same shade as her brother’s eyes.

She blinked. This man was Elliot. Her shovel clattered to the floor, the sound echoing off the walls.

“Elliot!” she shouted, running toward him. The joy bubbling in her chest was so foreign that she could hardly even recognize it.

Her arms were outstretched, and she couldn’t possibly think about anything but her brother. He was here, in the flesh, breathing and seeing and walking after so many months away.

She would call it a miracle if she still believed such a concept existed.

“Hey!” the guard at Elliot’s right exclaimed at her approach.

“Back off!”

Elliot stared straight ahead, not meeting her eyes. It was like Helen wasn’t even there. But she hardly cared right now. She continued her approach, arms still out wide.

That earned her a solid punch from the guard. The blow wasn’t that strong, as the guard still held on to Elliot, but his armored knuckles cut across her cheek and intensified the impact. She fell to her knees, clutching the wound.

Elliot didn’t react, still staring straight ahead. What had the damned demons before her put him through?

“Elliot?” she asked, but Elliot didn’t even turn his head. She might as well not exist. And that look in his eye… The whole world might as well not exist.

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“Back to your station, 47-A,” growled the guard who had hit her. He didn’t do worse, though, which was unusual for the guards. Maybe a small shred of humanity lingered in him, one that felt for her and her brother’s plight. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to deal with her right now.

A hand wrapped around her thin arm, pulling her roughly to her feet. She groaned in discomfort; her shoulder felt like it had almost been pulled out. It was the guard who oversaw their section of the melting station. His assault rifle was now strapped to his back, swaying back and forth.

“Don’t make us say it twice,” he growled. He shoved her forward, shepherding her to her shovel and scrap pile. She resumed shoveling, fully aware that any sort of resistance would be futile.

She worked slowly, glancing up every so often at her brother.

He stabbed his shovel into the pile, again and again, ramming the contents into the furnace. There was a violence to all of his movements, which unsettled her to the very core.

She wanted him to look over. Just once, at least. All she wanted were for those sea-wave eyes to meet hers and show her that Elliot was still there, behind that distant stare.

He never looked at her. Not once. All that seemed to exist in his world was that damned pile and that damned furnace. *** “Elliot, please, talk to me,” Helen said, tugging at her brother’s arm. He shoveled food into his mouth like a wolf with his very own deer, tearing into it savagely. She half expected him to start growling at this point.

Hesitantly, she reached over to him, running her finger softly down the bandage on his face. “What happened to you?” she asked.

His visible eye, finally, shifted over to her. There was a softness in it—for a moment, anyway—before it hardened. “I’m alive,” he stated before returning to his food.

Helen sighed in despair. She said, “I know, and thank God for it, but you were gone for months. And you come back…”

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“I come back what?” Elliot growled defensively.

She pulled her hand away.

He shrugged and returned to his food.

“What happened?” Helen said. “I’ve been worried for months.

You’ve got to give me more than this. Please.”

“Maybe just worry about yourself for a change,” he said.

It felt like a knife had been run right through her. “Why would you say that? We’re in this together, you and me. Remember?”

The softness in his face seemed to return, and he said with a twinge of regret, “I’m sorry. But I don’t want to talk about it.

Don’t you get that?”

“I know,” she said. “But you’re not… You’re not acting like yourself.”

He shrugged and returned to devouring his food.

“Okay,” Helen said softly. “When you’re ready, Elliot.” *** Elliot remained sullen and distant. Even on his good days, the conversation he offered Helen was meager. A couple of sentences here, a couple of sentences there.

When his bandage was removed, it revealed a scar that arced from his forehead to his ear, splitting his left eye.

She tried to keep her spirits up, telling herself that her brother’s dourness was temporary. The weeks, and finally the months, passed, but the dark cloud looming above her brother persisted. The hope in her diminished, inching toward despair, but she wouldn’t let her heart fall fully into the abyss.

Her brother was here. Alive. After so many months of her believing he was dead, his survival meant something significant.

How many others had she seen walk out of that place? She held that good piece of luck close to her heart.

One day, his spirits seemed better than usual. He held a conversation with Helen for a few minutes. It felt like old times between them. Pain spiked in Helen’s chest, but only for a moment; her brother’s good attitude was a reminder of how much they’d lost.

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A smile even crossed his face from a joke that Helen didn’t even think was that funny. It faded quickly, however, and her brother started to stare off into the distance.

Desperation panged her. She didn’t want this version of her brother to go away. She had to try something, anything.

She held his shoulder, and she said, “Elliot… I’m here for you.”

He nodded slightly. She couldn’t tell if he received her words well or not. Nonetheless, she continued.

“Look, whatever happened in the Interior… I want you to know you can talk to me about it. Whatever went on, I’m not gonna judge or anything. I would never.”

His eye twitched when she mentioned the Interior. It was like the flinch of a dog that knew the belt when it saw one. Her brother didn’t respond, and she thought he would close down again. She chastised herself for bringing up the Interior in the first place.

But then a grin touched the corner of his face, one that was more akin to a grimace. One chock-full of all the bitterness that a man could carry.

“You don’t get it, Hel. If I tell you and they find out about it, they might kill us both. Or drag us back to that godforsaken place.”

“They won’t find out,” she said. “Who would I even tell?”

He glanced around suspiciously. She and Elliot were leaning against the posts of their bunks. Nobody was in the bunks, and nobody was quite within earshot of their whispers. However, another group of slaves talked just a handful of feet away at the nearest column of beds.

“Don’t ever trust that they can’t listen,” he said. His lips curled into a snarl. “You know, it’s probably why they let me out, too.

I’ve been thinkin’ about that. They probably want to see if I do try to tell somebody.”

“What are you talking about, Elliot?” Helen said. Nothing he said was making any sense.

He shook his head, paused, and then shook it again. “It’s all part of their sick… You know what? Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

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“It does matter,” she insisted. “Whatever those sick bastards did to you—” “It’s not just them, Hel. Don’t you see that?” He shrugged, his head down. “Don’t know if the gas made us like this or if we’ve always been this way.”

“Like what?” she asked, not fully sure she wanted the answer.

“Bad,” he said. “Rotten. Right down to the damned core. This whole world is done for.”

She pursed her lips. “Is this what the guards said to you?”

“The guards?” he asked. He squinted, and that grin of bitterness returned. It fell to a full grimace, and she saw real pain in there. “It wasn’t the guards.”

With that, he wandered off. Helen didn’t know where he was going, except that it was away from her.

He closed off again after that, not as much as when he first arrived, but he was still acting like he wasn’t even her brother.

He refused to talk about his disappearance again, so she stopped asking. Eventually, he would come to talk to her about it, she hoped, but that hope dwindled.

She battled the despair, day by day, and prayed it wouldn’t overtake her.

155

14 “Would you look at that?” Geralt said with a roguish grin. He stood up with crutches, and he could look Northfield in the eye.

“How’s it feel?” Northfield asked.

A hint of a grimace crossed Geralt’s face. He shrugged. “My stump aches. Especially standing like this. Just reminds me my leg ain’t there anymore. But it doesn’t matter. I can meet your eyes now. No more getting looked down on. Unless we recruit some former basketball players.”

He chuckled at his own joke; it was a nice sound to hear. After he finished laughing, though, his smile disappeared. He looked down to where his leg should have been and said, “Still, I’ll be hobbling around the rest of my days. Maybe I’ll look people eye to eye, but they’ll still watch me limp up to them.”

Northfield shook his head. “You’re part of Stormrise’s council, aren’t you?”

Geralt shrugged.

“Aren’t you?” Northfield repeated.

“You know I am,” Geralt snapped. “Why do you have to make me say it?”

“And have they dismissed your opinion by the fact that you’re sitting in a chair?”

Geralt thought for a moment, then admitted, “No.” “Have they done it, even once?”

“No.” “Because they don’t see the chair. And if you want to use crutches, that’s great. But they won’t see them, either.”

“But people will still see me hobblin’ around,” Geralt protested. “They’ll think—” 156

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Northfield cut him off. “You’ve got the ears of the most important people here. They listen to you. Past that, what’s the opinion of one or two grunts matter? Since when did Geralt Salb care what every single person thought of him?”

Geralt considered that for a moment. He sat on his bed and set the crutches down. Northfield sat in the chair next to him.

Geralt stared ahead at the wall.

“A lifetime’s a long time to hobble,” he thought out loud. “A long time to look in the mirror with….” He scowled and turned to Northfield. “You really think the Network could have a robo leg stuffed away somewhere?”

“Who knows what the Network’s got tucked away?”

Northfield said cautiously. He had brought up the idea, but he now wondered if he should have. He didn’t want Geralt to pin all his hopes on what the Network had sitting in its inventory.

“Things are gonna work out either way, man.”

Geralt grunted, and he picked up the TV remote and turned on the news. The NNC’s news anchor chattered away with a nononsense look on her face. Thick brunette curls descended her shoulders, and her ruby lips matched her dress.

A news banner scrolled underneath her. It read New poll reveals historically low approval ratings for Stormrise.

Geralt turned up the volume. The news anchor said, “The new poll by the Benson Interest Group has revealed another decrease in Stormrise support. Only twenty-five percent of participants greatly or slightly support Stormrise. Another thirty-five percent mark the terrorist group as neutral, while the remaining forty percent either moderately or strongly oppose the terrorist organization.

“In the same poll, participants revealed an increase in support for General Arkland. Fifty-one percent slightly or moderately approve of his leadership, ten percent are neutral, and the remaining thirty-nine percent slightly or moderately disapprove.

“These numbers show an increasing trend in support for General Arkland and falling sympathy for the terrorists. The poll was taken anonymously, with a sample size of one thousand citizens from across New Medea’s expanse…”

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Geralt muted the volume. “I can only tolerate this crap for a couple of minutes.” He seethed, and he threw up his hands. “How long can we wait around and do nothing? The people are gonna take up pitchforks against us before long.”

Northfield said, “We would be if we could, Geralt, but our best course of action is still waiting for one of our contacts in the city to find a lead on the missing people. If they do that and we can expose the Network, public opinion will swing back our way.”

Geralt shook his head in frustration. “That day ain’t gonna come. The contacts aren’t gonna turn up a stone. Everyone waits for someone else to crane their neck out. We need to take matters into our own hands.”

“How?” Northfield asked.

“If we can’t find evidence of their kidnappings, then we make our own.”

“Are you saying—” “Damn right. I say we frame the Network’s sorry ass,” Geralt said. “The Network’s been jobbing us since day one. The city’s practically on full rations, and the Network points the finger at us. It ain’t playing fair. Do you know how you win against a cheater? You don’t. Not unless you cheat right back.”

Northfield shook his head. “It’s wrong. And it’s risky. What happens if the lie is exposed? That alone could destroy us.

Nobody would trust a single word we said after that.”

“Simple. We just don’t botch the job.”

Northfield returned to his first point. “It’s wrong.”

“The Network does it to us,” Geralt said. “Are we fighting a war or not? What, we’ll raid their supply trucks and kill their soldiers, but we won’t stoop to lying?”

Northfield had to chew on that for a moment. He said, “The whole point of what we’re doing is to expose the truth about the Network. To expose the evil behind the scenes. If we start fabricating, we’re cutting against our whole purpose. If we don’t have the truth on our side, then what’s the point?”

“The point is to win,” Geralt said. “Those principles of yours ain’t gonna look as nice when the Network’s got a boot on your throat. If we ain’t playing to win, we’re wasting everyone’s time.”

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Northfield sighed. “I don’t think we’re gonna come to an agreement on this one. You’ll have to take it up with Stormrise leadership.”

“Eh,” Geralt said with a shrug. “Don’t think I’ll get anywhere with them, either. Sadly, they’re as idealistic as you.”

Northfield left Geralt’s room and strolled down the hall. He was scheduled for roof duty to clean the solar panels in the next fifteen minutes. He looked forward to the work; it would get his mind off his conversation with Geralt.

He’s got a point, though, doesn’t he? If we don’t do anything and everything to win, what right do we have in asking people to risk their lives?

Across the hall from him, a woman carried a stack of three wide boxes. They looked heavy, based on her struggling, tentative footsteps.

The top box swayed precariously. She tilted her body, steadying it. When she took another step, however, the box came tumbling down. It crashed to the floor with a crescendo of clanging noises.

Fortunately, the box was taped up, so its contents didn’t spill out.

Without the top box, Northfield could see the woman’s face.

Aubrey.

She cursed loudly. “These stupid boxes….”

She looked at the fallen box with bitter annoyance but also indecision. With the other two heavy boxes in tow, she couldn’t exactly just lean down and scoop the box up. Scowling in defeat, she started bending her knees to set down the other boxes.

Northfield approached. “Can I help?”

“No, I…” she started to say. “Ah, hell. I know when to swallow my pride. Can you pick up that box for me and put it back on my stack?”

“Yeah, no problem,” he said. He bent down and picked up the box, attempting to hide his struggle.

He didn’t hide it very well, it seemed. She cracked a wicked smile and said, “Yeah. It’s a lot heavier than it looks, isn’t it?”

“I mean, it already looks pretty darned heavy,” he said. “What possessed you to haul three of these things?”

“I had to have pride to swallow, now didn’t I?” she said.

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“Well, I’m not gonna let you carry these by yourself. So lead the way.”

“You sure?” she asked.

“Yeah, I don’t have to be anywhere for fifteen minutes. I’ve got time,” he said. “As long as you don’t stumble and drop another box.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said teasingly. “Follow me, then.”

The hallway felt a hell of a lot longer with the heavy box.

He stopped for a moment to readjust his grip, and he asked her, “How are you settling into Stormrise?”

She shrugged; the sound made her boxes clatter. “It’s all right.

Keepin’ busy.”

“Just all right?” he asked. “Getting into Stormrise was your big goal, wasn’t it?”

She said, “Yeah. But I wanted to be out in the field, maybe not getting into shootouts, but I wanted to meet with contacts in the city. Or do some scouting work. I don’t know. Just something where I’m out there, feeling like I’m doing something.

“But I get that they need more help around here right now. So I’m patient. The time will come eventually.

“Tell you what, though. I miss watching TV all by myself, without anybody else bothering me. If I could just get a couple of hours by my lonesome to watch a movie, well, I think everything would be set right.”

“Geralt’s got a TV in his room,” Northfield said. “Maybe he’d let you borrow it for a couple of hours.”

“Geralt Salb?” Aubrey cried. “Yeah, right. Could you imagine that conversation? Me knocking on his door, asking him to pack ship for a couple of hours while I watch the tube. For some reason, I just can’t imagine that going my way.”

Northfield chuckled. “Yeah, you know what? You’re probably right. Forget I said anything.”

They reached their destination; one of the classrooms had been converted into additional storage space. He dropped the box and opened the door for her to pass through. She studied the shelves, finding where her boxes belonged.

As she scanned the numbers listed on the shelves, she paused for a moment. She said, “How’s the old man?”

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“Odell?” Northfield asked. He leaned against one of the shelves. “He’s… I’m not gonna lie to you, Aubrey. He’s unraveling, and he’s pulling the strings as fast as he can.”

She pressed her lips together. “The noble sufferer, huh?

Showing how much he cares by showing how much he hurts.”

“I don’t think it’s like that,” he said. “I found him drinking in between some lockers late at night. He wasn’t looking to be found. I just happened to stumble onto him.”

“Hmm,” she said. She shoved the boxes onto one of the lower shelves. The entire shelf rattled. She held up her hand, waiting for something to fall, but nothing did.

“He told me what happened between you two,” Northfield said.

“A version of it, maybe,” she said. “His version. Where he had all the excuses locked and loaded to save face.”

“I don’t think he held back,” Northfield said. “The version he gave me… Well, I think it was honest.”

“Really?” she said skeptically. “What did he say?”

He briefly recounted the story Odell had told him about how he turned away Aubrey’s friends. After Northfield finished, he said, “He didn’t make any excuses. I think he’s really hurting.”

“Did he tell you how he lied to me about Abigail and Marissa for years? Straight to my face?”

“Yeah,” Northfield said. “He did.”

She leaned back and crossed her arms. She looked away from him. “Good. I’m glad he feels bad. It’s good to know there’s a heart underneath all the lies.” She rubbed her chin. “I can’t believe he told you the truth. Plainly. I thought, if he said anything at all, he’d say the church didn’t have room or one of the other excuses he gave me when I found out. Never did I think the liar would actually….”

She trailed off. Then she offered, “He was drunk, though. So not sure if that really counts.”

Northfield shrugged. “It’s been on his chest for a long time. I think it would’ve come out eventually.”

“Even if you’re right,” Aubrey said, “what’s it matter? It’s years too late. Years.”

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“Yeah, but I think those years changed him,” Northfield said.

“They’ve changed everyone. I don’t think anyone is the same person they were a decade ago.” He pressed his lips together. “But maybe talking to him would be good.”

“Yeah, good for him,” Aubrey said.

“Good for both of you,” Northfield said. “Think about it. We could be stuck in this school for a while. Do you really want to keep dipping and ducking around each other?”

She thought about it, crossing her arms. “You know, if I have to see him watch me with those sad, apologetic eyes of his any longer, I’m gonna be sick. Maybe it would be good just to talk.”

“Just to talk,” Northfield reiterated.

She threw up her arms. “Fine. Tell you what, Mark. Since you helped me carry this crap, I’ll at least think about it. Stormrise says the past is the past. I guess I should extend that courtesy to Odell.”

“That’s more than I hoped for,” he said. “Thanks.”

She still had something on her mind, he could tell.

“Corps PD,” she said. “It’s one of my procedural shows. It comes on at seven, but they usually put on reruns for a couple of hours on either side. If you could convince Geralt to let me use his TV for an hour, maybe two….”

Northfield smirked and looked down. “I’ll see what I can do.” *** “Hey, guys… wait a minute. Andy, are you trying again?”

Sydnee exclaimed.

Andy’s face turned beet red.

“See?” Leo said. “Told you that you looked like a clown.”

Northfield, Andy, and Leo had just finished their morning training. With trays of the morning’s breakfast of bass and wheat in hand, they approached the table that Sydnee sat at, her food half-finished. She was alone.

Andy put a hand over his mouth, covering his new goatee.

The black hairs were thin, sparse, and wispy. Most of the skin underneath showed through. Andy muttered, “I’m just starting 162

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to grow it, all right? It’s only been a week, for crying out loud.

You’ve gotta give it time to thicken out.”

“Yeah,” Leo said, snorting. “That’s what it needs. ‘Thickening out.’”

They sat down. Northfield picked at his food, and he offered, “Mine didn’t start really growing until I was your age. So maybe it could be the same for you.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Leo said. “Don’t give him false hope.”

“What?” Andy protested. “So if I try to grow a beard, I’m a pariah now?”

“Not a pariah,” Leo said. “A clown.”

Andy scowled at him.

Leo said, “Did you forget how you got your codename, Skullbeard? The lumberjack look ain’t in the cards for you, buddy.

You’re better off putting that fantasy to rest.”

Sydnee said, “Aw, don’t listen to him. I don’t think it looks half bad.”

She pinched his chin playfully, but her hand lingered on his face for half a heartbeat. Andy’s face grew even more red.

Northfield didn’t say a word. Leo, for all his ribbing, had the good sense to stay quiet, too.

Andy stammered, changing the subject, “How’s Becca doing?”

The warm glow on Sydnee’s face cooled. She stabbed at her food with a fork. “I’ve been pushing her to spend more time with the other kids. That’s been helping, I think. Spending some time outside, like Rayne suggested, has been good, too. But she won’t talk about Erik anymore. Hardly wants to talk to me, even.

“There’s been a fantasy series she’s been reading from the school’s library. The Princess’s Sword. She just finished the sixth book, but the final one isn’t at the library. She’s bummed about that. Real bummed. I think it’s something she can pin her sadness on, you know, besides the real reason.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Andy asked.

“She asks about you all the time,” Sydnee said. “I know you’re busy, and you stop by when you can… but whenever you can hang out with her, please do. She needs that.”

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“I will,” he said, nodding solemnly. Her hands were out, and there was a moment where it looked like he would reach out to hold hers, but he didn’t.

“It’ll get better,” Sydnee said, smiling sadly. “Always does. Just takes some time to get there.”

Northfield saw something at the table behind Sydnee and Andy; he could hardly believe his eyes. He squinted just to make sure.

Aubrey and Odell sat at a table by themselves, and they were talking. Aubrey sat up straight and had a slightly guarded look about her. Still, it looked like she was trying.

Odell beamed. It was clear from across the cafeteria how much the conversation meant to him.

Whatever they were talking about, well, it didn’t seem to matter all that much as long as one of them didn’t get up and storm out.

Good for you both, Northfield thought. A smile snuck up on his face.

“What’re you looking at?” Leo asked, cocking his head.

“What? Oh,” he said. “Nothing.”

Leo shrugged, and conversation at the table veered in various directions. They talked about their daily duties, morale at Stormrise, and various incidental subjects.

Northfield’s head wasn’t fully in the conversation, though.

Instead, he thought about what Sydnee had said.

Jess, has your loss gotten easier with time? In some ways, yes.

But in other ways, no. I’ve settled with the fact that you’ll always be in my heart, and there’s just a hole that will never be filled, no matter how much concrete I try to pour into it. But I don’t know if I’d have it any other way.

What about all of us left on this world, as a community? The loss runs thick through all of our veins. Memories from the past visit all of us. The things we’ve done… the things we’ve seen others do…

Is time enough to fix that? And if not, what do we need to do?

Because every time we try to fix things down here, nothing seems to really improve.

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Do you just enjoy watching us push the rock up the mountain, God? Even if that rock just tumbles all the way back down?

The thing is, eventually, we’ll stop seeing the point in pushing.

And that’s a scary thought.

But you already know that since you know everything. Man, that’s frustrating sometimes.

He mulled that. He had lost track of the conversation entirely, finding himself nodding along when the others nodded.

After eating, they separated to do their daily duties. Northfield was once again on roof duty, cleaning the solar panels. However, he only got halfway through the ones he’d been assigned to before Leo climbed onto the roof and approached him.

“Drop all of your stuff and head to Dimitri’s tech room.

Today’s the day, Mark,” Leo said.

“What are you talking about?” Northfield said. He had no problem dropping his scrubber onto the roof.

“We’ve got a lead on the abductions,” Leo said. “No more waiting. We’re moving.”

While Northfield descended from the roof, he thought, The waiting paid off. Our prayers have been answered. We might finally get the chance to find out what happened to all those people. And maybe even help them.

Nonetheless, a dark, ugly feeling seeped into his stomach. He couldn’t help but think of what asterisks might be attached to this answered prayer, too. He wondered if the rock would just come tumbling down again.

165

15 Northfield convened with Dimitri, Stormrise’s leadership, and Geralt in Dimitri’s operations room. Everyone stood on the proverbial edge of their seats as Dimitri swiveled to face them in his big office chair.

“Out with it,” General Taylor said. “What did you find?”

Dimitri said, “C’mon. We’ve been waiting months for this. I don’t get to have even a little theatrics?”

General Taylor sighed. “Need I remind you that we’re talking about abductions here? Possible slavery? Mass murder, even?

Does that sound like something you should be theatrical about?”

Dimitri’s expression curdled. “Well, when you put it like that, no.”

Anne Kaminski frowned at General Taylor. She said to Dimitri, “You’re doing good work. As you said, we’ve been waiting for this news for months. So forgive us if we’re a little impatient.”

Dimitri was placated by that. He said, “Yeah, yeah, I get it.

I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve been contacted online by someone who claims to have discovered a facility where the Network keeps abducted people. A place called Section 808.”

General Taylor was skeptical. “How did the contact discover this alleged facility?”

Dimitri said, “They found backdoor access to a secure Network connection. High-level admin access. Not top-level, since all the contact could find was the location, but high enough to find even that much.”

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“And how did they find this back door?” General Taylor asked. “You’ve been trying to crack the Network’s security for months. You said it’s nearly impossible.”

Dimitri’s face reddened. “I thought it was. I’m good, really good, but I’m not the best. This contact, she’s the best.”

“She?” Anne Kaminski said. “Do you know the contact?”

“Yeah,” Dimitri said. “I had run-ins with her back when I was doing less… savory things in New Medea. Before Stormrise, of course. I don’t know her real name, but she goes by the codename Softball.”

“You’re kidding,” Geralt said, cracking a grin. Northfield, for his part, felt a shock run through his system.

“You know this Softball, too?” Rayne asked.

“We do,” Northfield answered. “So does Odell, as a matter of fact. Back when we were trying to escape New Medea, she arranged our passage through a Network checkpoint. She got burned by helping us, though. We thought she either disappeared or got caught by the Network. Either way, we never thought we’d hear from her again.”

“How do you know this entity is Softball?” Rayne asked Dimitri. “I assume she wouldn’t announce her identity over the internet. The Network watches everything on those forums.”

“Because she found me. She figured out that it was me, Dimitri, behind my proxy account and that I was attached to Stormrise. As I said, she’s the best. I don’t know anyone else who could sniff me out like that. Since we know each other, she gave me a couple of hints about her identity for good measure.

You know, details that were abstract enough that the Network’s surveillance didn’t flag it.”

“Okay,” Anne Kaminski said, “let’s assume for a second that your contact, and her information, are legit. Where is this Section 808?”

“She didn’t tell me,” Dimitri said. “She didn’t exactly reach out to me out of the goodness of her heart.”

“I suppose getting the information for free was too much to hope for,” General Taylor said. “What does she want?”

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“As Mark said, she got burned. The Network is still hunting for her. She’s been hiding out in a friend’s apartment. He’s a local drug dealer, with growing heat on him from the Network’s law enforcement. She’s worried that he’ll get caught sooner rather than later, and she feels the walls closing in around her. She wants to get out of the apartment, out of the city, as soon as possible.

But everyone else has cut and run from her.”

“But this drug dealer’s stuck around, huh?” Northfield said.

“Yeah. She’s been paying him for his trouble,” Dimitri said.

“Sounds like he already keeps contraband in his apartment, stuff that would get him locked up for a real long time, if not worse. So she’s just one more piece of contraband in his eyes.” He cleared his throat. “The terms of her deal are simple. We get her out of the city, and she gives us the location of Section 808.”

A chill went down Northfield’s spine, and he was teleported back to what felt like forever ago. Back to the city of Cumulus.

Back to John, Elena, and Nathaniel.

The deal was just like yours, Nathaniel. You wanted to exchange your safety for the Master Key. But that deal ended with you dead in the ground. John, Elena, dead in the ground.

A deal, just like yours.

His hands had curled into fists; he hadn’t noticed. He stretched out his fingers and brought himself back to the conversation.

“Sounds like a straightforward extraction mission to me,” Rayne Simpson said. “We can use our secret passages into the city. We send her to the closest one, where Widow Team will be waiting with a truck. We’ll drive her back to camp, none the wiser.”

“No can do,” Dimitri said. “Softball is paranoid. Getting burned really rattled her, I think. She refuses to leave the apartment she’s hiding in, not without armed escorts shuttling her out of the city.”

Rayne frowned. “Sending a group of guys to pick her up has a better shot of drawing attention than her just meeting us at a passage.”

Dimitri said, “You’re right, logically, but… I don’t think she has the confidence to do it alone. She’d never admit that, though.”

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“So what if she’s a little scared?” Geralt said. “Just tell her to buzz off. Our way or the highway.”

Dimitri shook his head. “She has something we really want.

She has leverage, and she knows it.”

“Fine,” Rayne said. “So Widow Team will head into the city and pick her up. Lickety-split.”

“I’m not convinced that Widow Team is the right fit for this op,” General Taylor said.

Rayne tilted his head. “Why?” General Taylor pointed at him and Northfield. “You’re wanted men, the both of you. Your faces are plastered all over the city.

If this is a discreet op, you’ve got a chance of bringing unwanted attention. At the very least, you two should sit out.”

Anne Kaminski nodded in agreement. “If the job is a simple pickup, why can’t one of General Taylor’s teams handle it?”

“This is one of the most important ops to come our way,” Rayne said. “The best should be on it. If something goes wrong, I’d rather us than General Taylor’s men be in the hot seat.”

General Taylor said, “Something going wrong is exactly what I’m afraid of. It takes just one bystander to burn you.”

Anne Kaminski crossed her arms. “General Taylor’s right.

Rayne, you and Mark just have too much heat for this one.” She asked Dimitri, “Has Softball given you her location?”

He nodded. “She gave it to me in code, obviously, but I think I’ve figured it out. She’s only a mile or so out from our most northwestern checkpoint.”

“A mile,” Anne repeated. “A mile is good. This is what I’m thinking, then. General Taylor, you’ll send a team to pick up Softball, composed of the guys who are least on the Network’s radar. Work with Dimitri on that. Rayne, your team will wait with a vehicle at the checkpoint outside of city limits. If anything goes south, you’ll head to their location and provide support.”

Northfield said, “If Widow Team is just gonna wait outside of city limits, I still think I should be a part of the mission. Softball is paranoid already. If something bad happens, who knows how bad off she’ll be? She’s met me before. A familiar face might be valuable.”

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“That’s a good point, Mark,” Rayne said. “I agree. You’re coming along for this one.”

General Taylor frowned. “Don’t forget, Rayne, your face is plastered everywhere, too. It’s not apparent to me that you should be on this op.”

“Sounds like we’re the bad news team,” Rayne said. “If we’re sent in to help your guys, our faces are going to be the least of anyone’s worries.” *** Auburn sunlight broke through the bramble-covered fence and hit Widow Team’s van. The snow on the outskirts of New Medea had almost entirely melted away, save for a handful of resilient piles that rested in the darkest casts of shadow.

General Taylor’s Bravo Team waited in a van beside them.

The six of them were a good, dependable group of men. If Rayne had his way, Widow Team would still be the primary team on the operation, but he admitted that Bravo Team should be more than competent.

If nothing went awry.

Dimitri had communicated to Softball that she would be picked up at 6 p.m. The time was chosen because the evening rush hour would start to die down, but it would still be light out; the Corps put out additional patrols once the sun went down.

Softball wasn’t the only fugitive trying to escape the city. Anybody wanted by the Network had a harsh future ahead of them if they ended up in the Corps’ hands.

Stormrise’s teams had arrived early. They had planned for any contingencies that would cause a delay during the trip to New Medea, such as a blown tire. Since no mishaps had befallen them, the teams arrived at 4 p.m. Their luck was a good start.

Now they just needed it to hold for the next couple of hours.

Their clocks marked 5:30 now. In fifteen minutes, Bravo Team would open the bramble-laden fence in front of them and head to Softball’s apartment complex. The team would do one preliminary lap around her street to scout for any potential 170

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threats. If everything looked clear, they would pick up Softball.

Then Bravo Team would return to their current location, and they would all head back to Stormrise headquarters, with the whole op going unnoticed.

Easy as that. The plan didn’t have many moving parts. Not many places where it could go wrong. Yet Northfield still had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, one that just simmered and simmered.

Rayne seemed to feel the same way, judging by how restlessly he sat in his chair. He continuously readjusted himself in his seat, checked his weapon, and craned his neck from side to side, looking out the windows with an odd intensity, given the stillness around them. He hid his tension reasonably well, and none of his movements were too pronounced, but Northfield could still see the signs.

Their luck soured only a couple of minutes later, proving both of their intuitions correct. Their radios crackled to life.

Dimitri’s anxiety was palpable in his voice. “We’ve got a problem.”

“What problem?” Rayne said.

“You know the guy Softball’s staying with? The drug dealer who she’s worried will get caught sooner or later?” Dimitri said.

“Well, he got caught. Five minutes ago, he found himself right in the middle of a sting. It’s all over the local news. The guy’s name is Hugh Winslow.”

“Will he keep his mouth shut about Softball?” Rayne asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dimitri said. “Winslow’s a drug dealer.

Death Corps are en route to his apartment to comb the place for contraband either way.”

“And they’ll find Softball,” Rayne said before uttering a curse.

“Right,” Dimitri said. “Softball’s beside herself. We’ve gotta go get her. Now.” “What’s the ETA on the Corps’ arrival?”

“Officers are coming from the nearest CDZ. Based on how far away it is and traffic, I’d say you’ve got between ten and twenty minutes.”

Rayne cursed again. “That’s a big window.”

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“Yeah,” Dimitri said. “So expect ten.”

“Permission for Widow Team to take point?” Rayne asked.

“Things may get hot whether we’d like them to or not.”

General Taylor’s voice crackled through the radio. “Permission granted. Bravo Team will file in behind. Go.” They opened the fence, and Samuel gunned the engine. After a screeching of tires, they were once again within New Medea’s city limits.

Not long ago, I did everything I could to escape this city, Northfield thought. And now I’m racing back into it. Seems kinda dumb of me, now that I think about it. I pray this isn’t one big mistake.

The buildings hung low, with even the old commercial stores reaching just three stories into the air. The streets were cracked, in much need of love. It was love the Network wouldn’t provide.

The neighborhood was far from the Network’s pride and joy.

Anyway, the Network preferred to draw people to the heart of the city rather than its outskirts. It was easier to control them that way.

Traffic on the sidewalks was sparse, and the people outside looked tired. They were hunched over, drawn in, guarding themselves against the world. It didn’t take more than that observation for Northfield to know what type of neighborhood he was driving through. A hard place full of all the depravity the streets could provide, lived in by people who would move out at the first opportunity.

The neighborhood was a far cry from the high-tech dazzle that the heart of New Medea offered. The Network either didn’t care enough to change anything, didn’t have the manpower to do so, or left the neighborhood this way on purpose.

Since the neighborhood straddled the city’s outskirts, perhaps it was a warning of what lay outside the Network’s bounds. A way of saying, You want to leave? Well, here’s a taste of the world past what we’ve given you.

Andy leaned forward and pointed through the windshield.

“See that alley ahead? Cut through it. We’ll get there faster.”

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Samuel listened to him, cutting into an alleyway that sat between two stubby brick buildings. Their van barely fit; the brick walls pressed right up against it. They consumed Northfield’s view so entirely that it felt like everything, sky and stars and all, were composed of bricks.

With the walls so close, Northfield couldn’t help but notice the rows and rows of posters that adhered to them.

They were all “missing” posters, begging for help finding a loved one. What surprised Northfield the most about them was the sheer variety of people who were missing. From what he’d heard, the Network mostly targeted young people. From these posters, he wouldn’t have come to that conclusion. A variety of people marked the walls, from the very young to the very old.

Some of the posters didn’t even have pictures, just bullet points listing attributes of the missing person. The van passed too quickly for Northfield to read the details. He remembered the type of neighborhood they were in. He wondered how many people were missing that didn’t get a poster.

The posters were all old and yellowing, with their adhesive peeling off. In fact, the van kicked up a lot of yellowed posters from the ground. He wondered how old they were. He wondered how many searchers had given up on finding their loved ones.

It seemed the Network had indeed paused its abductions, which, while good for the world, sure made Stormrise’s job of tracking the victims harder.

Widow Team’s van broke through the alley. Samuel took a sharp right turn, and they hopped the curb before speeding down the road.

“There,” Rayne said, pointing out the building that Softball was in. At five stories, the apartment complex stood taller than anything else in the area, but it still didn’t appear out of place.

Cracks ran throughout the cream paint on the walls, and the windows were stained and hazy. A dull, slumbering aura seemed to emanate from the place, like someone who was in the throes of a hangover and didn’t want to open their eyes.

Widow Team had managed to arrive before the Death Corps.

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complex and stopped. He kept the car in drive, the engine purring. At a moment’s notice, he could slam his foot on the gas and get them out of Dodge.

“We’re here. Send her down,” Rayne ordered Dimitri. Since Dimitri and Softball were communicating over the internet, Widow Team didn’t have a direct line of communication with her.

“You got it,” Dimitri said. After a moment, he added, “Uh, we’ve got another small hiccup.”

Rayne seethed. Then, calming himself, he asked, “What?”

“She’s not… She won’t come down,” Dimitri said.

“What in the hell do you mean she won’t come down?”

“Well, not by herself. She wants you to go up and get her and bring her down,” Dimitri said. “I think she’s scared to leave.”

Rayne scowled and deliberated. Then he said, “Fine. Arguing is just gonna waste time that we don’t have. We’ll go get her.

What’s her room number?”

There was a pause on the other end, presumably as Dimitri got the information from Softball. Then he said, “Room 505.”

Rayne scoffed bitterly. “The top floor. Of course. Tell Softball that she better have her ass ready to move the millisecond we get up there.”

“Oh, I believe she intends to,” Dimitri said. “Good luck.”

Rayne said to Samuel, “Keep the engines ready. This might get hot.”

Samuel said, “Will do, boss. Believe me; I’m itching to get out of this place.”

Rayne gestured to the others. “Come on. Let’s get on with it.”

They disembarked the purring van. They wore baggy jackets that concealed compact submachine guns and body armor. The weapons would remain hidden, and they all hoped to keep it that way.

The only pedestrian nearby on the sidewalk, a reedy man skulking under a torn-up hood, watched them hurry to the apartment complex with a cocked head. The leashed dog at his side growled, but otherwise, neither gave them trouble.

Rayne pushed through the front doors; the rest of Widow Team followed. A leasing manager sat at a desk at the far end 174

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of the lobby. The middle-aged woman with sharp features and a pair of silver-rimmed glasses immediately gave them a suspicious stare. With a downward tilt of her head, the fluorescent light glimmered off the frame of her glasses. Aside from the dreary gray color scheme, the lobby appeared moderately clean, with sparse decoration in the way of shrubby plants.

Since the apartment complex was so big, there was a good chance the manager didn’t know every tenant. However, four gruff men in a clear hurry were anything but conspicuous.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

The primary stairwell and elevators were on the wall behind her. They wouldn’t get up to the fifth floor without passing her.

“We’re visiting a friend,” Rayne said.

“What friend, may I ask? And what room number?” she asked.

Her eyes shifted to look at the lobby TV behind them. There was a hint of anxiety in the movement. Northfield followed her gaze.

The local news channel was showing the arrest of Winslow.

They didn’t have a believable lie they could give her. They only knew Winslow’s name and room number, and clearly anything surrounding him right now was bound to arouse suspicion.

But their answer didn’t matter one way or another. Death Corps were already en route; another call couldn’t make them come any faster.

Rayne pressed his hand on her desk. The movement was subtle but assertive. With a soft voice, he said, “We’re visiting a friend. We’ll be in and out before you know it.”

He gestured for his men to follow, and they headed for the stairs. The leasing manager swiveled in her chair to watch them.

Her voice quavered, but she tried to say sternly, “Look, if you’re Winslow’s friends, you should just leave. I don’t know what you want in his room, but you’re better off…”

Northfield was last in line. At the mouth of the stairwell, he stopped and turned toward her. He said, “Go on a five-minute break.”

Indignation entered her tone. “If you think you can threaten me…”

“No, that’s not what I… Just… please. Do it,” he said. He turned back to the stairwell. Andy, who was just ahead of him in 175

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their single-file formation, was already two flights of stairs ahead of him. He couldn’t delay any longer. He sprinted up the steps, two at a time, vividly aware of the submachine gun strapped to his chest.

He was out of breath by the time they reached floor five, but he didn’t dare stop. They searched for room 505, and blissfully, they didn’t have to search for long. It wasn’t far from the elevator.

Rayne knocked on the door aggressively. “It’s the good guys,” he said. “Open up.”

They heard the soft padding of footsteps on the other side, followed by a pause, likely Softball peering through the peephole.

A deadbolt shifted, and the door tentatively opened.

“Look at that. My rescuers are here,” Softball said. There was an attempted snarkiness in her tone, but the tremor in her voice was unmistakable. Her hands trembled.

She looked different than the last time Northfield had seen her. Her hair now was a very mute brown, cut shoulder-length and unassuming. In fact, every recognizable part of her had seemingly been stripped away, presumably for her to blend in better while in hiding.

“Come on,” Rayne said. “We’ve got to move. Now.” Before they could take another step, Samuel’s voice crackled through the radio. “Bad news. The Death Corps are here. Parked right behind me.”

Rayne scowled. “Did they make you?”

“No,” Samuel said. “They ain’t looking for Stormrise, fortunately. But they’re heading into the lobby as we speak. Four of them.”

Softball’s eyes widened like saucers. The tremors in her hands grew worse. Her state was a strange sight for Northfield. A few months ago, she had been so surefooted and confident. He would have never expected to see her terrified and meek like this.

Then again, at the time, she had been fully in her element.

Behind the scenes, behind a screen, she had weaved her way through the city’s underworld, the Network unaware of her presence.

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But being discovered, being forced to crawl through the shadows to avoid the Death Corps’ gaze, had a way of sucking the confidence out of you. Northfield would know.

A twinge of guilt ran through him. If he had never crossed Softball’s path, she wouldn’t have been discovered by the Network.

She was like this, in at least some small part, because of him.

“Lobby’s no good, then,” Rayne declared. He eyed the nearest neon exit sign hanging from the ceiling. “We’ll take an escape stairwell. It’ll dump us out onto the street.”

“But…” Softball struggled to speak. “The stairwells, they just… they just…”

“They what?” Rayne said. “Come on; we don’t have much time.”

“They just lead down to the lobby,” Softball finished.

Rayne scowled at the exit sign.

“This place was probably built after the bombs fell,” Leo said.

He didn’t need to explain further; they all knew the point he was getting at. During the time that New Medea was flooded with the same toxic gas that plagued the rest of the nation, new buildings had been constructed with different priorities.

Fire hazards weren’t anywhere as large of a concern as the gas. With gas filtration systems needed to keep the air within the buildings breathable, minimizing the number of entrances and exits was a must. The fewer points of entry for the gas, the easier it was to keep the air safe. The windows couldn’t be opened, either, throwing out that option for escape.

What that meant was, in the apartment complex, all stairwells led right back to the lobby. The only exit would be the way they came in.

“Are the soldiers heading up the stairs?” Northfield asked.

“There are multiple stairwells. If we time it right, we could head down a different stairwell while they’re coming up and miss them entirely.”

“That’s a good idea,” Rayne said. He asked Samuel, “Do you have eyes on the soldiers? Did they start heading up yet?”

“Yeah, I see them through the front doors,” Samuel said.

“But they’re not going up any stairs yet. They’re talking to the 177

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lease manager.” After a moment, he added, “Looks like they’re not heading up at all. They’re pulling their weapons out, finding places to mount up and watch the stairwell.”

Rayne said, “The manager told them about us. The Corps knows we need to funnel out of the lobby, so they’re setting up shop.”

“Yeah, that’s what it looks like,” Samuel said.

They realized at once that a conflict with the Death Corps was inevitable. Rayne radioed to Samuel, Bravo Team, and Stormrise headquarters, “It’s gonna be a hot exit. I repeat, a hot exit.”

Softball’s terror grew. Her legs trembled now, and Northfield worried that she’d have trouble moving. He reached out his hand and held hers softly.

She turned to him, and for the first time, she seemed to recognize who he was. “You…” He smiled. “Yeah, it’s me. I wiggled my way out of this city last time, remember? We’ll do it again, I promise. Just be quick on your feet and follow our orders, okay?”

His words helped reset her somewhat. She smirked and said, “I’m always quick on my feet. But following orders? I’ve never been great at it.”

She was trying to be sarcastic, with a cocksure tone, but the joke didn’t land how she wanted with the tremble in her voice.

Rayne pulled out his submachine gun. “Assume formation, Widow Team. Let’s get out of here.”

Northfield and the others readied their submachine guns, too. Softball filed in behind them as they made their way to the same stairwell they had used to ascend.

“Don’t I get one, too?” she joked, pointing at their submachine guns. There was a need in her voice. A need to show that she wasn’t scared even though her fear was apparent to everyone.

If I told her I was scared, too, would that help? Or just make her more scared?

There were four Death Corps soldiers downstairs, stacked up against four Widow Team members, with a fifth and the entirety of Bravo Team waiting outside. The Death Corps weren’t going to walk out of this one.

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But when the bullets started flying, it was anyone’s guess who would take one. If Softball took a round and died, Stormrise’s entire plan would go to ash. Northfield knew all too well how easy it was for people to die. That wasn’t to say anything about his teammates, either. If one of them took a bullet….

No, he wouldn’t waste any more time on those thoughts.

They descended the stairs hurriedly. They had to assume that the Death Corps had already called in reinforcements, which only gave them five to ten minutes of an escape window.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they stacked up against the door leading to the lobby. They instructed Softball to wait one flight of stairs above to reduce the risk of a stray bullet finding her.

“We’ll come to get you once the coast is clear,” Rayne said.

“And if you don’t?” she asked.

“It won’t come to that, I promise,” he replied. He pulled a flashbang out of his jacket. The others nodded; they understood the plan. A flash-and-clear. The flashbang would go off, and they’d clear the room. Simple enough.

In the many times that Northfield had performed such a maneuver, it felt anything but simple.

Rayne cracked open the door. They heard a Death Corps soldier’s deep, modular voice bark at them, but with the distance and door between them, his words were unintelligible. Most likely, he was ordering them to come out, slowly. For all the soldier knew, just another resident could be leaving the building.

Another sharp shout ensued as the soldier spotted the flashbang. An instant later, the flashbang detonated, the boom rattling the door. Rayne pushed through and held his weapon up at the ready. Leo, Andy, and Northfield followed him into the lobby.

The flashbang succeeded in stunning the Death Corps soldiers. They groaned in their disorientation, cowering behind the couches at the end of the lobby. One of them held his assault rifle over the couch, pointing the barrel in Widow Team’s general direction.

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He held down the trigger, blind-firing. His gun vomited bullets in their direction. He didn’t do much to control the recoil, though, so the weapon drifted away from them, chattering up and down.

Rayne put a succession of bullets through the couch. The hands slacked before dropping the rifle and limply falling. He glanced back to check on the status of his men. They all nodded; nobody had been hit.

They fanned out in a semicircle, and they made their way across the lobby. They shot through the other couches. The remaining three Death Corps soldiers sprawled out, their rifles clattering.

Widow Team did a quick sweep of the lobby to make sure they hadn’t missed a soldier. When they were satisfied the immediate threat had been dispatched, Rayne ordered, “Someone fetch Softball.”

“On it,” Northfield said. He headed back to the stairwell.

However, when he reached the lease management desk, he heard a soft moan come from behind it. Then he noticed the bullet holes that riddled the desk.

No, no, he thought. Behind the desk, the lease manager sat in a pool of widening blood. She faintly clutched at the wound in her chest, grasping at it as if it was something she could make disappear if she could only get ahold of it right.

Northfield knelt next to her, bloodying his pants. But by then, she was gone. Her body went limp, and her hands fell away.

Why? he thought. Why didn’t you leave like I said?

Maybe she’d thought the Corps would protect her. If he’d just said something different, then maybe....

Maybe, maybe, maybe. The word polluted his head, but it didn’t help anything. Regardless of the maybes, this woman now lay dead.

“Viking!” Rayne yelled, using Northfield’s codename. “What’s the holdup?”

“The lease manager,” he said, standing back up. Her blood was on his ankles. “She’s gone.”

“Reinforcements are on their way,” Rayne said. “Our time’s running out.”

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“Yeah,” he said sadly. “I know.”

He ran up the stairs and fetched Softball.

“When we go through the lobby, I’d just close my eyes if I were you,” he told her. “I’ll guide you through.”

She scoffed. “I can handle it.”

When they stepped into the lobby, her confidence dissipated after one glance around the room. She froze in place, her face as pale as moonlight. Northfield stuck out his hand.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll be on the other side in no time.”

She closed her eyes. While they walked through, he took one last look at the lease manager’s body sprawled out behind her desk. He gripped Softball’s clammy palm a little tighter.

He navigated Softball around the Death Corps’ bodies. She stepped in a pool of blood, soaking her foot.

She froze again and whispered, “What the hell did I just step in?”

He didn’t answer her, not directly. Instead, he said, “Just a couple more steps, and we’ll be outside.”

Leo opened the door for them. Northfield looked back at the chaos that had consumed the lobby. Their chaos.

Like the whirlwind. Reaping and reaping. Did the Death Corps soldiers deserve this, regardless of how crappy their organization is? They came to raid a drug dealer’s home, after all.

Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t.

Maybe. There’s that damned word again.

Softball and Widow Team piled into the van. Samuel wasted no time peeling out of the parking lot.

Softball finally opened her eyes, and she peered out of the back window at the apartment complex.

“I ain’t gonna miss that place,” she muttered. “They didn’t have good… What do you call ’em? Amenities.”

“Amenities?” Leo said skeptically. “You were in hiding. Why do you care one whit about amenities?”

“Excuse me,” she said. “A half-decent coffee machine’s an amenity. And believe me; they didn’t have that.”

The brazen confidence in her voice was abrupt. However, her hands continued to tremble.

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She’ll have nightmares about this for a long while, Northfield thought sadly. I’ve been there.

Rayne reported their status to Stormrise headquarters, along with Bravo Team. There were no signs of reinforcements behind them; their escape from the scene looked clean. However, all of them had learned not to hold their breath when safety from the Network was concerned.

Still, Northfield couldn’t get his mind off the bodies in the lobby.

Softball for the receptionist. Softball’s worth more to the mission, that’s true. But what kind of messed-up logic is that? Somebody’s more valuable because they’re more useful?

Please, God, I just want… I want something to go right. No ifs, ands, or buts attached. But those are your favorite words, aren’t they? You slap them on things like overstocked bumper stickers.

And they’re the type that really get latched on. The paint starts to tear when you try to peel them off.

I just… want to know you hear me, is all. But maybe I don’t even know what that would look like. Maybe I’m a big old idiot.

The city faded behind them, swallowed by the budding trees. The sun dipped to the horizon, and shadows cut through everything like blades. The clouds were a scattering of dying coals, glowing faint pinks and reds.

Softball nudged him and asked, “Hey, what about the other guy, Salb? Did he make it out in one piece?”

He opened his mouth, considering whether to tell her about his injury and the loss of his leg. He didn’t want to get into it at the moment, though, so he left it at “Geralt’s alive and safe.”

“Good,” she said. “He was kinda cute. You know, in a seedy, dingy kind of way.”

The sun fell entirely behind the horizon. The dusky sky made Northfield tired, real tired. Ahead, the gas line approached. The swirling, glowing cloud of gas looked as imposing as ever. They put on their gas masks, preparing to enter the poison.

182

16 With Softball’s arrival at Stormrise’s headquarters, Anne Kaminski wasted no time, and she called together a meeting in Dimitri’s tech room.

After showing Softball to her quarters, Northfield walked with her to the meeting. Along the way, they passed Odell. He had his hands in his pockets, his head down. He didn’t notice them until Softball exclaimed, “Odell! Boy, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Never thought I’d see your ugly mug again.”

He glanced up. There were deep bags under his eyes.

He smiled and said, “Softball. I’m glad you’re here.” There was excitement in his voice, but it was muted. “I’m glad to see you. After everything that happened, I was afraid that… Well, I don’t need to dwell.” He glanced between them and said, “Looks like you’re heading somewhere.”

“We’ve got a meeting with the chief,” Northfield said.

“Well, I won’t keep you, then,” Odell replied. He smiled again at Softball. “Let’s talk soon.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” she said. “I’m dying to hear how you managed to crawl your way out of New Medea.”

She and Northfield continued walking. He glanced back at Odell. He had stuffed his hands in his pockets once more and walked with his head down. Northfield had a worrying feeling in his gut, but he couldn’t do anything about it now.

When they arrived at Dimitri’s, Stormrise’s leadership, along with Geralt, was already there.

“Softball,” Dimitri said, a smile on his lips. “It’s been a while, for sure. Good seeing you.”

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“Yeah,” she said, trailing off as she studied the massive monitor behind him. “Nice setup.”

She noticed Geralt for the first time as he leaned on his crutches. Her eyes moved to his missing leg, and they widened swiftly.

“What the hell happened to you?” she asked.

“Fell off my horse playing polo,” he retorted nonchalantly.

However, his face turned beet red.

“Softball,” Anne Kaminski said. “We’re glad you’re here.”

“Believe me, not half as happy as I am. New Medea is stuffy; you know what I mean?”

They went through quick introductions. Afterward, Chief Kaminski said, “I’m sure you can guess what we’ve met here for: to discuss Section 808.”

“Right,” Softball said. “Time to pay you back. ‘No free lunch’ and all of that.”

“What do you know about the facility?” Kaminski asked.

“Not much,” she said. “The location, first off. It’s a coordinate position. Do you want me to rattle it off now?”

Chief Kaminski nodded to Dimitri. He swiveled to his computer, ready to type it into a geolocation application. Softball gave a precise latitude and longitude. The application that Dimitri used only showed outdated roads from before the war overlaid on a white background.

After he entered the coordinates, the application zoomed into a big, blank white area of the map, away from any of the main highways.

“Looks about two hours north from here,” Dimitri said. “Well, ignoring a trek through the woods since I doubt we’re gonna just drive up to their doorstep.”

Chief Kaminski tilted her head at Softball. “Are all those numbers from your memory?”

Softball shrugged. “I’m not known just for my looks, hon.”

General Taylor glowered at her disrespect. Softball noticed, and she softened her tone slightly. “Or, uh, Chief. That’s what they call you, right? Not lord or nothin’ like that?”

“Anne’s fine,” she replied.

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General Taylor said, “So you gave us a location. How do you know this place is the real deal?”

Softball said, “I got the coordinates from a set of transportation log files I found for Section 808. The place is like a black hole.

When soldiers are shipped to Section 808, they live there fulltime. Unless they’re a bigwig. They probably do that to prevent leaks, I’m guessin’.

“Section 808’s got fifty trained guards at least, plus another thirty civilians. On top of that, they’ve got 120 ‘retainants.’”

“Retainants?” Rayne said. “What’s a retainant?”

“I didn’t find any explicit definition of what they were. Based on how the docs tiptoed around what the retainants were, I think it’s safe to assume they’re the abductees. The people the Network used to snatch up left and right.”

Stormrise’s leaders looked among themselves.

“Sounds like what we’ve been looking for,” Rayne said. “Can’t think of another good explanation for what she’s found in the log.”

Geralt butted in. “So the thirty civvies you mentioned… they’re different from the retainants?”

Softball nodded. “The log referred to them distinctly. I think the civilians voluntarily went to Section 808 to work.”

“Something about that is off to me,” Geralt said.

“What do you mean?” Anne Kaminski asked.

“We’ve all been thinking this is some sort of slavery operation the Network’s got going on, right?” Geralt asked. Everyone nodded, and he continued, “So don’t these numbers seem a bit odd to any of you?”

When he was met with blank stares, he sighed and said, “Why do you need so many civilians? Sure, you’d need some to be pencil pushers or run maintenance on the place that the slaves couldn’t do, but that many?

“If I was running the place, I’d stock it primarily with guards.

So what do these civilians do? Stand around? But then again, I ain’t never run a slavery enterprise before, so what do I know?”

“I see your point,” Anne Kaminski said. “It is a bit odd. Then again, even if this is a slave labor camp, we don’t know what sort 185

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of labor they’re performing. What if the camp is responsible for developing their robotics? I imagine, in that case, engineers would still provide the majority of the labor, with slaves being utilized to manually put the parts together.”

“The assembly-line type work,” Rayne said, thinking out loud.

“Exactly,” Anne Kaminski said. “That’s just a theory, though.

Softball, did anything on the document indicate what the civilians’ duties are?”

Softball shook her head. “As I said, all it really had was numbers.”

“In that case,” Kaminski said, “I don’t think we’ll get a concrete answer until we see this camp for ourselves.”

General Taylor said, “Sending a small scouting force to the location seems like the logical next step.”

Everyone agreed with him.

“Widow Team is up for the mission,” Rayne said.

The general said, “But your men just got back from an op.

They need time to recover. I’ve got men on standby, ready to go right this second.”

“Give them two, three hours to rest, and they’ll be ready to go,” Rayne said. “We’re sending men into the middle of an unknown element. Who knows what waits out there? Scouts could be on patrol, even far outside of Section 808’s boundaries.

The worst thing would be to get caught, which could put any action we take in jeopardy. I want the best men out there, and I’d rather wait a few hours for them to rest up.”

“We’ve been waiting for this opportunity for months,” General Taylor said. “Now that we finally have it, you want to wait some more?”

Kaminski turned to Softball. “Does the Network know that you got your hands on the shipping logs?”

Softball shook her head. “I was in and out, and the Network was none the wiser. If someone caught on, they would’ve been able to track my location back to Winslow’s a lot earlier than you guys picked me up.”

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At the mention of Winslow, Northfield said, “Sorry your friend got caught.”

“Winslow? Don’t be. The guy was a moron. There’s a reason I wanted to get out of that place so bad. Only a matter of time.”

Kaminski rubbed her chin, thinking. Finally, she said, “Rayne, your team has proved itself time and time again. Give your men until 3 a.m. to rest. Plan on arriving at Section 808 just before dawn. The facility isn’t moving soon, from what I can tell.

I want this done right.”

She dismissed the group, and Northfield walked back to his quarters alongside Geralt. He slowed down a little so Geralt could keep pace, but he didn’t have to do so by much. Geralt was getting proficient with his crutches.

“Hey, man, I’m sorry about what happened in there,” Northfield said. “I should’ve given Softball some sort of headsup before we walked in.”

Geralt’s face reddened, but he said, “It ain’t your fault. The big googly eyes ain’t what bothers me the most. It’s the looks they give after. They look at you, right in your eyes, but you still feel the tension, you know?”

“The tension?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said. “You can feel it. The weights are practically hangin’ from their eyes, and they’re fighting with every iota of their willpower not to look down. I want to look at a man eye to eye, without feeling that tension in their eyes. And it happens, sometimes. But then there’s somethin’ that happens like in that meeting, and it brings me right back.”

“I’m sorry,” Northfield said.

“Yeah, whatever,” Geralt said with a shrug. “This is my lot now. I can either keep whining or learn to sit in it. But hell, Northfield, it feels like I’ve done enough sitting.”

They stopped in front of Geralt’s room. Geralt started to push the door open, but he stopped. They could hear the TV through the door. Sirens blared, and gunshots occasionally sounded.

Geralt sighed, and he yelled through the door, “How much longer?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Aubrey yelled back. “Then the episode’s done, I swear.”

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Geralt sighed again, deeper this time. He glared at Northfield.

“Guess I ain’t done complaining just yet. Corps PD. How the hell did I let you sell out my room like this?”

“By asking nicely,” Northfield said. “Admit it; you’ve got a big, fluffy heart under that rocky exterior.”

Geralt held his index finger up sternly. “Just this once. You need any more favors from this girl, you start your own charity, all right?”

“Loud and clear, man,” Northfield replied.

Geralt leaned on his stilts and wandered off to Lord knew where grumbling to himself.

Northfield smirked. *** Sleep was fitful, as it often tended to be for Northfield before a mission. He never quite mastered the ability to collapse like a rock, letting the world fade into a black abyss. No, he had to mull, thinking about things over and over until they became a dull noise that he still couldn’t tune out.

After three hours, he had endured just about all the time he could in his bedroom. Besides, his stomach rumbled like an angry boar. He figured he’d go to the cafeteria and get some food before maybe wandering the halls for a bit. Then he’d come back and try to get a bit more shuteye; his body still clearly needed it.

The older you get, the less sleep you’re supposed to need. Sure doesn’t feel that way. I get less sleep than ever, but I feel more tired than ever, too.

He checked the time; it was 9:30 p.m. Most days, dinner was served at six, and the time after was free for people to do what they wanted until bedtime at 10:00 p.m., except for those assigned to guard duty or other time-contingent tasks. The cafeteria served as a recreation area, where people showed movies on the big screen, played various card games, and talked at tables. Leftovers from dinner could be freely taken from the refrigerators.

For gatherings where people wanted more privacy, certain rooms in the complex could be reserved; that was what Rayne had done for Widow Team’s poker night.

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At 9:30, as curfew neared, activity in the cafeteria generally started to die down. Some quiet sounded great to Northfield.

He’d grab some food, then go on his short walk.

He made his way to the cafeteria. When he reached the doors, he expected to hear the calm, constant drone of conversation that always echoed from its walls. Instead, he heard shouting. He went inside.

Everyone in the cafeteria had stopped what they were doing.

A movie playing on one of the TV screens was paused midway through a car chase. Card games had frozen at tables, the players having entirely forgotten about their hands. Everyone faced a table in the far-right corner. Northfield’s entrance had gone entirely unnoticed.

He followed the trail of attention, and his stomach fell. Dread seeped in, filling the void.

Odell stood at the table with his arms spread wide. A bottle of whiskey swayed back and forth in his hand, the remaining half of its contents sloshing back and forth.

He stood over Aubrey, and she looked aghast.

“Me?” Odell shouted. “You think you know me?”

He slurred his words ever so slightly, but the rawness in his voice was cutting. Northfield hurried over to them.

Oh man, Odell.

“You don’t know nothin’ about me,” Odell said. “You don’t got the… the right… to act like you do.”

Aubrey recovered from her shock; Odell’s outburst must have started right before Northfield arrived. She gave Odell a stern look, and she said, “Go lie down in bed, Odell. Or go take a shower. Frankly, I don’t care which. But you’ve got to go.”

Odell shook his head vehemently, and he prepared to say something.

Aubrey cut him off. “Go. I don’t care what you have to say, not when you’re halfway down a bottle of Jack.”

Odell was stumped by that, and he struggled to come up with a reply. The alcohol certainly didn’t help. He resorted to repeating himself, almost absentmindedly. “You don’t… you don’t have the right….”

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He took a step back and stumbled, swaying, almost falling.

Northfield finally reached him. He put Odell’s arm around his shoulders, steadying the older man. Odell put the whiskey bottle to his lips, but Northfield snatched it away from him.

“I think you’ve had more than enough, buddy,” he said.

Odell squinted at him harshly. “Who… who the hell are you to say if I’ve had enough?”

“You gonna question everything under the sun?” Aubrey said. “Great, we’ve got the drunk philosopher over here.”

“I know my own body. I… I know what I can handle,” Odell protested, the slur in his speech growing even more pronounced.

Yeah, because right now you’re the poster boy for how to handle your liquor, Northfield thought, but he didn’t verbalize the retort.

Egging on Odell wouldn’t help matters.

Northfield said to Aubrey, “I’ll get him out of here, all right?

I’ll bring him back to his room.”

“Take him wherever,” she said, waving her hand in frustration.

“As long as it’s away from here.” She glanced at Odell, but then she looked away, refusing to meet his eyes again. There was a real hurt in her face and in her voice, as much as she tried to hide it.

He pulled Odell up so he stood a bit straighter on his feet.

Northfield was a bit rougher with him than he intended, which he instantly regretted, but Odell didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he reached out limply, pawing for the bottle, which Northfield held as far from him as possible. Moving the whiskey bottle out of Odell’s reach was trivial.

“Not a snowball’s chance in hell,” Northfield muttered. He escorted Odell across the cafeteria. The pervading silence was uncomfortable, especially considering how much ruckus usually went on in here.

Northfield opened the doors, and he brought Odell through.

As the doors swung closed behind them, conversation and card games tentatively resumed. Someone had unpaused the movie.

For most, the incident would be a piece of gossip that would proliferate for a day or two, maybe a week at most, before being entirely forgotten about. Even tonight, it seemed, the cafeteria was getting back to its regular rhythm.

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Northfield couldn’t stop thinking about the hurt on Aubrey’s face.

He escorted Odell to his room in silence. Odell shared a room with others, but it was vacant, save for him. His bunkmates were still in the cafeteria.

Northfield helped him lie down, and then he sat on the foot of his bed.

“What was that all about?” Northfield said. “You really hurt her, Odell.”

Odell put his head into his pillow. He moaned, “She don’t… she don’t have the right…”

Northfield sighed. Clearly, he wasn’t going to get much out of him. He held up the whiskey bottle, turning it in the dim yellow glow of the ceiling light.

“Where do you even keep getting this stuff?” he muttered. He turned back to Odell, but he was already fast asleep. His snoring was loud, shaking the entire bed frame.

Northfield left, taking the bottle with him. The restlessness from before had left him, and all he felt was drained. *** “Four Corps soldiers dead. One civilian, too,” the Corps captain reported to General Arkland. He stood ramrod straight, hands held tightly behind his back. His knees were locked, and he trembled ever so slightly. He added, “Still no sight of the Stormrise operatives. If we haven’t found a trace of them after so long, I’m afraid we’ve likely lost them.”

The captain had charge over local law enforcement in the region where the Stormrise operatives had escaped. On a technical level, he bore some level of responsibility for the failure, as it was his officers who had failed to stop Stormrise’s escape.

Clearly, the captain was afraid of reprisal.

General Arkland sighed and looked at Jane Sloan. Her face was a blank slate. He returned his attention to the Corps captain.

“At ease, Captain Andrews,” he said. “And stop locking your knees. Otherwise, you’ll faint. I don’t want to have to send soldiers in to pick you up.”

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“Yes, sir,” Captain Andrews said, no small measure of relief in his voice. He bent his knees a couple of times and relaxed his hands. “We interrogated the drug dealer, Hugh Winslow. Along with his drug offenses, he was safekeeping a fugitive from the law, a software hacker best known by her working name, Softball.

She was Stormrise’s target.”

“Softball,” General Arkland said. “I recognize that name.” He pressed his fingers together; this was something he needed to mull over with Sloan. “You’re dismissed, Captain Andrews.”

The captain nodded rigidly, and he pivoted on his heels. He hesitated for a moment before he turned back around.

He stammered, “General, at the time, we only knew about Winslow. We thought it was a routine raid to acquire contraband.

If I had known a high-priority target like Softball was being housed there, I would’ve sent more men—” General Arkland said, “Captain, I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to answer honestly. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was Stormrise’s housing in Winslow’s apartment a contingency you could have reasonably foreseen?”

The captain mulled over the question for a moment. He said, “No, I don’t believe so, sir.”

“Neither do I. Based on that, do you think it’s fair to punish you for not preparing for said contingency?”

The captain mulled over that for even longer. He said softly, “No, I don’t believe so.”

General Arkland leaned back in his chair. “I’m not in the habit of punishing my soldiers unfairly. You’re dismissed, Captain Andrews.”

The captain breathed a sigh of relief, and he left the room.

When the door shut behind him, Jane Sloan asked, “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Arkland gestured for her to go on.

“Due to foreseen or unforeseen circumstances, Captain Andrews failed. Stormrise conducted a successful operation in his territory. Failure is like a weed, sir. If you don’t pluck it quickly, it will spread. If failure is tolerated, it will fester.”

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“So what do you suggest, then, Sloan? That I send him to the gallows?”

“Of course not, sir. But a reprimand of some measure is warranted. One equal to the magnitude of his failure.”

“The captain had no reasonable way of knowing that Winslow held Softball, and that’s apparent to everyone. If I punish him in any capacity, it will be seen by my men as unwarranted. Besides, it’s too late in any case. I already assured Captain Andrews that he’s safe from reprimand. If I go back on my word now, I’ll be seen as dithering.”

“I agree on that point, General.”

“This is still a fight for the people’s hearts, Sloan, and that includes my men’s. They need to see that I’m reasonable and pragmatic, at least towards them. Sad as it is to say, Sloan, there will be more chances to discipline in the future. There always are in this business. When a better example comes along, I won’t stay my hand. I can assure you of that.”

“I don’t doubt you, sir.”

“Enough about the captain,” General Arkland said. “I want to talk about this Softball.”

“Yes, sir.”

He spun his chair around to look out the windows. The city lights glittered below. “Let’s go over the facts again. What is Softball’s relation to Stormrise?”

Jane Sloan said, “Her only known connection to Stormrise is Geralt Salb and Mark Northfield. She arranged for a disloyal Corps officer to smuggle them through a police perimeter.”

General Arkland nodded, remembering. “An officer that turned on her as soon as he was captured.” He pressed his lips together. “The officer told us that she wasn’t working with Stormrise. She had helped the fugitives for a paycheck, one provided by Geralt Salb and Mark Northfield’s other known associate, Odell Barnes. Is there any chance the officer was lying?

Perhaps Softball has been a Stormrise operative this whole time.”

Sloan said, “I can’t think of a good reason why the officer would have lied. He was already giving up Softball, and he had no reason to hold back further information. He had no loyalty to Stormrise.”

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General Arkland nodded in agreement. “So Softball isn’t a Stormrise operative. Yet Stormrise still conducts a bold operation to get her out of the city.”

“It appears that way, sir.”

“Stormrise hasn’t made any moves in the city for months.

And this is their first return to action,” he said. “It must be for a reason.”

“Softball is one of the best hackers in the business, if not the best,” Sloan said. “Her value to Stormrise for that fact alone might have justified her rescue.”

General Arkland cocked his head, and he frowned. “There’s something that doesn’t strike me as right about this, Sloan. No action for months, and then this. It must be bigger than gaining a new asset, no matter how valuable she might be.”

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“She’s a hacker,” General Arkland said. “What would she offer if not information? The real question is, what information does she have?”

Sloan said, “Something important enough for Stormrise to act after months of low activity.”

General Arkland’s frown deepened. “She could have anything. We don’t have intel to go off of. She could have access codes to facilities in the city or outside of it. She could have travel routes for our cargo trucks. She could have schematics on our mechanical suits or locations of manufacturing facilities.”

“She could have information about one of the retainant camps,” Sloan said.

“Possibly,” Arkland said. “But there’s a trove of information that Softball would have an easier time reaching. Remember, she’s been on the run. She didn’t have the luxury of time. She’s more likely to have clutched on to whatever information she could get her hands on first and present it to Stormrise in exchange for her escape.”

“What you’re saying makes sense,” Sloan said. “But still, given her reputation, I don’t think any assumptions are safe. Perhaps she was worried that access codes or supply routes weren’t enough for Stormrise to stick its neck out and rescue her. Maybe 194

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she wanted to offer something that she knew Stormrise couldn’t refuse.”

“You’re right, Sloan. We can’t make any assumptions,” he said. “Yet we can’t safeguard against everything.”

She nodded. “We need to ask ourselves a question, then. If Stormrise was to succeed in an operation, what would cause the most damage to us? If Stormrise blows up a supply facility, we can afford the loss. What we can’t afford, I believe, is Stormrise discovering one of our retainant camps.”

“We have dozens of retainant camps,” General Arkland said.

“From mech factories to material recycling to agriculture. We can’t send reinforcements out to them all. Even if we tried, that would require us to send a surge of troops out from the city all at once. An exodus like that would attract an undue amount of attention. Stormrise would possibly be able to track down a retainant camp in the commotion. Which could lead to the exact scenario that we’re trying to prevent.”

“If Stormrise witnesses slave labor or even collects evidence of it, that wouldn’t be a devastating setback for us,” Sloan said.

“Most New Medeans suspect that there is a certain amount of slave labor that upholds their lifestyles. They turn a blind eye to it and pretend it isn’t really happening. If Stormrise shows up with evidence, I don’t think we’ll have much trouble suppressing it. It’s information the citizenry doesn’t want to know.

“But,” she added, “they can’t find out about what else goes on inside those camps. It’s the knowledge that the populace will not be able to stomach. I recommend we look into pausing Project Augustus for now.”

General Arkland shook his head vigorously. “We can’t just hit the pause button, Sloan. To wipe all evidence, we’d need to trash the facilities. Throw out valuable equipment. Dispose of the subjects. It would take months, maybe years, to rebuild.” He gave her a hard stare. “Remember what we talked about. I’m not disposing of our work there. Not simply out of fear of Stormrise.”

She said, “Okay, General. I understand. But it still stands that Stormrise can’t see the studies. And we can’t guard all the retainant camps.”

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General Arkland pressed his fingers together and squinted, staring out at the city underneath him as the gears in his head turned. Finally, he said, “Let’s go over what we know. Protecting those camps is our number one priority, even if Stormrise attacks somewhere else. But we don’t want to send an exodus of troops from the city since it may lure Stormrise to said camps.

“Very well. We can’t guarantee that Stormrise doesn’t find one of the camps. They may even try to breach one. What’s important, Sloan, is that Stormrise doesn’t leave a camp with any evidence.

“This is what we’re going to do. We’ll send more troops out of New Medea. But they won’t be directed to any particular camp.

Instead, they’ll be ready to reinforce any camp that faces an attack.

“Stormrise may reach a camp. But if they try to breach one, they won’t leave alive.”

196

17 Widow Team drove in the darkest night. Dawn hadn’t yet risen in the east, not even through the trees that loomed over them as they drove. The leaves had freshly budded, and they swayed in the soft breeze.

The sound of the leaves could have lulled Northfield to sleep.

He shook his head, trying to blink the weariness away.

Great, now you’re tired? he thought. Why can’t my body just be ready for sleep when it needs to be?

The other men of Widow Team spoke little, with nary a conversation between them.

Erik’s seat was empty. Although nobody spoke of it, the void was palpable. Past that, Northfield could only guess what the others were thinking about, and he had little to go off of. The gas masks strapped to all of their faces concealed their emotions.

They weaved through the back roads as they headed north.

The thicket of trees occasionally broke to reveal a decrepit farm or lake. Moss and overgrowth plagued the farmhouses and homes, encroaching through the cracked windows and broken doors. Whatever crops had been grown had long since been overtaken by spiraling weeds that choked everything. The gas seeped through it all like an early-morning fog that didn’t know when to leave.

These were dead lands, long since abandoned by any survivors in favor of civilization to the south. With the gas to contend with, living near a community that had the means to protect against it was essential.

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Somewhere through the tangle of branches, somewhere across these winding country roads, the Network had brought these lands back to life. But from what Northfield had heard, he didn’t know if “life” was the correct term. The Network had resuscitated these lands like a corpse, and now they shambled onward with whatever dark designs the Network had upon them.

Samuel pulled the van onto an abandoned dirt driveway that wound up a small hill to another old farmhouse. They didn’t pull up quite so far, however. He parked the van around an old toolshed, concealing the vehicle from the road. An overhang of branches would conceal the vehicle from any helicopters that might pass overhead.

They disembarked the van. As an extra precaution, they placed branches and brambles over the hood and roof. From a distance, the van would look as old as any of the abandoned vehicles that littered the driveways this far north.

Each man was dressed in camouflage gear and armor, draped with cloaks covered in dark leaves. Their rifles were wrapped in a similar camouflage. If they lay in a patch of thick grasses or woods, they would be hard to detect by anything but a trained eye.

Rayne pointed through the forest, signaling the direction in which they would head.

“Let’s get this show on the road, huh?” Samuel muttered.

“Stay focused, gentlemen,” Rayne said. “This is the big one.”

They made their way into the forest, stepping softly and avoiding branches. They were three miles out from the anticipated location of Section 808, and the journey was slow-going. They checked their surroundings often, making sure the coast was clear before forging ahead.

The earliest morning birds whistled in the treetops, but their calls were drowned out by the buzzing of mosquitoes. Step after step, Northfield fought the urge to swat them away, suffering the bites.

You always wondered why we didn’t go camping more, Jess.

This? This is exactly why.

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They neared a wide road that split the forest neatly into two.

Rayne held out a hand for them to freeze twenty or so yards from the road. A deep rumbling noise came from farther down the road. They lowered themselves, fading into the surrounding bushes.

A semi-truck rolled past them. The trailer overflowed with car parts. Red cords held down parts of grills, bumpers, and doors.

The semi-truck was a deep-black color. It was Networkowned by all indications. Northfield looked at Leo and Andy, and he shrugged. The purpose of the semi-truck’s delivery was a mystery, but he assumed the truck couldn’t be headed anywhere but Section 808.

After the road was clear, Widow Team spent a handful of minutes searching the trees for any signs of cameras. Not finding any along their stretch of road, they darted across to the other side of the forest. Once again, they were slowly navigating their way around tree trunks and branches.

They traveled another mile. The forest thinned, revealing a clearing of grass that stretched a square mile or two, surrounded on all sides by the forest.

A large complex stood in the middle of the clearing, composed of multiple buildings and surrounded by a fence and watchtowers.

The members of Widow Team turned to each other. Even with their gas masks, their excitement was palpable. They had arrived at Section 808. They each pulled out a pair of binoculars to study the place in more detail.

Of the buildings in Section 808, two were far larger than the others.

One was a factory of some sort. Smokestacks jutted from its roof. At the moment, the factory produced no smoke. Production hadn’t yet started for the day, as it was probably too early in the morning.

The semi-truck they had spotted earlier was parked at the front gates. Death Corps guards thoroughly searched the vehicle.

The scraps and junk on the truck had to be going to the factory, Northfield surmised.

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If so, the factory had to be a recycling plant of some sort, melting down all the metals so they could be reused for the Network’s functions.

The purpose of the other large building wasn’t as readily apparent. The building was even wider than the processing plant, but it was made of dull brick and didn’t strike him as anything out of the ordinary.

Northfield remembered what Geralt had said about the composition of personnel at Section 808.

A lot of Network employees who worked at the facility weren’t Death Corps; they had a different role than watching over the prisoners. But what did they do, exactly? Northfield had a feeling that the big brick building had something to do with the answer.

Rayne swapped his binoculars for a long-lens camera that was also camouflaged. He rapidly snapped pictures, swiveling the camera gradually to get as many good pictures as possible.

They had their facility and pictures to serve as evidence of it, but Widow Team didn’t move. They weren’t done. Not yet.

They were after one last piece of evidence: the abductees.

They needed some evidence that Section 808 truly contained civilians the Network had kidnapped from New Medea.

So they waited, nestled in the shrubs and under the trees.

The wind picked up gradually, and the rustling of branches above them grew louder.

The sun rose above the horizon. Long shadows stretched over the clearing, broken up by small shards of light.

Leo nudged Rayne, and he pointed at a section of the facility.

Rayne followed his finger with his camera, as did Northfield with his binoculars.

Death Corps soldiers, each holding a rifle, marched toward one of the buildings. The building was ovular and large, though not as large as the recycling plant or brick building. The guards marched inside. There appeared to be a smaller building attached to its rear, then a slightly larger building attached behind that, forming a horizontal sandwich. The interconnectedness of the buildings made sense in light of the gas. People could travel between them without having to open doors and invite the toxic gas in.

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About a minute later, the guards marched back out. Every member of Widow Team tensed up as two columns of people followed behind them. The people were haggard, with slumped shoulders and heads. Dirt and grime of all sorts marked their plain white uniforms. They each wore a mask to guard against the gas, yet Northfield sensed a demure air about them. They were deferential to the guards, keeping their gazes down and avoiding eye contact. They looked like dogs who’d had any urge to misbehave beaten out of them.

Death Corps guards led the columns, and more guards also trailed behind them. The guards were directing the columns to the factory. The people constituting the columns were slaves; that much was evident.

Rayne’s camera clicked more rapidly. The members of Widow Team exchanged quick glances. Despite the gas masks, Northfield could sense energy radiating from them.

He could feel the energy, too. His fingers tingled. My God. We’ve found them. We’ve really found them.

A mix of emotions churned in his stomach. Some part was composed of excitement. Their goal for months was right in front of them. They had done it. But when he peered through the binoculars and gazed again at the columns of slaves stumbling blearily in the first breath of dawn, he remembered his time imprisoned by the Network.

Six months behind bars. Six months subjected to mental torture and anguish.

He would never remember those six months fondly. And the kicker was that he’d probably had it better than the slaves at Section 808.

One of the slaves slipped on a patch of ice, falling on her butt. Within seconds, a guard was over her, shouting. Northfield leaned closer, grimacing behind his gas mask.

The guard rammed her in the stomach with his rifle. The slave curled into a ball, shuddering from pain. The nearby slaves hastily stepped away from the scene, fearful of reprisal.

The guard rolled his neck and stretched his shoulders.

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she writhed in pain. Any pretense of disciplining the woman out of a need to keep a schedule had dissipated.

He hit her for fun. Her fall had merely been an excuse. Like blood in the water, it had drawn whatever demons lurked inside of him.

“Damn bastards,” Leo muttered under his breath.

Northfield gripped his rifle tightly. He felt a tingling in his legs, urging him to get up and run right down to the facility. But doing so would be folly, he knew, so he lay still. Each moment, the branches he lay atop seemed to prick him more deeply. The patch of grass he lay atop felt more uncomfortable.

Rayne’s camera clicked away. That sound was the one consolation Northfield could draw from all of this.

The guard stepped away from her, having had his fun. The woman was in significant pain. Even so, she pulled herself atop wobbly feet and hobbled along with the rest of her column to the factory.

After the last slave had entered, the doors slammed shut behind them.

Rayne put away his camera. “We got what we needed. Let’s go.”

Reluctantly, Northfield pocketed his binoculars and got to his feet.

Before Widow Team slinked back into the forest, Andy pointed to the west and said, “Look at that. There’s some nasty weather inbound.”

Northfield followed his finger, and he saw that Andy was right. At the very edge of the sky lurked the tips of clouds. They were some of the blackest clouds he had ever seen.

Widow Team crept back to their truck, and they drove off.

Stormrise’s radios used spread-spectrum communication to encrypt their messages. Dimitri rigged up the comms equipment to rapidly switch frequencies in a synchronized pattern.

Communication on one frequency was too brief to be recognized as anything more than static noise. Without access to the same pattern, the Network couldn’t spy on their communications.

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However, Stormrise utilized the Network’s radio towers to communicate. Stormrise didn’t know how closely the Network monitored traffic over the towers, if at all. But given that there was a likelihood that the Network suspected an attack on one of its facilities, Stormrise had to assume the Network was keeping a keen eye out for anything that might signify an attack.

Out here, in what seemed like the middle of nowhere, there wouldn’t be much traffic on the nearest radio tower. So an increase in radio traffic, even if that traffic couldn’t be understood, ran the risk of alerting the Network.

After everything Stormrise had done to find Section 808, they didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks. Stormrise’s forces would minimize radio communication around Section 808 until the time came to reveal themselves.

Widow Team returned to familiar territory in the wasteland, where Stormrise had conducted operations before. Here, Network communications were more active, and the radio traffic from Widow Team’s communications with Stormrise wouldn’t be perceived above the other noise.

Samuel pulled the van into an abandoned suburban neighborhood, parking underneath an overhanging tree. Rayne radioed Stormrise base with an update on what Widow Team had found at Section 808.

After he finished, Chief Kaminski said, “So you captured pictures of Section 808. Would you say that they’re sufficient to serve as definitive proof of the Network’s slave operation? Could we circulate these pictures?”

Rayne sifted through the pictures on his camera. He turned the camera so all the members of Widow Team could see alongside him. He had captured everything: the facilities, the column of prisoners, and the woman being beaten. Of the latter, he had vivid pictures. The most heart-wrenching picture depicted the guard rearing back to kick the woman as she cowered on the ground.

Leo growled at the sight of them.

Rayne said to Kaminski, “Yes, on both counts.”

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“That’s great!” Dimitri exclaimed. “I’ve been preparing for this. There are a few online forums we can target and blast the images out to all at once. The Network will try to suppress it quickly, but enough should get through the cracks. From there, this news is a snowball rolling down a hill. People will share the pictures faster than the Network can stop it.”

“A kick in the Network’s collective nuts,” Geralt said. “They’ll be a hell of a lot less chipper if we do that.”

“Public opinion of them will plummet, and it’ll rise for us,” Chief Kaminski said.

General Taylor said, “We’ll be able to amp up our recruiting and increase our operations.”

Northfield leaned forward, and he said, “But think about what would happen at Section 808 if we make these pictures public.”

“What are you talking about?” Geralt said, growling.

“Security at Section 808’s intense,” Northfield said. “But based on that shipping manifest, it’s about what we expected. There hasn’t been an influx of guards or an increase in other protective measures since we picked up Softball. That means one out of a couple of possibilities. Either the Network has no idea what we’re up to, or the Network knows but hasn’t had time to reinforce the facility. Or lastly, it has too many of these camps, and it doesn’t know which one we’re after, and it can’t reinforce them all.

“If everyone finds out about Section 808, then the Network will know we know about it, too. It’ll make sure we can’t touch this place. The security will get so intense that the Lord himself couldn’t push through.” He grimaced at the thought of what he would say next. “Or the Network will just dispose of the facility altogether. Maybe killing all of the slaves in the process.”

Samuel said, “You’re saying that if we want to do some sort of offensive on the facility, it’s either now or never.”

“Yeah, I guess in succinct terms, that’s what I’m getting at,” Northfield said. “If we distribute these pictures, we’ll be condemning the slaves to the Network’s retaliation.”

“Think about the risk you’re talking about,” General Taylor said gruffly. “With the security at Section 808, we’d still need to 204

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throw every combat-ready person we have at this operation. If something went wrong, if everyone were killed or captured, it would kill Stormrise. We couldn’t recover. The risk is just too great, not when we can distribute the pictures and grow to where we need to be to fight the Network.”

“These missing people are why most of Stormrise’s members joined up,” Northfield said. “To find their loved ones and rescue them. We’ve done a lot to find these people. And now, right when they’re in our grasp, we won’t do what it takes to get them out?”

“It’s not like that,” General Taylor said defensively. “But like you said, this isn’t the only camp. What are our chances of helping anyone else if we all get killed instead of playing our cards smartly and actually getting the resources to help camps like these?”

“I get pragmatism,” Northfield said. “I understand having to fight another day to win the war. But if we release pictures of the facility, we’ll be throwing the very people we want to help to the wolves.”

“They’re already in the wolves’ den,” Geralt said. “Sometimes it’s too late to help.”

“I’m surprised,” Northfield said. “I thought you’d be for this plan. It’s something the Yellowbacks would have done.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Geralt said darkly. “And look how the Yellowbacks ended up. I’m here to burn the Network down, and I’m for any way to do it. You really want to help people? Then we put out those pictures and build a big enough army to put General Arkland and his cronies on the stake.”

There was a pause as everyone contemplated their options.

Then Chief Kaminski said, “I want to consider all possibilities.”

She used Rayne’s codename. “Drawstring, give me your assessment. If we were to attack Section 808, how strong do you believe the Network’s ability to reinforce it is? How many forces and in how short of a time?”

Rayne said, “The area around Section 808 is remote. There is hardly any activity out there, and we didn’t see any helicopters pass. But we still know next to nothing about the area, and we have no way of knowing for certain where or when reinforcements might come. I have concerns about doing a wide-scale sweep of 205

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the area, too. We’re just as likely to stumble across the Network and alert them to our presence as we are to get valuable intel.

“So, as for the time it would take for reinforcements to arrive, that is entirely unknown. As far as the strength of any reinforcements goes, I imagine the Network would send everything they have at us. Section 808 lies within a large clearing.

While we’re attacking the facility, we could be surrounded easily.”

“A big storm is rolling in,” Northfield said. “It looks like it’ll hit in the afternoon. If we attack right when that storm hits, the Network’s ability to give us any chase on the way out will be significantly lessened. Helicopters already have reduced visibility when tracking ground targets due to the gas. With heavy rain, their visibility will be near zero.”

“So now or never,” Leo said.

“Now or never,” Northfield repeated.

“Well, what happens if the Death Corps in the joint know we’re coming, huh?” Geralt asked. “What if they decide to kill all the slaves before we can reach them? There’s toxic gas, if you ain’t forgotten. Could be as easy as cracking a couple of windows and watching them all choke.”

“That could happen,” Northfield admitted. “It could. But if I was one of those slaves and you gave me the option, I think I’d want us to try. We’re the best shot they’ve got right now.”

Andy pressed his fingers together. “I know it’s probably not my place to say anything. But I’ve got my two cents, I guess. This is what I joined Stormrise for. To put a stop to stuff like Section 808. It just doesn’t feel right, leaving it running.”

“As long as we’re giving opinions and all,” Samuel said, “I say we storm the place, too.”

“You haven’t seen Section 808,” Leo said to General Taylor and Chief Kaminski. Northfield could feel his scowl behind his gas mask. “You haven’t seen the prisoners. You haven’t seen how the Death Corps has them lined up like a chain gang, abusing them whenever they get the fancy. I want to go in there right now and burn everything to the ground.”

Dimitri interjected, “Saving the prisoners isn’t the only opportunity in front of us.”

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“What are you talking about?” General Taylor said impatiently.

“Think about this,” Dimitri said. “Drawstring, you said there was a truck of raw materials that arrived at the facility, correct?”

“Yes,” Rayne said. “We saw a truck of scrap pull up to Section 808’s front doors.”

“So think about where that scrap comes from,” Dimitri said, an undercurrent of energy running through his voice. “It’s not Death Corps soldiers rummaging around junk piles, I can tell you that. Slaves are doing the labor.”

“That’s great,” General Taylor said with a hint of sarcasm.

“What’s this revelation have anything to do with what we’re talking about?”

Dimitri pressed through the general’s skepticism, undeterred.

“Don’t you see? The shipment of junk is coming from another slave labor factory. Section 808 has a lot of Network personnel that aren’t guards, right? Well, at least some of them are probably coordinating these shipments in some way. That means Section 808 has to have some information about the scrap metal production. Maybe even other facilities, too. Drawstring, you said there’s a big brick building apart from the factory?”

Rayne said, “The brick building is where we suspect the civilian Network personnel operate.”

Dimitri finished his point. “While we’re in Section 808, if we take the opportunity to search that building, we may be able to find more leads that we’ve been after. Shipping manifests, maybe something even better.”

“Very good,” Chief Kaminski said, praising Dimitri.

“That’s some sharp thinking,” General Taylor admitted.

Northfield drove home his point. “If we leave the facility alone and publicize those pictures, we’ll be losing out on potential leads, too.”

The radio was quiet as Chief Kaminski and General Taylor mulled over the decision.

Finally, Chief Kaminski said, “He’s right. Helping victims like the ones at Section 808 is exactly why Stormrise was formed.

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turn our backs on these people, then the soul of what we’re doing is lost. Even if we win, that taint would rot us away. We need to take the risk.”

General Taylor said, “For what it’s worth, you’ve won me over, too.”

Geralt said, “If we want to throw all our soldiers at Section 808, I ain’t gonna stop you. It ain’t gonna be me out there, anyway.”

Northfield caught a twinge of regret in his voice.

Dimitri said, “I’ve got one more thing. I want to be out in the field for this mission.”

“You?” General Taylor said. “Out in the field?”

Rayne sounded skeptical, too. “You provide technical support for us. It’s a critical role.”

“I know,” Dimitri replied. “But for this mission, extracting information quickly is even more critical. I should be there to help with that sort of thing. It’ll go faster than me trying to explain over the radio.” He added, “Our newest member can take over my job. She’s been shadowing me, and she’s almost caught up already. She can be the person in the chair this time.”

“Damn straight,” Softball said, interjecting over the line.

“He’s got me set up real good.”

“Well, that’s not my realm,” General Taylor said. “If you think she can handle it, then I sign off on it. You’re right: your expertise will come in handy while searching for intel.”

“Wow,” Dimitri said. “We’re agreeing for once. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Rayne said. “Far be it for me to stand in the way.”

“I believe we’re in agreement, then,” Chief Kaminski said. To the general, she said, “I want you to rally your men. All of them.

We have some people that need rescuing.”

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18 Rayne dove into the grim and gritty details of their battle plan with General Taylor and Anne Kaminski. After they concluded, Widow Team returned to Section 808 while General Taylor prepared the troops for deployment.

They skulked along the woods that edged the large clearing, careful to remain in the prickly embrace of the branches and brambles. They tracked watchtower positions and guard positions while keeping an eye out for anything that could otherwise take them by surprise. They opted to do a full circle around the facility to make sure the backside didn’t house anything unexpected.

They didn’t see anything of the sort, but there were a lot of guards. They swarmed the place, marching along patrol routes, holding position in their patrol towers, and standing guard at the various buildings, particularly the factory and the large brick building. Widow Team counted thirty guards. Based on Softball’s intel, they anticipated that at least another twenty were inside the buildings or lurking in the areas they couldn’t see from outside.

Stormrise’s full number would be close to that of the guards.

Dense clouds of black plumed from the factory’s smokestacks, lazily floating into the sky. Although most of the sky was the soft blue color of a waking morning, the dark clouds in the distance inched closer, fated to envelop everything before the sun reached its zenith.

The factory’s doors burst open, and two guards dragged out a prisoner. The prisoner, a small, wiry man, kicked and screamed, thrashing his head around. He lunged to pull off his gas mask, but one of the guards stopped him, barring his arm and elbowing him in the stomach for good measure.

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Andy whispered, “He tried to take off his mask. What could be so bad that he’d want to go out like that?”

Nobody answered.

The blow took the fight out of the slave. He slumped over, legs dragging idly as the guards brought him to the large brick building. The prisoner and guards disappeared behind the swinging doors.

Leo swore under his breath, his voice full of rage. “I hate these people. I really do.”

They continued their route. After traveling a couple of hundred yards, Samuel held out his hand to stop them. There was more activity in Section 808.

The doors of another building opened; it was situated on the opposite end of the facility as the slaves’ quarters. A column of unarmed people emerged from the facility, surrounded by Death Corps soldiers.

The people in these columns had an entirely different body language than the slaves Northfield had seen earlier. These people conversed freely with one another, with relaxed shoulders. They even seemed to converse with the guards.

Their clothing wasn’t uniform; some wore lab coats, others just shirts and slacks or maintenance uniforms.

These people were Network personnel, Northfield realized.

The guards escorted them not as a precaution against the personnel acting up but rather to protect the personnel from the slaves.

The Network personnel went into the same brick building the slave had been dragged into. Dimitri had been correct; the brick building was where the non-combat Network personnel appeared to work.

Widow Team continued their route around the facility. When they reached the side opposite where they had started, they could spot a few more guard positions. The guards really were bursting out of the facility’s seams.

While concluding their circle around the facility, Northfield reflected on his conversation with the Stormrise’s leadership.

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Kaminski and the others to rescue the slaves. Whatever happens, it’s on my shoulders.

Remember our biggest fights, Jess? I don’t like thinking about them often, I’ve gotta admit. Do you remember what we’d fight about? A lot of the time, it was over me being too passive.

“You just let things happen to you,” you’d say. “You deserve better.”

And that last part was it, wasn’t it? You always just wanted better for me. Didn’t want to see me get railroaded by work, didn’t want me to get railroaded by life.

And all I wanted was for you to say it a bit more nicely sometimes. Man, you could just get all worked up. Like one of those little toy cars that you’d pull backward on the ground. When you let go, the car would zoom forward.

He smiled to himself. That was you. I could practically hear the clink, clink, clink of your little gears turning from the other room, and I’d have to run for cover when you’d zoom at me.

But look at me now, Jess. I made a decision and convinced others to go along with it. I steered this ship. Lord, help me; I just pray it’s not headed into an iceberg.

When Widow Team returned to the position in the woods where they had started their scouting circle, straight ahead of Section 808’s front gates, Rayne signaled for them all to get low.

They watched as a truck drove past, heading to Section 808.

The truck hauled a cube-sized trailer that was big enough to house a small SUV. The truck halted at the main gates, and Death Corps soldiers conversed with the driver while others headed to the trailer doors. The watchtowers’ machine guns were aimed at the truck, likely just as part of standard procedure.

The truck entered the facility and drove toward the back.

Northfield and his allies nodded to one another. Wordlessly, they agreed to move to a position where they could better see the truck.

They skulked back around their perimeter until they had a good view of the truck; it had parked in front of the large brick building that loomed at the back of the facility.

The guards had opened the trailer. An exo soldier had emerged from its compartment, and he now lumbered about the 211

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grounds. A giant tri-barrel machine gun was attached to his back magnetically, ready at any moment to be drawn and fired.

The members of Widow Team looked at each other. Even behind their masks, their expressions were grim.

The relative strength between the Network and Stormrise had been close to even. The presence of the exo soldier tipped the scales in the Network’s favor.

“Why’d they bring an exo here?” Andy whispered. “Is that normal? Or are they expecting us?”

None of them had an answer.

Northfield noticed one thing was amiss.

“The exo soldier isn’t at the front gate,” he said. “If somebody attacked me and I had an exo soldier, I’d want him to stand at the front lines.”

Leo peered at the big brick building looming at the end of the facility. He said, “He’s guarding whatever the Network thinks is the most important.”

Leo signaled for them to return to the van. Swiftly, Widow Team left. They traveled to a staging ground that Stormrise had previously agreed upon during their meeting. The staging ground was a large field that consisted of multiple baseball diamonds that had fallen into disrepair. The area had ample enough tree coverage, so they wouldn’t be easily spotted by helicopters. There, General Taylor and his soldiers would meet Widow Team.

Widow Team radioed Stormrise and updated them on their latest findings while scouting, most notably the arrival of the exo soldier.

“Great,” General Taylor growled. “That’s just what we needed.”

“Does this affect our decision?” Chief Kaminski asked, her tone inviting discussion. “The troops have been organized and geared up. They’re about to depart, but it’s not too late to change course.”

“One exo,” Rayne said. “We’ve handled one exo before. We can do it again.”

“One exo plus fifty other combatants,” General Taylor said.

“That exo is a force multiplier. Its ability to stand its ground will significantly enhance the guards’ ability to hold us back.”

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“We can handle it,” Rayne said.

“Why just one exo?” Geralt asked. “If I was worried about an attack on my territory, you better believe I’d be sending the cavalry. I don’t care how tanky that guy is. I ain’t sending just one of them.”

“I was wondering about that myself,” Rayne said.

Softball pitched in. “The Network has no idea what I got my hands on. It’s scared that we’ll attack soon, but there’s no way to single out Section 808 as the target. Everywhere’s getting beefed up, I bet.”

Rayne said, “The Network can’t reinforce everywhere all at once. Not this quickly, anyway.” He added, “We have even more reason to attack right now. We can’t give them time to bolster their defenses.”

“If the Network suspects a move, reinforcements will be inbound,” General Taylor said. “We have to assume that the Network has more troops on standby, waiting to be sent to any facility that gets attacked. We may have even less time to pull this off than we thought.”

“We can’t let this opportunity pass by,” Rayne said. “We may not get another shot.”

Anne Kaminski considered the situation for a moment before she said, “We still attack now, then.”

After that, the members of Widow Team were dismissed, save for Rayne, to brush up on details about their plan of attack.

The members of Widow Team waited for General Taylor’s forces to arrive. They opted not to scout Section 808 once more.

If they could see the facility, that also meant the guards at the facility had the opportunity to see them. Widow Team wanted to minimize their presence around the facility to reduce their chances of being spotted.

Samuel had a keen interest in a shed located between the baseball fields, staring at it. Eventually, he said, “I’m gonna check inside the shed. There might be some good tools that we can bring back to base.”

“He’s gonna be in there until we have to drag him out,” Leo muttered. “Digging around crap like that is his paradise.”

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Andy glanced up. The wind continued picking up, and the leaves rattled as the branches swayed back and forth. One of the leaves fell off, tumbling around in the air as the wind blew it off into the distance. He leaned down and picked up a leaf near his feet. He folded it in a meticulous manner, almost like origami, before releasing it into the wind. He bent down to find another leaf.

Northfield and Leo watched him. Andy realized this, and he stopped what he was doing.

“You a little bored, kid?” Leo asked.

Andy shrugged. Instead of answering, he said with a distant voice, “I told them it was just a scouting mission. I promised them. When Sydnee hears what this op has become… man, she’s gonna be pissed.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Leo said. “She won’t be mad when you come back. She’ll just be happy to see you.”

“Yeah,” Andy said in a tone that said he wasn’t convinced. He picked up another leaf and started folding it. “I don’t know, man.”

He let the leaf go, watching it flutter in the wind. He picked up one more and started to fold it.

“Would you stop it?” Leo said. “It gives me damned anxiety watching you do that.”

Andy let the leaf go, but he didn’t pick up another. “There’s just been so much uncertainty in her and Becca’s life. And I hate adding to it.”

“Well, are you gonna quit Widow Team after this op, then?”

Leo asked. “That’s an option. Last I checked, we don’t have any desertion punishments. I’m sure the chief will find something useful for you to do at base.”

“No,” Andy said. His voice was soft but firm. “No, you saw those camps. Widow Team is where I’ve got to be.”

Leo considered that for a moment. He said, “There is something you can do to reduce the uncertainty in her life.”

“What’s that?”

“Ask her out, for Christ’s sake.”

Andy shook his head. “Come on, man. We’ve already been over this a thousand times. I’m not gonna talk about it. I just don’t wanna see anyone get hurt. Is that so hard to understand?”

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When the silence grew between Leo and Andy, Northfield said softly, “Pain is inevitable.” He paused, looking at the swaying branches above them, watching leaves drift away. “Sydnee’s great.

Getting to love a girl like her? I’d think twice about letting it pass by.”

Samuel practically burst out of the shed’s door. “There’s some good stuff in here. Some real good stuff.”

“Like what?” Leo asked, indulging him.

“Well, to start, there’s a really good lawn mower in there.”

Samuel rubbed the chin of his gas mask. “Pretty rusted over, you know, because of the years. But I gave it a once-over. I think with a bit of love I could get it into good shape. Quality stuff.”

Andy asked, “So, uh, is your idea to lug a lawnmower back to base? While the Death Corps are hot on our heels from stealing their slaves?”

“Well, no,” Samuel said. “Obviously not. But it’s good to remember that the lawn mower’s here. If we’re ever in the area again, it would be a good score.”

“We’re not coming back here for a lawn mower,” Leo said. “I can tell you that much.”

“You guys are no fun,” Samuel said, grumbling to himself as he returned to the shed.

Northfield, Leo, and Andy shared the quiet afterward, listening to the sounds of the forest. The clouds rumbled in the distance.

Jess, you told me that none of it was my fault.

But I don’t know. If I’d done some things differently, then maybe, just maybe, things could have turned out another way.

I know what you’d say if I could ask. You’d tell me, again, that it wasn’t on me. But it wouldn’t help. It just wouldn’t. *** The black clouds tumbled ever closer now. Lightning crackled between the bulbous masses, and the falling sheets of rain looked like black drapes in the distance.

“It’s gonna be a nasty one,” Samuel muttered.

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They returned to Drawstring and the shed just in time to watch General Taylor’s soldiers arrive. They rode in a multitude of vehicles, more than was needed for the number of soldiers they had. The extra space was reserved for the slaves they intended to rescue.

The vehicles parked in rows on the outer rim of the baseball fields, nestling under the trees. General Taylor stepped out of one of the cars. He was followed by Dimitri. The sight of the tech guy dressed in combat gear, with a pistol strapped to his waist, struck Northfield as odd.

General Taylor and Dimitri approached Widow Team. The general shook each Widow Team operative’s hand, and he said, “Good work in scouting the facility. We may have a real shot at something here.”

Dimitri shifted on his feet nervously, and he thumbed his holster absentmindedly.

Rayne looked him up and down, focusing on the pistol, and he asked, “Do you know how to use it?”

“Enough to aim, shoot, and reload,” Dimitri said. He tried to speak with bravado, but there was a tremor in his voice.

Rayne studied him a little longer, and he said, “Let us do the shooting. Save that gun unless you really need it.”

“Sure,” Dimitri said. “I can do that, no problem.”

Rayne looked past General Taylor, at the men disembarking the vehicles and readying their weapons. They wore heavy camouflage, perfect for blending in with the grass in the clearing around Section 808.

Rayne asked, “How long until they’re ready?”

“Five minutes,” he replied. “Then they’re ready to do this, Rayne. They’re fired up as all hell.” He turned to look at his men.

There was a slight sag in his shoulders. “We better hope that it’s worth it.”

Rayne nodded solemnly.

General Taylor nodded back to the truck he had arrived in.

“I’ve got a pen and some paper. Draw out the facility for me. I want to get a visual and confirm our plan.”

Rayne nodded.

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General Taylor hesitated before he addressed Dimitri. “I know I give you a lot of crap. And I know I’m on your ass a lot.

But coming out here and risking your skin, especially when you’re not trained for it. I’ve got to respect a man for that.” He hesitated for another moment before he patted Dimitri on the shoulder. “Godspeed, Dimitri.”

“Yeah, you too, sir,” Dimitri said, taken aback by the general’s words.

Widow Team accompanied General Taylor to provide any missing details that might have eluded Rayne. They didn’t have to; Rayne sketched out the facility, along with guard positions.

He also showed General Taylor the pictures he had taken of the facility.

General Taylor studied them all. He nodded and then muttered, “One hell of a fight, Rayne.”

Rayne asked, “Who’s hanging back?”

General Taylor ushered forward a small fire team. Rayne wordlessly handed the leader his camera. The leader held the device gently, fully aware of its value. The fire team would bring the camera and the photos it contained back to Stormrise headquarters. A failsafe if things went awry during the attack.

General Taylor craned his neck toward the sky. The clouds hovered over them now, blacker than night.

He said, “We wait to strike until the rain falls. If it comes down as thick as I suspect, we’ll have the cover we need to approach unnoticed.”

“Yes,” Rayne said. He examined the sky himself before he added, “We should get going now. The rain will be coming down soon, and I want us to be in position when it does.”

General Taylor rallied the troops and ran over their plan once more. He kept his speech short and tight. The soldiers knew why they were there, doing what they were about to do.

General Taylor concluded his speech by saying, “The people we’re going to save have been in bondage for months, even years.

And today, we’re saving them. Remember that. No matter what happens out there today, you’re all heroes just for being here.

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have we gotten that chance? Savor it. Stay strong. Stay focused.

Let’s do this.”

No raucous cheers followed his conclusion; the men had been instructed to keep the volume to a minimum to avoid alerting the Network.

A grimness resided in each man as he boarded a vehicle, but also a determination.

Stormrise set out, fifty strong, to Section 808. *** Widow Team crouched at the forest line, just at the edge of the clearing around Section 808. The thick sheets of rain and the translucent gas concealed the facility almost completely. Section 808 was little more than a shadowy outline, stubbornly standing tall in the face of inclement weather.

The poor visibility was ideal for Stormrise; they could sneak up on the facility with far more ease.

A lightning bolt flashed across the clouds, searing itself in Northfield’s vision even after it had disappeared. The thunder that followed rattled him to the bone.

Rayne signaled for them to start moving forward. A thrill, strong and sickly, ran through Northfield.

It was starting.

Widow Team crouched low enough that their shoulders didn’t reach above the surrounding grass. The grass roiled, constantly buffeted by the intense winds. Widow Team’s camouflage let them blend in with the grass; they appeared like larger clumps being thrown around by the weather.

Dimitri followed slightly behind them. Stormrise soldiers crept out of the woodwork in a line. Northfield glanced at them and felt a measure of comfort. Even when he was so close and he knew the soldiers were there, they were still hard to pick out of the grass.

They skulked forward as one unit, a large field of grass drifting toward Section 808.

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they were even harder to detect, but their speed was vastly slowed as they pulled themselves forward on their elbows.

Northfield could now make out the silhouettes of guards in the watchtowers. He suppressed a sudden pang of anxiety. If he could see the guards, that meant they now had the ability to see him and his team.

He kept pressing on, feeling that anxiety stubbornly bubble up and up. With every elbow he threw forward, with every inch that he dragged himself farther, he felt more and more vulnerable.

His belly was on the ground, his back facing up. If the guards saw them too soon, if they opened fire, Stormrise would be fish in a barrel. With him at the very top of that barrel.

The guards stood deathly still in the watchtowers. Northfield hated that. He wished the guards were patrolling on routes or even just pacing around in the towers. He wished they were moving in any sort of way. If they were, he could get some sort of reading from them. Some sort of warning that Stormrise had been noticed. A sudden freezing of movement as they spotted the approaching army slithering toward them.

But with the guards still, he could read nothing. The guards could have their eyes directed anywhere; he would never know the first thing because of the dark faceplates they wore.

Stormrise inched closer. The soldiers at the ends of the formation started to curve around, forming a semicircle around the front of the facility.

The watchtowers seemed to loom higher as Northfield got closer to the bases of them. It reminded him of the height advantage that the Death Corps guards had. They would be firing down on Stormrise from the safety of their towers. There was no protection around Northfield. All he had was the rifle in his hands, his friends, and his mission.

The one true advantage that Stormrise had was surprise. And if Stormrise lost that…

Lightning lashed across the sky. The Stormrise soldiers froze in place as the clearing was bathed in light. Moments later, a sharp crack like a notched whip fell from the clouds, followed by a guttural roar.

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Stormrise remained still. The moments passed by tensely.

There was no telling if the guards had seen them with the added visibility provided by the lightning.

Another lightning bolt struck just above them. The clearing was once again showered in light. Stormrise didn’t shift an inch.

Tingles ran through Northfield’s fingers. He didn’t dare even lift his head; the scarcest movement in the light could expose them all. With his head down, though, he couldn’t watch the guards. Maybe, at this very moment, they were raising their rifles. Maybe, in another moment, bullets would rain down on them all.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

The clearing remained peaceful, straddling the precipice where blood and violence lay below.

Stormrise inched closer. Northfield watched the guards intensely. They seemed undisturbed, but for how long? The guards would spot them eventually. The question was when.

Rayne signaled with his hand. It was time.

Northfield raised his rifle, watching his gun sights drift up to the nearest guard in the nearest watchtower. The rest of Widow Team did the same, aiming at various guards in the towers.

Lightning bathed the clearing in light once more.

Northfield had been wrong about not being able to see a sign from the guards. The guard he had his sights on shifted his head directly at Northfield. He jumped back slightly, and his scream rang out to alert the others.

Rayne yelled, too. “Fire!”

Northfield pulled the trigger, and his bullet struck the guard in center mass.

The battle for Section 808 had begun. Lightning continued to sear the sky, but the thunder was deafened by the roar of gunfire.

220

19 Helen dropped her shovel as sharp cracking noises broke through the rumble of thunder and rain showers outside. She recognized the sounds for what they were: gunshots. Anybody who had survived this long in the apocalypse knew gunshots when they heard them. Yet she could hardly believe what she was hearing. The guards always had this place so tightly under control. Scarcely did they ever use the rifles they lugged around.

Why so many?

Helen met Elliot’s eyes. A bitterness curdled her brother’s face, as it always did since his return, but at least he looked back at her. She saw something else, too. There was an alertness in his eyes. A beast had been awakened in him, something feral. She couldn’t tell if it was the look of prey or the look of a predator.

The guard supervising them shifted on his feet. Whatever was happening had surprised him, too.

He pointed at Helen and shouted, “Hey! Did I tell you to stop? Pick up your shovel.”

Helen started to crouch, but she stopped halfway. Explosions roared outside, so intense that she felt the ground rumble beneath her feet.

The guard hunched over. He, too, now resembled an animal.

A cornered one at that. Helen didn’t like that. Not when he had a rifle in his hands.

The other retainants sensed the danger, too. They tensed up, unsure of what to do.

The guard tilted his head slightly to the right. He was listening to someone through that opaque helmet.

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He raised his rifle. He didn’t care so much about Helen picking up her shovel anymore.

Horror turned Helen’s legs into jelly. She couldn’t believe what the guard was about to do, all the while knowing that he was going to do it. Helen and the other slaves stepped back, shouting.

Not Elliot. He tensed his body, preparing to swing his shovel.

The guard aimed his rifle at the prisoner to his left. The black faceplate showed no signs of hesitation. No signs of remorse.

He pulled the trigger, slaying the first retainant. The slave’s body fell limp against the furnace he had spent so much time laboring over, his body and blood sizzling against its burning surface.

The guard didn’t stop there. He swept his rifle in a rightward arc, pausing on each slave and pulling the trigger.

The slaves didn’t know how to react. Some fell to their knees, begging for mercy. Another tried to run, but the guard shot him down. Retainants fell, one by one, as his arm swung those fateful degrees. Helen and Elliot were in the middle of the slave line, almost directly in front of the guard.

Helen watched, aghast. She couldn’t do anything, save for watching that barrel turn and deal fire and death. More gunfire crackled around her, this time within the factory, banging off its opposing walls. They were killing everyone. Even if she tried to run, where would she go?

This was it. This was how things were going to end. This was the only way they could have ended when she arrived at this place.

The barrel was almost on her now. She took another wobbly step back, her chest clenching enough to crumple in on itself. She squinted, but she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes entirely.

Somehow, the thought of facing death without seeing it coming was even more terrifying.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted something careening through the air. Something long, something with a silvery end that glimmered when it caught the light. A shovel, she realized, just as the spade hit the guard square in the chin. A spiderweb crack spread across that once-featureless mask of his.

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In the space of a breath, Elliot rushed the guard. The sight spurred Helen to movement. She wouldn’t let her brother face the guard alone.

She picked up her shovel and charged, too, willing her wobbly legs to be strong. She just prayed that she wouldn’t trip.

She prayed. Her knuckles whitened around her shovel.

It turned out that her brother didn’t need help. Elliot reached the guard before her and picked up his shovel. He slammed it into the guard, over and over, with such brutality that Helen froze on her heels. The guard was well dead before Elliot slammed the spade on him for the last time.

It was for their survival, she told herself. But his savagery somehow seemed a notch past even that. He was unleashing something dark within himself. Whoever was in front of her, in those moments, didn’t appear to be her brother. But she couldn’t dwell on Elliot. Gunshots echoed off the walls in every direction, reminding her of all the guards in this factory, intent on killing them. The thought chilled her to the very bone.

But it still tugged at her. What the hell had happened to her brother in the Interior?

Elliot picked up the guard’s rifle and searched him for spare magazines. He only found one. The lack of ammo likely was a precaution in case a retainant ever did take down a guard and get his hands on his weaponry.

He looked at her, then at the guard’s corpse. Then back at her. He pressed the rifle and magazine into her, and he said, “You know I can’t shoot well. Take it.”

She eyed the cold rifle that was now in her hands.

He said, “Look at me.”

Helen did.

“Anything to survive,” he said. “Anything. You understand me?”

She nodded.

He said, “Let’s go.”

She turned, planning to head toward the furnaces, away from the guard Elliot had killed, but her brother roughly grabbed her arm. He pointed in the opposite direction toward the start of the 223

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metal production facility. Toward the heaviest chatters of gunfire, which instinct had urged Helen to flee.

Instantly, she recognized that her brother’s plan was best.

There was only one exit to the facility, and that was the front. In all the chaos, she hadn’t been thinking.

She needed to get a grip and keep a level head. She regarded her brother, and a determined frown set over her face. Whatever had happened to him, she wouldn’t lose him again. She wouldn’t dare.

A guard rounded the farthest furnace to their left. Helen aimed the rifle and fired three measured shots. The guard pivoted back behind the furnace for protection from the bullets.

The guard didn’t pop his head back around. Perhaps he sought other retainants that would be easier targets. But he would, soon enough.

The surviving slaves along the row of furnaces scattered, seeking safety. A handful sought protection with Helen and Elliot, their eyes eagerly sighting Helen’s rifle. Elliot shook his head, communicating that they couldn’t follow. Helen nodded assertively, communicating that they could. Elliot eyed the spades that the surviving slaves held, and he shrugged. He would allow it.

Elliot slipped between a pair of bulky machines. Helen and the others followed. The shadows of the machines fell over them.

She noticed a trembling in her hands.

She had kept her cool. She had used her ammo sparingly, aware of the fact that she had so little. Maybe she and Elliot had a chance if they remained calm and made the right decisions.

But the continued chattering of gunfire throughout the facility nearly dashed her hopes. With every slave the guards killed, they could put more and more focus on Elliot and Helen.

If all the slaves were killed but them, that would mean the two of them would have to contend with all of the Network’s forces in the facility. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

That was one clock that they had to race against, but there was another that terrified Helen even more. The timer was signified by the blinking red dot on the gas mask strapped to her hip.

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At the press of a button, the Network could shatter any or all of the slaves’ gas masks. The guards demonstrated that functionality to her on the day that she arrived at Section 808.

The slaves would have no defense against the toxic gas outside.

A death from the gas would be far worse than a death from any bullet.

Their masks hadn’t been shattered yet. She didn’t know why. Maybe their rescuers outside, if they were rescuers, had already taken care of the soldiers. She doubted that was the case, however. She and her brother couldn’t rely on would-be rescuers.

This place had sapped her of that optimism.

They had to get out of this place and find gas masks that couldn’t be shattered, at least not by the press of a button. There had to be some in the facility. Network personnel wore them, Helen had seen.

They reached the processing section of the facility. Here, the scrap metal was shredded in big machines. The giant square boxes loomed, each taking up a significant portion of the floor.

The giant shredders creaked and groaned. The blades spun hungrily, waiting for more metal to be fed into them.

Slaves shouted and screamed and cried, scrambling away from the Corps soldiers hunting them down. Slaves hid behind piles of metal, climbed atop whatever they could find, or otherwise sprinted as far from the armored guards as they could. Bullets flew across the factory, punching through the big machines and ricocheting.

Elliot and Helen studied the chaos from their hiding place.

She couldn’t find a safe route through the madness; it seemed that wherever they tried to run, they’d come across a guard itching to kill them.

The metals were gathered at the collection section, sorted, and then passed to the processing section. So the sorting section of the facility lay past the processing section, and past that lay the collection section. At the end of the collection section stood the front doors.

She felt a strong pang of hopelessness. The front doors weren’t in sight, and they wouldn’t be for a while. She and her brother just had so far to go, with only one gun between them.

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A nearby guard turned away from them, chasing a poor man who had caught his attention. Elliot pointed between a pair of shredders they could slip between, where none of the guards were looking.

Helen nodded, and they started to advance. After a few steps, she could sense that the retainants behind her weren’t moving.

She turned back, beckoning them. They shook their heads. They would rather take their chances, waiting in the shadows for rescuers to come. Helen frowned, but she followed her brother toward the shredders. At any moment, a guard could turn his head in their direction. They didn’t have time to argue.

They slipped between the shredders, unseen. Helen’s relief quickly evaporated as her and Elliot’s gas masks beeped loudly.

A moment later, the masks’ glass shattered. Their masks were useless now.

What would they do now, even if they reached the front doors? Helen would have cried in despair if she wasn’t painfully aware of the danger any sound would bring upon them.

Despite keeping her silence, a guard was attracted by the sounds emitted by their masks. Elliot nudged her hard and pointed under the shredder. There was a gap under the shredder, just big enough for someone to squeeze into. On the other side, she saw a pair of black boots clambering toward them.

At the front of the facility, near the front doors, new bursts of gunfire rang out. Guards shouted in alarm; someone was firing at them. Likely, it was whoever had attacked the facility. The guards fired back, and the two sides exchanged fire. Helen had no idea who would win.

The black boots pivoted in the direction of the gunfire. They paused. The guard they belonged to was making a decision, whether to assist his comrades or finish his work in killing the slaves.

The guard decided. The boots pivoted back toward the shredder. Elliot nodded at Helen, raising his shovel. She turned around and aimed her rifle through the alley between the shredders.

The guard said, “Come out now, and I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

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It was a bald-faced lie. Then again, the guard must have figured that Elliot and Helen’s only hope at this point would be his sweet words. In another world, Helen might have believed him. But in this world, she had a gun.

“Fine,” the guard said when he nearly reached the opening between shredders. “Have it your way.”

He pivoted around the corner, his rifle raised. Helen was ready, though. She pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the guard in the shoulder, and he reared back, shrieking in surprise. He dropped his own rifle.

Helen aimed the barrel at his chest. She tried to pull the trigger again. But the gun wouldn’t fire. It was jammed.

She tried slapping it, shaking it, getting it to fire a round. But the gun wouldn’t respond.

“Kill him, Helen!” Elliot growled savagely. “Kill him!”

“I can’t!” she cried. “The damn thing’s jammed!”

The guard rolled onto his side, picking up his gun. “Dumb bitch. You’re dead now.”

The gunfire in the distance seemed to grow closer, but it all rang hollow in Helen’s ears. She gaped at the guard raising his rifle at her . Blood poured out of the wound she had given him, but it hardly mattered. Not when he had a functioning gun.

Elliot had his shovel, but the guard was too far away, and he couldn’t reach him fast enough. So instead, he flung the shovel. The shovel’s handle hit the guard in the head, but it was a glancing blow. The guard reared back, dazed for a moment but largely unfazed.

He raised the rifle again.

Elliot said to her, “Split up.”

His voice sounded cold, awfully cold, but she knew that he was right. If the guard went after one of them, the other might have a chance.

Running backward wouldn’t work; with the tight alley between the shredders, the guard could gun them both down like fish in a barrel.

So instead, Elliot and Helen dove under the shredders. Helen went under the shredder to their left, and Elliot under the one 227

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

to their right. She threw her elbows ahead of her, scrambling toward the far end of the shredder as fast as she could. But her top speed didn’t feel fast. It didn’t feel fast at all.

The blades tumbled in the big contraption over her; the underside vibrated from the blades’ movement. Stuffy, dark, claustrophobic. She didn’t want this to be the place she died.

Her eyes widened. On the far side of the shredder, she saw combat boots. They weren’t jet-black but instead a forest camouflage color. Whoever wore them didn’t owe allegiance to the Network.

She saw another pair. They were sprinting past the shredder.

“Help!” she cried. “Help me!”

Both pairs of feet stopped and pivoted.

“There’s one under there,” one of them said. It was a man speaking.

“There’s a guard behind me,” Helen shouted. “Please, he’s gonna….”

The guard behind her cursed. His wound was slowing him.

He dropped to his knees so he could peer under the shredder.

“The hell…” he growled, breathing hard. “The hell if I let you live…”

If he were targeting her, then maybe Elliot would make it out safely. God, let Elliot at least make it out safely….

“Hang on!” the man ahead of her said. He sprinted, trying to round the corner of the shredder so he could get a shot at the guard.

The guard shifted his rifle, which wobbled in his good arm, leveling it in her direction. She watched, aghast.

The guard fired. His shot went wide; it was hard for him to keep the barrel stable. He aimed again.

The friendly pair of boots continued rushing toward the corner. The man desperately tried to get a shot on the guard.

Helen couldn’t take it. She squeezed her eyes shut.

A gunshot cracked.

Helen opened her eyes. The guard’s rifle clattered to the floor, his head limply slapping against the concrete. Blood pooled around his head.

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Helen gasped for air. Only now did she realize that she had stopped breathing.

Beside the guard’s body, a hand stretched out to hers.

“It’s okay,” the man said. His voice was gentle.

She pivoted and crawled toward him. She grasped the hand, and the man pulled her out and to her feet.

She regarded him. He was draped in leafy camouflage.

Underneath the leafy hood, she saw a flow of blond hair. Behind his gas mask, a pair of electric-blue eyes regarded her softly.

The other man he was with reached under the other shredder, and he pulled her brother out.

“It’s okay now,” the blonde man said. “We’ll protect you. I promise.”

She embraced him. She didn’t even think about it; her arms were just around him before she had another thought.

The long year in this wretched place came out of her. She sobbed. It was finally over.

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20 Northfield gently pushed the woman off of him. She needed comfort, and it pained him not to provide any, but she had bigger needs.

He unclipped an extra gas mask and held it out to her. He said, “The front doors have been compromised. Gas is flooding in. You’ve gotta put this on.”

While she strapped the mask over her face, he reloaded his gun.

“Go to the front doors and congregate with the others,” he said. “There are guys dressed like me who’ll protect you. We’re gonna finish clearing this facility and save whoever’s still in here.”

She nodded. He started moving before she reached out and touched his shoulder. “Who are you guys?”

“Stormrise,” he said. Seeing the woman, grimy and disheveled in this hot facility, made the pity swell from his heart to his throat.

“We’re gonna put a stop to this. I promise.”

He ventured forth, moving with Stormrise through the rest of the facility. They discovered a few more Death Corps soldiers lurking about, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Along the way, Northfield encountered body upon body. Blood was everywhere, pooling on the concrete and seeping into grates.

It had been a possibility that he had feared. But seeing it in person was an entirely different story.

Christ, how many people are gone? How many did we save?

These people—the ones who died—what would they say about our attempted rescue? Would they forgive us? Would they say that it was worth it?

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The survivors hid in all manner of places. A man was so terrified that he tried to attack a Stormrise soldier with a pipe.

Stormrise gathered the survivors and sent them to the front doors. Once the facility was clear, Widow Team and General Taylor met near the front doors. Stormrise soldiers guarded the prisoners while they talked.

Northfield observed the prisoners’ short hair, and he recalled his own time in the Network’s captivity. In Cumulus, the guards let all of our hair grow ragged. They saw it as a way to humiliate us.

Here, their hair is cut short. Different Network regions. Different methods. But it’s still the same story, isn’t it?

General Taylor said, “That was easier than I thought it would be. I don’t like it.”

“That’s because most of their soldiers weren’t here. They’re guarding the brick building instead,” Rayne said. “Including the exo soldier. That’s where we’ll hit the bulk of our resistance.”

General Taylor’s eyes swept across the facility, lingering for a moment on each body and bloodstain. “The hell could they be hiding in there that’s worse than this?”

Rayne approached the prisoners and asked, “Any of you know what’s in that big brick building at the back of this place?”

Most of the slaves shook their heads.

One of them said, “The guards… they take slaves there.”

Another said, “My friend… one day they took her. For no reason.”

“They just call it the Interior,” added another.

Near the back of the crowd, Northfield noticed the man and woman he had saved from under the shredder. She gave the man an imploring look, but he merely stared forward.

They must have stuck out to Rayne, too, because he asked, “Do you know something?”

The woman looked at Rayne, then at the man, then back at Rayne again.

“Elliot was taken by them. And he… he came back.”

Rayne asked Elliot, “What did you see in there?”

Elliot didn’t respond. His stare wasn’t merely absentminded.

An intense anger smoldered in his eyes, and it unsettled Northfield.

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The woman tugged at Elliot’s shirt. “Come on, please. Tell him.”

Rayne asked her, “Do you know what he saw?”

She shook her head.

Rayne said to Elliot, “You wanna get payback for what they did to you? Then help us.”

Elliot remained as quiet as a stone. Rayne sighed and stepped away. Northfield sensed, like Rayne, that they wouldn’t get through to this guy. Not in the amount of time they had to try.

Rayne asked the woman, “Are there other prisoners in the camp?”

She said, “The servers. They’re housed in a smaller cabin connected by the kitchen. I think that’s it, but I don’t know for sure.”

Rayne returned to General Taylor and the others. “Looks like we’ll find out for ourselves about what’s in the Interior.”

General Taylor announced to everyone, “Widow Team, Dimitri, and Bravo Team will advance to the facility. Charlie Team will rescue the servers. The rest will extract the civilians.”

Everyone started moving immediately. Not a living soul in the facility wanted to wait around for Death Corps reinforcements.

Dimitri trailed Widow Team. He tugged at his gas mask nervously. “So things are gonna get worse for us ahead?” He glanced around and added softly, “This seemed pretty bad already.”

Andy put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve made it this far, right? Just keep your head down, and let us do the rest. We’ll get you out of here.”

“Okay,” Dimitri said. He swallowed, steeling himself, and said again, “Okay.”

Leo took one last look at the factory, and he said, “I’m killing every last bastard in this place.”

Widow Team moved to file out the front doors. Northfield glanced back inside the factory.

About half. They had saved about half.

Not enough, he thought. Not nearly enough. Who’s to say things would have been better if we had let these people be?

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One step forward, two steps back. Why’s it always gotta be this way?

He felt a hand on his shoulder; it was the woman he had pulled out from underneath the shredder.

“Thank you,” she said.

Something caught in his throat. His eyes lingered on the bodies strewn about the factory.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice choked. “I wish we could’ve saved more.”

He followed Widow Team outside. Northfield had never seen rain fall so intensely. Even though the sun was near its zenith somewhere behind the inky black clouds, someone could mistake the time for midnight instead. The main distinction was the lightning cracking across the sky constantly and illuminating the earth with stark white light. The wind was a force to be reckoned with, buffeting them at high speeds. Widow Team and Dimitri pushed through the intense weather, heading in the direction of the brick building, with Bravo Team right on their heels.

The remainder of Stormrise escorted the slaves in the opposite direction toward the main gates. Their exfiltration drivers had brought the vehicles to the front gates, ready and waiting to load people up.

“Holy…” Leo exclaimed. “Look.”

Northfield followed his eyes to the sky. In the distance, a wall cloud loomed. The thing had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. The giant circular formation hovered precariously over the ground, managing to look even darker and more ominous than the surrounding clouds.

Leo shook his head and said, “Not a good sign. Can’t be a good sign at all…”

Nonetheless, they pushed on. *** “Stormrise has freed the retainants, General Arkland,” the captain said. “The terrorists are now escorting them out. Their forces are also attacking the Interior.”

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General Arkland gripped his desk. “Are the Network personnel following protocol?”

“Yes, sir,” the captain said. “To the letter. Combat units have formed a defensive perimeter around the Interior. Non-combat personnel are inside, destroying evidence as fast as they can.”

“How long will our defenses hold?” General Arkland asked.

“It’s unknown, sir.”

“When will reinforcements arrive?”

“They’re en route as we speak. According to your orders, they had been mobilized, waiting for an event like this to happen at a camp.”

General Arkland’s eyebrows narrowed darkly. “Stop giving me non-answers. When will they arrive?”

“It’s… hard to say, sir,” the captain said. “Radar shows that a supercell storm is hovering over Section 808. Personnel inside confirm that it’s raining hard there. The helicopters were going to land first, but they might not be able to ground. They may need to turn back—” “The helicopters aren’t turning back,” General Arkland said, cutting him off. “They’re going to Section 808, no matter what.

How long until our ground troops arrive?”

“Around twenty minutes, give or take five minutes,” the captain said. After a moment of hesitation, he reiterated, “The weather is presenting a severe problem.”

General Arkland pondered the situation. He asked, “How long will it take for the evidence to be destroyed?”

“Less time. Fifteen minutes,” he said. He tugged at his collar.

“Give or take five minutes.”

General Arkland turned back. Jane Sloan stood slightly behind him, at attention.

“The division of Stormrise that is exfiltrating the retainants will get away, almost certainly,” she said.

General Arkland nodded grimly. “That doesn’t spell disaster for us. Not yet. We can lose a couple of retainants. And the news of their existence is something we can deal with.” His face grew darker. “We have to stop them from getting any evidence out of the Interior.”

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She nodded in assent, and she said, “We have two pathways forward to avoid disaster. The first is that our forces at Section 808 hold off Stormrise long enough for all evidence to be destroyed.

Hopefully, then, reinforcements will arrive and sandwich the enemy.” She took a deep breath and added, “The second pathway is if our soldiers fail to hold off Stormrise’s soldiers before all evidence is destroyed and Stormrise breaches the Interior. If reinforcements manage to get there before Stormrise leaves the Interior, we can surround the building. Stormrise will be trapped.”

“Yes,” General Arkland said. “Everything depends on how long our defenses hold up and how soon our reinforcements can arrive.” He repeated his captain’s words with disdain. “Five minutes, give or take.”

The captain sweltered under the heat of his glare. General Arkland leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together.

“Captain,” he said, “reach out to the non-combat personnel in the Interior. Tell them that they’re now combat personnel, too.

Order them to fight to the last man. Surrender isn’t an option.

Remind them of what happens if Stormrise gets that evidence.

Stormrise won’t give them any quarter.”

“They… I…” the captain stammered. “I think they know.”

“Remind them,” General Arkland said. *** Two gray buildings stood in front of their target, the big brick building the slaves had called “the Interior.” Stormrise’s soldiers stacked up against the back walls of the gray buildings, preparing for their assault on the Interior. Widow Team stacked up against the left building, while Bravo Team stacked up against the right.

Rayne hazarded a look around the inside corner. He quickly reared his head back to safety as a barrage of gunfire collided with the corner. In the crescendo of gunfire, one note rang the loudest: the singular, piercing drone of a minigun spraying a stream of gunfire with laser-like accuracy. Some gunfire angled downward; shots were coming from the Interior’s roof.

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Even though Rayne was safe behind the building, he still flinched slightly at being so near the onslaught. Above it all, he yelled, “We were right. The Network pulled all of their security to this place.”

“It wouldn’t do that unless there’s something worth protecting in there,” Leo said.

“My thoughts exactly,” Samuel pitched in.

Rayne shared a look with his men and then the leader of Bravo Team. Northfield could tell that their thinking was in alignment.

They couldn’t push directly toward the Interior. The Death Corps had a superior height advantage. That, along with the danger presented by the minigun-toting exo soldier, meant suicide. Even though Stormrise had smoke grenades, the minigun fired so fast that its wielder could spray wildly and still take out a number of Stormrise’s men.

They had to remove the height advantage. The gray buildings between them and their enemies provided the perfect opportunity to do so.

The walls of each building nearest to the Stormrise soldiers didn’t have any doors, just a row of elevated windows with sills at their shoulders. Bashing a window and climbing through, one by one, wasn’t an option. They were on a timetable.

“Stay here,” Rayne commanded Dimitri. “Stay low.”

“No freaking problem,” he replied.

Rayne and the leader of Bravo Team pitched smoke grenades through the alley between the gray buildings. As a cloud grew in the front yard of the Interior, Rayne and the leader of Bravo Team ordered their men to pull back. Leo put a breaching charge on the wall, as did a corresponding member of Bravo Team on their building.

The men braced and detonated their charges. The walls blew man-sized holes inward. The men climbed through the openings, entering the gray buildings.

They were greeted by barracks. The bunks looked relatively comfortable, and there was a large TV mounted on the wall.

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or the Network personnel. He didn’t care which and didn’t bother investigating further to find out. Bullets dented the far wall of the barracks. They didn’t quite break through, but they were still too close for comfort.

Widow Team got low, crouch-running through the barracks to reduce the chances that any of them would take a bullet to the head. The barracks room extended only about half the length of the building; Northfield figured there was another past the walls.

That explained why the bullets didn’t tear through the back wall like tissue; they had already busted through another wall on their ill-intentioned journeys.

They pushed through a door to the barracks, and they entered a small hallway. The bullets whistled through the air, flying around them. Ahead of them was a door. A label next to the door handle indicated that it led to another barracks room, as Northfield had suspected. To their left, the hallway transitioned to a stairwell leading up to the second floor.

Widow Team darted to the stairwell. Bullets continued puncturing the walls. They clambered up the stairs, breathing heavily through their gas masks, until they reached the second floor.

With the second floor came a small measure of safety. Their enemies were primarily aiming at the ground floor. Northfield didn’t feel a whole lot better, though. With every ragged breath through his gas mask, he felt the time ticking by perilously. How long until Death Corps reinforcements got here?

If Northfield put himself in the shoes of the people that ran this dismal facility, which was something he didn’t relish doing, he would be trying to burn all evidence of whatever had transpired in that ominous brick building.

Widow Team pushed through a door, and they were greeted by another barracks room. A row of seven windows overlooked the small courtyard in front of the Interior. Each member of Widow Team approached a window, staying hidden behind the walls. Northfield crouched by the rightmost window. Rayne gave a three-second countdown with his hands. When his final finger pressed against his palm, the operatives of Widow Team pivoted and took aim out the windows.

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The soldiers of Widow Team had a split-second surprise advantage, but already, their enemies had turned toward them.

Below, the exo soldier focused on the other gray building, doing his best to turn it into Swiss cheese.

Northfield aimed for the rightmost guard on the roof, who was in the process of centering his rifle on Northfield.

Northfield pulled the trigger first; his reticle jolted into the air as a red cloud burst from the guard’s head. The soldier crumpled, and Northfield knew he was dead before his body hit the ground.

He swiveled, searching for his next target, but he didn’t center on one before Rayne screamed at the very top of his lungs, “Back!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Northfield saw why. The exo soldier pivoted, swinging that big minigun toward their row of windows. Northfield dove back, as did the others, as a stream of bullets roared toward them. They scuttled back in retreat, covering their heads with their hands as if that could possibly deter a bullet. As hell rained down on them, as bullets ripped through the bunks like the teeth of a hungry beast, the images of his past friends flashed in his head.

The last time he had stormed a Network fortress like this, he was the only one who made it out. John. Elena. Faces, once full of life, gone. Elena’s sweet smile. John’s pressed grimace. Ashes and bones now. That was all the world held of them.

It all felt so familiar, again, as he eyed his friends. One bullet— that was all it really took. And there were so many bullets.

Explosions rocked the courtyard below, but the minigun didn’t stop. However, the weapon had found a different target.

The stream of gunfire snaked over to the other gray building, where Bravo Team attacked from.

Bravo Team had taken advantage of the exo soldier’s focus on Widow Team by firing rockets at the behemoth. However, their rockets hadn’t done the job.

Widow Team got up. None of them had been injured. The bullets hadn’t found their marks, not yet. Widow Team returned to the windows, their boots crunching on shards of glass and debris from the tattered walls.

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As they peered out the window, gunfire prodded at them from the rooftop soldiers, but Northfield yelled, “The leg! The leg!”

His compatriots knew exactly what he meant. The exo soldier had a weakness in his armor. A hydraulic pipe near the exo soldier’s right ankle, which powered the armor in his legs, was exposed as he focused his fire on Bravo Team in the neighboring building. Northfield had taken advantage of that fact in New Medea to escape. The target was small, however. And they had to shoot it from an even greater distance than last time. Rayne, Samuel, and Andy focused their fire on the rooftop soldiers, forcing them to duck back.

Northfield and Leo, the best shots on their squad, focused on the hydraulic leg. Neither of them had luck, not with a succession of shots. It was a hard target to hit.

The exo realized what they were doing because he abruptly stepped back so the pipe was no longer exposed. The Network had apparently trained its soldiers after Northfield’s little trick last time.

Despair welled within him as any feeling of controlling the situation left him. Widow Team only had small arms; their only shot of taking down the exo was that small joint. They had to rely on Bravo Team now, which had the rockets.

The time kept ticking by, ticking by.

Northfield switched his weapon to automatic and sprayed the exo soldier with bullets. That got his attention, alright. The exo pivoted yet again, bringing his weapon toward Widow Team.

He opened fire, but this time, Widow Team was well ready.

They bolted to the door as the gunfire wolfed through everything.

Rockets exploded, and the minigun fire stopped.

They returned to the windows. Indeed, the exo soldier lay in a charred crater in the courtyard. Although he had been defeated, Northfield felt like Stormrise had taken too long to do it.

With the exo soldier out of commission, Widow and Bravo Teams worked on eliminating the remaining guards. Even through Northfield’s intermittent observations of the guards, which consisted of black blurs seen through his weapon’s optic, he could tell they were well-trained men.

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They communicated with each other adeptly, focusing their fire on the encroaching Stormrise soldiers with a singular goal: to drive them back behind cover. They wanted to keep Stormrise from advancing. Every second that Stormrise was delayed brought the Network closer to victory. Killing the opposition was irrelevant. Their attack helicopters and approaching ground troops would do that job just fine.

The Death Corps guards, focused on this singular purpose, proved difficult to root out. Northfield could hardly get a shot in before a barrage of bullets would fly in his direction, and he’d be forced to duck again.

Their whittling timetable gnawed at him. It would be one thing if he knew just how long they had. He could try to count in his head, try to calculate what would come next. But not knowing when helicopters might spawn out of those dark clouds was agony.

Eventually, Stormrise succeeded in neutralizing the opposition outside of the Interior. They descended the gray buildings and entered the Interior’s courtyards, their weapons fastidiously homed in on the looming windows.

Dimitri stepped out from behind the gray buildings at Rayne’s behest, and he gaped at the chaos.

“Man,” he muttered. “Man, oh man.”

Rayne and the leader of Bravo Team communicated with General Taylor via radio. Now that the assault had commenced and the Network was aware of Stormrise’s presence in the area, Stormrise could communicate via their encrypted radio without concern. Widow Team’s comms had access to the same channel, so Northfield was privy to the conversation.

“The Interior courthouse is clear. We’re at the front gates,” Rayne said.

“Copy that,” General Taylor replied. “All the civilians have boarded. My men are free now. I can order them to exfil, too, or they can join your offensive.” His voice darkened. “Our scouts have spotted helicopters en route to Section 808. ETA five minutes.”

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Rayne cursed, and he gazed at the looming Interior. The building seemed even larger now. “Five minutes is cutting it close. Don’t know how long it’ll take to find what we need.”

“The scouts won’t be able to give any more updates, either.

I’m ordering them to withdraw. Don’t want them caught when reinforcements come,” General Taylor said.

Northfield turned, as did the rest of Widow Team, toward the huge storm cloud in the distance.

“That’s looking real bad,” Rayne muttered.

“Let’s hope it heads off in the opposite direction,” General Taylor said.

Rayne thought for a moment, as did General Taylor.

“General,” Rayne said, “this op will be quicker with a smaller group, and the odds still don’t look good. Everyone except Widow and Bravo Teams should get out of here. Stormrise needs a fighting force, even if we don’t make it.”

General Taylor sighed deeply. “You’re right. Damn it all. We’ll leave behind two vehicles, one for each team to exfil. Godspeed.”

Rayne turned to his men and Bravo Team. “Let’s go.”

They approached the Interior’s front doors. Dimitri hung in the back, fiddling with his revolver anxiously. One of Bravo Team’s men glared at him until he stopped.

Northfield stacked up against the Interior’s front doors along with Widow Team.

The doors were heavy wood and insulated the building from the gas. A few bullet holes marked their surface, and the neon gas seeped in silently. Everything about the bricks, about the windowsills and doors, seemed ordinary. It reminded him of some old schoolhouse. The ordinariness of it all, paired with the dread that the Interior inspired in the prisoners, was a contrast that he found distinctly unsettling.

He double-checked his weapon, loading a fresh magazine.

This is it, he thought, sucking in as deep of a breath as his gas mask would allow. We’re pulling back the curtain. We’re about to see what the Network’s been up to. Whatever the secret is, it’s enough to terrify slaves. It’s something even worse than the bondage they’ve been trapped in.

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It’s hard to imagine what could be worse. What am I gonna see, God? I can’t say I’ve had the most faith in humanity out of everyone I’ve met. But I’ve tried my best to have some. Please, whatever I see, don’t make me lose that faith.

I may need some of your positivity, Jess. You always had some to spare. You’re not gonna get stingy on me now, are you?

Rayne gave his three-second countdown, then tried to open the door. The handle moved, but the door didn’t budge.

Somebody on the other side had blocked it.

Rayne nodded to Samuel, and they all stepped back. Samuel loaded a large breaching charge onto the door. After another quick countdown, he blew it open.

A black cloud spawned from the blast. Toxic gas seeped into the opening and intermingled with the smoke, creating a weird Halloween-colored swirl of black and orange.

Guns ready, they plunged into the smoke and danger, scared less of bullets and more of what they might find.

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21 Stormrise passed through a contamination room. Remnants of chairs that had been jammed up against the door littered the floor. A bleak hallway greeted them on the other side, with white walls and a white tiled floor. Fluorescent ceiling lights beamed down on everything unmercifully. A few of them flickered rapidly. Northfield felt like some sort of bug heading for a night lamp that was dangerous for him.

Rooms upon rooms lined the hallway; the Stormrise soldiers opened each briefly without stopping their march.

With all the secrecy surrounding the Interior, nobody thought that the Network would put any of their secrets in a room so close to the front doors. Their inclination, so far, had proven correct. The rooms they passed were unassuming. They were administrative-type offices, for the most part, with desks and computers.

While there was the possibility that one of those computers carried the type of intel they were looking for, it would take Dimitri time to crack into one of them, and time was something they couldn’t easily spare. The same went for whatever files sat in the desks and cabinets they passed. They just didn’t have enough time to search everything, and they would gamble on what lay deeper in the facility.

Instead, they primarily searched for threats when opening each door. The last thing they wanted to do was pass by a room only for a skulking machine-gunner to open fire at their backsides.

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When they had traveled three-quarters of the way down the hallway, one of the doors in front of them suddenly burst open.

A man stepped out in a blur of motion, holding a glimmering silver object in his hand. Northfield realized subconsciously that the object was a pistol before his mind even said so.

He pulled the trigger, and the man recoiled against the door, sliding down it and slumping to the floor. The revolver spilled out of his unclenched hand.

Their would-be assailant wore a gas mask with a giant filter sticking out of the side, as opposed to one of the Death Corps’ flat faceplates. Similarly, he lacked the Death Corps’ combat armor, instead wearing civilian clothing with a chest rig overtop it.

He was a civilian rather than a hard-toothed soldier, although, in his final moments, he had certainly tried to be the latter.

His appearance solidified Stormrise’s conviction that their objective lay deeper in the facility. The civilian wasn’t concerned with self-preservation, clearly. He had tried to stop them from going deeper.

“Hope you rot in hell,” Leo muttered, stepping over the body.

They ran into no more trouble in the hallway, reaching its terminus. They were greeted by a pair of elevators, along with a stairwell to their left.

The elevators were out of order. The stairs were their only option.

Again, the handle would turn, but the door refused to budge.

Somebody had jammed it from the other side. It was another sign that they were headed in the right direction.

A breaching charge did the trick, and they pushed open the door.

Suddenly, bullets flew at them, and Stormrise ducked back out of the stairwell. The beat of the bullets was steady, about two per second. By the angle of the shots, they could tell that one shooter fired down from the next higher flight of stairs while the other shooter fired up at them from the lower flight of stairs.

The pace of shots told them that the shooters used revolvers; they only had six bullets per cylinder. The shooters weren’t staggering their shots, either, which meant they would run out of bullets at the same time.

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When the shooters ran dry, Stormrise rushed into the stairwell. The shooters wore the same bulky gas masks as the first shooter in the Interior, along with civilian clothing.

At the sight of the Stormrise soldiers, with their camouflage gear and assault weaponry, their attackers stepped back. One shrieked terribly in alarm, a sound that echoed off the stairwells.

Without their weapons ready and with only the paltry stair rungs for cover, Stormrise put them down quickly.

Their attackers had been untrained or at least not very experienced. Still, Northfield couldn’t help but anguish over the seconds they had cost Stormrise.

The stairwell presented two options: up or down. Stormrise didn’t have enough time to search both directions as one group.

Rayne considered this, and he said to the leader of Bravo Team, “I think our objective is downstairs, but I want to hedge that bet. Widow Team will head down, along with Dimitri and two of your men. The rest of your team will check upstairs.”

The leader of Bravo Team nodded in agreement, and he assigned two men to Rayne’s Team. Without further delay, Stormrise split up.

Widow Team and their extended company blitzed down the stairs, taking the stairs almost two at a time. To their chagrin, the stairs kept going down and down. Strangely, each floor they passed had no exit. The stairs continued to lead down.

Near the bottom, another Network civilian tried to surprise them, but he was eliminated quickly.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, each man breathing heavily. They all could have used a couple of seconds for a breather, but they couldn’t spare the time.

Someone tried to radio them, but all they caught was static.

A steady rumbling came from above them, but they couldn’t focus on that now.

Ahead of them lay a single heavyset door with no label of any kind. They tried the handle, but as expected at this point, it was jammed.

Samuel pulled out a breaching charge, and he said while setting it up, “This is our last charge. Hope we’re getting close.”

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He stepped back, and he detonated the charge. They rushed forward.

They entered a hallway, and prison cells lined both sides of it.

The walls of each cell were made of thick, transparent glass. They didn’t like what they saw inside.

Bloodstains marked the inside of most cells, with bullet holes alongside them. Prisoners slumped over inside, most in the farthest corner of the cells.

Network personnel had gone into each of the cells, one by one, and executed the prisoners. They had done so quickly and dirtily, spraying a hail of bullets and not caring which of them hit as long as one did. The prisoners had known that the guards were coming, listening to the chatter of gunfire and the screams of their neighbors, and they had tried to cower away, reaching for the farthest and darkest part of their cells.

It hadn’t been enough.

Northfield tightened his grip, feeling each of the cells and their dead occupants pulling on him like a magnet. Again, he wondered if each of these prisoners would be alive if Stormrise had not stormed Section 808.

“They don’t have shame. They don’t have morals. They don’t have damned anything,” Leo muttered.

“Focus on the mission,” Rayne replied. “We’ll make them pay by getting the intel and then getting out of here alive. Remember that.”

Samuel exclaimed, “Look at all this. There ain’t a way of making them pay. Not fully, at least.”

“Well, I’m gonna give it the old college try,” Leo responded.

The sentiment was echoed by a few of the men in Bravo Team.

Dimitri huddled as close to the middle of the pack as possible, getting as far away from the bodies as he could.

Ahead, another featureless door awaited. Northfield felt like they were delving into an onion, one rotten at its core. Every layer they pulled away seemed to intensify the stink.

This place was already unbearable. Northfield fought back the instinct to pivot and sprint out of this place as fast as his legs could carry him. He couldn’t avoid the bodies, which seemed to 246

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swarm him more and more as he pressed down the hallway. He needed to keep going. He owed them that, at least.

A haze of smoke hung lazily in the air. The smoke thickened at the far end of the hallway. Something was burning. Whatever it was sat on the other side of the door.

The door was locked. One of the Bravo Team men leveled a shotgun at the handle, blasting a hole through it. Rayne tried to push the door open but came up against another barricade. They didn’t have another breaching charge.

Instead, Rayne unpinned a grenade and tossed it into the opening. They all stepped back and to the sides as the resulting explosion blew the door off its hinges and destroyed whatever blockage was stopping them.

Rayne extended the rifle toward the opening but didn’t expose his body. He didn’t advance through the doorway, however.

His caution was warranted. The steady boom of shotgun bursts, as well as the chatter of submachine guns and assault rifles, zipped through the opening. The use of military-grade submachine guns and assault rifles over the six-shooters they had encountered scientists using up until this point signified that the opposition they faced was composed of Death Corps soldiers.

Rayne nodded to Andy, who unpinned a flashbang grenade and tossed it through the doorway. He aimed for the approximate source of the gunshots.

Stormrise waited for the flash and loud burst before advancing. They stepped over the debris of chairs and a desk, which had been pressed against the door.

They found themselves in a plain hallway, which was both wide and long. There were only a few doors on either side. The smoke thickened, filling the hallway and reducing visibility. The end of the hallway could still be seen, albeit through a black haze.

A big door stood at the end. Smoke seeped out from under a far door on the left of the hall. Northfield deemed it the source of the intensifying cloud.

The hallway was empty, save for a handful of overturned desks and tables at its midway point. They formed a makeshift barricade, one that served the Death Corps for what looked to be their last stand.

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Only one Death Corps soldier was exposed behind the barricade; when the rest had been stunned by the flashbang, they had enough sense to duck. The soldier held his head, swaying back and forth.

Leo put a bullet in him. Stormrise advanced quickly before the other four Death Corps soldiers could recover and put up a fight. They eliminated the four soldiers, and the hallway was soon quiet.

Northfield glanced at the barricade, and he said, “They placed the barricade here for a reason. I think whatever they’re protecting has gotta be through the doors ahead.”

There were three doors ahead: the smoky one to the left, the big door at the end of the hallway, and a door to the right.

Rayne checked his watch, and he cursed. “We split up.”

Rayne, Leo, and Northfield would take the left, smoky door.

Andy and Samuel would take the hallway door. Bravo Team’s men would take the rightmost door.

Rayne said to Dimitri, “Stay here. Wait for us to get you. We could need your help behind any of these doors, depending on what we find.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, not sounding too disappointed by the fact that he wouldn’t have to step into potential danger before the others scoped the rooms out first.

Rayne, Leo, and Northfield headed for the smoky door. They stacked up on the adjacent walls, and Rayne tried the handle.

The door was locked, which surprised nobody at this point. He blasted away the lock with his rifle and kicked the door open.

Nothing blocked the door this time; it seemed that whoever was inside hoped that the soldiers would have protected them.

The room’s floor had two levels. The higher level was a foot taller, arranged in a semicircle in the back of the room. The lower level surrounded it. Rows of shelves, around seven feet tall apiece, were arranged on the lower level. The higher level had desks and computers and maybe more. The black smoke was thick, and Northfield couldn’t see the far end of the room.

The source—rather the sources—of the smoke was no mystery. Smoke plumed from the shelves and from the desks on the higher level.

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The room was filled with people, at least fifteen of them. They were scientists, judging by their white lab coats. They scurried around, desperately fanning the flames where they could and destroying whatever couldn’t burn. Some of the scientists on the top level had baseball bats, and they were taking swings at the smoldering remains of desktop computers.

Rayne fired his rifle into the air.

“Stop,” he commanded. “Stop it right now. This is done, you hear me? Don’t move a muscle if you want to live.”

There was a moment of hesitation as the scientists figured out what to do.

Don’t you do it, dammit, Northfield thought. Don’t you do it.

The scientists reached to their backs. They didn’t give another warning.

They eliminated the closest three scientists, who had no cover to speak of. The remaining scientists ducked behind what they could find.

They didn’t stand a chance, not the lot of them. Not against trained, battle-hardened men with assault rifles. All the scientists could accomplish was wasting time.

Which, likely, was all they wanted to do anyway.

Once the battle was done, Northfield regarded the bodies around him with disgust. Something about them being dressed in civilian gear as opposed to Death Corps battle armor made him feel dirty.

Get ahold of yourself, Northfield. These people were doing who knows what to innocent people. They fired at you, too. They’re probably less innocent than the Death Corps we’ve fought.

Come on, man. Is a change of clothing all it takes for you to get queasy? Maybe the Network should dress their soldiers as tax accountants and librarians, and you’d quiver at the sight.

He pressed his lips together.

This is dirty business. No getting around that. I can’t wait until the day we all put our guns down.

But noncombatants picking up guns and fighting us to the last makes that day feel a while away, God. An awful while away.

Always queasy. Yet still always pulling the trigger. I guess that’s me.

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Leo gazed at the burning shelves and smashed debris throughout the room. “They went to town on this place.”

“This is a big room,” Rayne said. “And evidently, there was important stuff in here. There’s got to be something left we can use. Start searching. I’m going to fetch Dimitri.”

Northfield said to Leo, “I’ll take the lower level, see if there’s anything left on the shelves.”

Leo said, “I’ll check the top level, then. I’ll see if there’s anything left in those desks. If we’re lucky, maybe there’s even a computer still standing.”

Northfield eyed a fire extinguisher in an emergency box on the wall. He retrieved it, then headed for the shelves that looked the least smoky, spraying the remaining fires.

“Hey, there’s a giant TV on the back wall!” Leo said. “It’s on…

I see some big friggin’ room. And hey, there’s Red and Skullbeard.

This must be a live feed.”

Northfield didn’t know what to make of Leo’s observations, so he focused on the shelves. There had been boxes of files on the first shelf he looked at, but their contents were burned far past usefulness.

“Hey!” Leo shouted. “One of these guys is still alive!”

“You need help?” Northfield shouted. He didn’t want to stop searching the shelves unless he had to.

“No,” Leo said. “He ain’t a problem. Wanted to kill himself, but he didn’t have the stones, did he?”

“Don’t hurt me,” the man said in a quavering voice.

“Yeah,” Leo said. “We’ll see about that.”

Dimitri and Rayne reentered the room. Leo told them about the scientist he had found. Northfield continued searching the shelves, but he became less and less hopeful as his hands sifted through the ash.

“It’s no use,” the scientist said. “We finished destroying everything right before you arrived. The files were burned. All the data from the computers was deleted. The computers were then smashed and burned for good measure.”

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“You heard him,” Rayne said. “Viking, you too!”

Northfield raced up with the fire extinguisher, and he put out the flames on the computer.

“What the hell’s the point?” Leo cried. “You heard him.

Everything’s been deleted.”

“Yeah, but I bet the data is still there,” Dimitri said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Leo asked.

Dimitri didn’t answer. Instead, he asked the scientist, “These computers got hard drives?”

Reluctantly, the scientist nodded.

“Good,” Dimitri said. Then, to the others, “Come on, let’s open the desktops and see if any of the hard drives can be salvaged.”

“Why?” Leo reiterated as they started opening up the computers.

“Because of how computer memory works,” Dimitri said.

“Do you remember how long it would take to download data back when we all used to have computers? But when you deleted that same data, it would take, like, a second?”

“Yeah.”

Dimitri said, “It’s because the computer isn’t actually removing that data from your hard drive. It’s still there. The computer has just designated that the space of memory can be used for something else. So the next time you download something, it’ll overwrite the data that used to be there.”

“I still don’t get it,” Leo said. “‘Space of memory’?”

Dimitri sighed. “Look, does it matter all that much? Point is, the data is still on the drive. Hitting the delete button isn’t enough. The data actually has to be overwritten by something.”

“Then why didn’t they just do that?” Leo asked.

“Because they didn’t have the time. Don’t you see?” Dimitri said. “The drives have gigs and gigs of data on them. Overwriting that data takes minutes. Time these scientists didn’t know if they had.” He eyed the scientist. “They probably figured it was quicker to just hit delete and try to smash and burn the damned things, then hope that nobody would know what I just told you.”

Leo asked the scientists, “Is that true?”

The scientist didn’t respond, but his silence spoke volumes.

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The first desktop that Northfield broke open was a failure; the hard drive was charred from the fire that had burned the computer.

He sought a new desktop. When he got his hands on a new one, lightly burned but smashed pretty well with a baseball bat, he worked at breaking it open. He glanced at the giant TV on the back wall, the one Leo had mentioned earlier.

True to Leo’s word, he saw Andy and Samuel searching a giant circular room. “Room” really wasn’t the right word for it. It had a tall ceiling, with Roman pillars rising to meet it. It looked colosseum-like.

Brown bloodstains, Lord knew how old, marked the floor.

“What went on here?” Northfield asked the scientist.

The scientist grew even more withdrawn, pulling his chin to his chest as if he could turtle away from his enemies.

“Answer the question,” Leo said. “Don’t make him ask twice.”

The scientist mumbled something inaudible.

“Speak up,” Leo growled.

“Dead anyway. I’m dead,” he muttered louder. There was a moment of active hesitation in him. A coiled spring, ready for action.

Northfield saw it. “Hey!” he shouted as the scientist lunged for Rayne.

Rayne was too quick for him. He batted the scientist away with the butt of his rifle, sending him stumbling to the floor.

Rayne leveled his rifle at the scientist. “Don’t move another muscle. You hear me?”

The scientist narrowed his eyes, then charged at Rayne.

Rayne could have pulled the trigger, ten times even, but he didn’t. The scientist had called Rayne’s bluff. As seemingly the only living person in this place, the scientist had intel that could prove invaluable.

Rayne tried to bat the scientist off him, but the desperate man held on. Rayne batted him down again, shouting for him to get off. The others stopped what they were doing and rushed over to help.

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The scientist, on the ground at Rayne’s feet, eyed the pistol in Rayne’s holster. Moving with the speed of a man that had absolutely nothing to lose, he snatched the pistol and stuffed it under his own jaw.

“No!” Northfield yelled as the scientist pulled the trigger and blew his brains out.

“Oh my god,” Dimitri said, turning away. The sight threatened to make him retch.

The others regarded the limp body. Rayne cursed and said, “What the hell am I? An amateur? How the hell did I let that happen?”

“Hard when you can’t just put him down,” Leo said.

Some of the scientist’s blood got onto Northfield’s gas mask, and he wiped it off. “We gotta keep going, right? We gotta keep going.”

Rayne met his eyes for a moment before nodding. They returned to the desktops.

Leo held up a hard drive that appeared untouched despite the burnt and battered desktop that housed it. “How’s this?”

Dimitri ran over and studied it. “Yeah, yeah. That should be good.”

“What about this one?” Northfield said. He held up another hard drive, which had a small dent on its husk but otherwise appeared intact.

Dimitri said, “Looks like it could be good, too. Data could be corrupted, but hard to tell just from looking at it.”

“Good, we’ve got a backup, then. We need to go,” Rayne said.

Dimitri stuffed the hard drives into his small backpack. Rayne ordered Northfield and Leo to fetch the others since their radios didn’t work this far underground.

They reconvened in the hallway, and they wasted no time in racing back to the stairs.

While they hiked up the stairs, Rayne asked the others, “What did you find?”

Samuel said, “We went into this big… colosseum thing, man.

It was crazy.”

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“We saw you,” Leo said. “There were cameras in the colosseum.”

“What did you come across?” Rayne said.

“Weird stuff,” Andy said. “There was a supply closet in the back. Locked up real tight, but we blasted through it. There were weapons, but, like, old ones. Halberds, pikes, falchions, that sort of thing. Real bizarre. But no evidence. But nothing we could bring back with us that means anything.”

“What the hell did these nuts have the prisoners doing?

Fighting to the death?” Leo exclaimed.

Nobody answered. Nobody wanted to even speculate right now.

One of the men from Bravo Team spoke up about his findings. “We came across some lockers. Looked like personal possessions from the scientists. We broke into them, hoping to find something useful, but nothing came up. What about you?”

Rayne explained what they had found, and he mentioned the hard drives they had taken with them.

“At least it’s something,” the man from Bravo Team said. “At least it’s something.”

As they continued up the stairs, two of the Bravo Team men who had searched the upstairs floor ran down and met them.

“We finished our search,” one of them said. “We split up at the stairwell entrance on the main floor. The two of us came down to see if you guys needed help. The others are watching the entrance, making sure nobody comes down and sandwiches us.”

“We’re finished with the basement,” Rayne said. “Let’s get back up there.”

The Bravo Team men ran up the stairs with them.

“What did you find up there?” Rayne asked.

“Eggheads with revolvers,” one of them said. “Trying to burn everything they could. They didn’t get through it all, though.

They had lots of computers and desks and file cabinets. But all we found was above-board stuff. If, you know, you can call running a slave camp above-board. But they were mostly supply invoices between them and the New Medea Network, inventory counts of both personnel and materials, that sort of stuff. One sector 254

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was just food inventory. Mainly what they were gonna serve the slaves and Network workers.”

“There had to be something useful,” Rayne said. “This recycled metal has to be going somewhere. Did you find out where?”

“We found delivery manifests. But we couldn’t get much from them because the delivery addresses were all numbers. IDs, you know. Not so useful unless you know what the ID corresponds to. But don’t worry; we stuffed a whole lot of stuff into our packs.

Maybe the smarter heads among us can piece together something useful out of it.”

He eyed Dimitri. Dimitri said, “Me and Softball will try our best.”

“What did you guys find down there?” the Bravo Team man asked.

A sullenness pervaded the stairwell.

Leo said, “We don’t quite know yet. It ain’t for the lighthearted, I can tell you that. Let’s just get the hell out of here. We’re already running late.”

“You’re right about that,” Rayne said. “On the double, people.”

As they neared the stairwell entrance, their radios collectively crackled to life. On the shared comms channel, they could hear the leader of Bravo Team updating General Taylor and Stormrise headquarters on their situation.

Rayne radioed, “This is Widow Team, along with the other half of Bravo Team. We’re two flights of stairs from the ground floor. We found some stuff down there. Not sure if it’ll pan out.”

“You need to get out of there,” General Taylor said. “You’re way over time.”

“What’s our best way out?” Rayne said.

“Depends on if reinforcements are there yet,” Softball said.

“If not, your cars by the entrance seem just fine. If they are, well, we’ll improvise.”

Rayne’s party met with the remainder of Bravo Team at the stairwell entrance, and they raced to the Interior’s exit.

Through the windows, an intense wall of rain rendered everything farther than thirty or so yards unseeable. The sound of the rain was louder than the constant rumbling of thunder.

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Above it all, though, howled a strange sound that Northfield couldn’t place. It sounded sort of like a train screeching on the tracks and barreling in their direction.

Just barely, too, they could hear a rhythmic pair of thudding noises. They originated from two stationary helicopters; Northfield recognized the sound of one when he heard it. The helicopters had to be really close for their sounds to pierce through the cacophony of the weather.

“Look,” he said, pointing through the window.

Through the rain, just barely, silhouettes could be made out.

Maintaining crouched positions, they approached the Interior.

“Bad news,” he said, both to those around him and through his radio. “The bad guys are here.”

Rayne said, “Softball, what’s our Plan B?” “Find a way out back,” she said. “You take that, and you run for the woods. The rainstorm should give you a chance against their helicopters. There’s a supply warehouse a couple of miles south. Should be a good place to hide, and fortify if you have to, until we can get someone out to get you.”

“You heard her,” Rayne said. “Everybody make for the exit.”

Stormrise rushed past the stairway entrance, searching for a way out. There was no simple set of exit doors that led out back. The building seemed to be made after the gas bombs fell.

Minimizing entrances into a building—and, consequently, ways for the gas to get in—was a bigger concern than fires and the like.

They found a window, its seals heavy to keep out the gas.

The glass itself was easy enough to break with the butt of a rifle, however. They smashed the window. Alarms would have started ringing had they not already started going off when bullets first pierced the Interior.

They would have to clamber out of the windows one at a time. Northfield was second, following Rayne.

When Rayne landed, he looked to his left and gasped, taking a step back. Northfield was taken aback, as Rayne seldom lost his composure.

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He climbed out and landed on his feet. He immediately looked left, following Rayne’s gaze.

His heart grew heavy in his chest like a cinder block. Any sense of weight vanished from his legs.

God, he thought. My god.

257

22 The wind swirled violently, forming a funnel that descended from the heavens and clashed with the earth in an eruption of dirt and debris.

It was a tornado.

The tornado sucked up the toxic gas in its spinning frenzy.

The neon orange-yellow gas swirled around and around, pulsing like a heartbeat. The sight of a neon orange-yellow tornado was so ghastly, so otherworldly, that Northfield could scarcely believe his eyes.

Trees were torn from their roots and were promptly swallowed by the giant mass. The funnel was a monument of destruction, gnashing against the earth with hell’s fury and then some.

Lightning lashed the sky around it, and the rain was so intense that it killed visibility. If the tornado hadn’t been a glowing neon behemoth, it, too, would not have even been visible.

Worse, the very worst part of it all, the tornado was heading in their direction. The thing barreled through the forest on its way to their rear. As it stood, the violent calamity was a couple of miles away.

That noise of a train roaring by on squeaky rails grew louder.

Rayne put up a hand, signaling for the men still inside the Interior not to bother coming out.

“We can’t go that way,” he said.

Nobody disagreed. Nobody wanted to charge head-on into a tornado.

Northfield couldn’t stop staring at the whirlwind. He said, “We could go back down underground, in the Interior. That’s gotta be the safest place for miles.”

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Rayne thought about it. Then he said, “We can’t afford to go down there. Only the helicopter reinforcements are here. If we wait, then I bet ground troops will show up. We’ll be trapped in that damned place.”

“Sounds like there’s only one option, then,” Rayne said. “We fight through. Make for our vehicles and get out of Dodge.”

He didn’t wait for any confirmation; that tornado hastened them all. Northfield and Rayne climbed back through the window as Rayne updated Stormrise about the situation through his radio.

Rayne gathered with Dimitri and the fighting men. He said, “The tornado will be on us in a couple of minutes if we’re lucky.

This is gonna be a sprint, you hear me? Whatever happens, keep moving. Even as the bullets are coming, you’ve gotta keep moving. Let’s go.”

They followed his lead. Northfield noticed the nervousness in Dimitri, the way he kept twitching and fumbling with the pistol in his holster.

Northfield reached out and lightly grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Just stay behind me, okay? Follow my back like it’s a life raft.

I’m getting you out of here, Dimitri. I am.” He projected absolute confidence in his voice, although that was the very last thing he was feeling.

He couldn’t get that twister out of his mind, not with those train noises rumbling in the air.

God… he started to think, but the very thought trailed off. He couldn’t even think of God right now; it was all just too much.

One foot in front of the other, Northfield. If you die today, well, you can’t say it wasn’t your time. Not when the sky comes down and swallows you up.

Maybe this is it, Jess. Maybe I’ll hold your hand again come sundown.

Maybe the tornado was your idea. My little cab ride to heaven.

Something about the absurdity of comparing that monstrosity to a cab made him laugh a little inside. But it felt a bit more like a sob.

259

The Northfield Saga: Storm Warning

They reached the front doors of the Interior, and they peeked out of the windows. Through the curtain of rain, they could make out the silhouettes of their enemies. Death Corps soldiers had taken positions within the adjacent gray buildings, the same ones that Stormrise had attacked the Interior from earlier.

Stormrise quickly designated enemies holed up in the neighboring gray buildings for each man to attack.

Without further delay, Rayne kicked open the doors, and the men of Stormrise charged out. They fanned out immediately; clustering would have made them one big easy target.

Northfield shot at his target, who had taken a position in the second story of the rightmost gray building. He tapped the trigger steadily, firing shots at the man as he ran across the Interior’s front yard, which felt far too big at the moment.

The rain was so thick that all he could see of his enemy was the muzzle flashes of his gun.

Dimitri stayed at Northfield’s heels, crouching low and bobbing from side to side with every bullet that came near.

Nothing hit, though. The visibility served as an impediment to everyone.

Northfield’s eye caught a light blue glimmer on one of the neighboring rooftops. His stomach somehow managed to drop even lower.

He recognized the blue glimmer, which stretched a couple of feet in length. They marked the vibrating plates on the arm of a RAID soldier.

A RAID soldier was just about the last thing he wanted to see. Well, except maybe an exo soldier. Then again, that was a real tough choice.

Then he spotted another blue glimmer on the neighboring roof. Another RAID soldier. He cursed silently. The RAID soldiers vanished in a blur, repositioning themselves for better kill shots on Stormrise.

“RAID soldiers,” he yelled, attempting to alert the others.

He couldn’t tell if they had heard him; the train-like noise of the tornado was so loud now that he could barely hear himself think.

Maybe one of his allies had already screamed the same warning, and it had been swallowed up by the winds.

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The wind continued picking up speed, buffeting him intensely from all sides. Anything smaller than a fist was getting picked up off the ground and tossed about. The larger items landed back on the ground, tumbling before being launched back into the air.

The smaller motes of dirt and dust remained airborne, whirling about and growing into a dense cloud.

Terror crawled into his throat. The plastic visor of his gas mask seemed so fragile now. One stray bit of debris hitting his mask wrong and he could kiss his life goodbye.

He grabbed Dimitri’s wrist and put it on his shoulder. He hoped the message was clear enough: Hold on. He didn’t want to lose Dimitri in this madness. Northfield said he’d protect him, and he intended to.

But he was just a man. How could he hope to stand against the very sky?

The cloud of debris killed visibility; he could hardly see the end of his rifle. Bullets flew in his general direction, but the enemy soldiers were having an equally hard time seeing. The standard fare of soldiers—the ones with traditional weaponry and armor, at least—could only afford to blindly fire their weapons over whatever cover they had chosen to seek refuge behind.

The RAID soldiers didn’t have the same limitations. Instead of shooting blindly into the wind like their cohorts, they opted for a more aggressive tactic.

A RAID soldier emerged from the clouds in a burst of speed, his crackling blue shield raised and covering his body. The shield slammed into Northfield. Electricity coursed through his body, and his muscles cramped up.

He tumbled backward before collapsing. He couldn’t bring himself back to his feet; his muscles wouldn’t obey him. He gritted his teeth in desperation. He had experienced paralysis before; it would pass enough in a few moments for him to move again.

But a few moments were all the RAID soldier needed. He stood over Northfield and moved his shield just enough to expose the barrel of his pistol. The RAID soldier would end it quickly, clinically, before moving on to his next target.

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Northfield’s eyes darted back and forth, but he couldn’t see any of his allies through the whirling cloud around them. He hoped Dimitri had kept running, just kept running. He didn’t want Dimitri to be the RAID soldier’s next target.

The sharp crack of a gunshot followed. Northfield squeezed his eyes shut. He felt an impact, but it wasn’t a bullet piercing his cranium. He didn’t think he would even feel that, come to think of it.

Instead, the RAID soldier’s body had fallen on top of him.

There was a wound in the back of his head, and his blood was spilling onto Northfield. He didn’t care, though, because he was alive.

Dimitri stood behind the RAID soldier, gun raised. The smoke from the barrel was quickly swept up by the intense wind.

He stood there, just for a moment, before remembering he had to move.

He knelt by Northfield and pushed the RAID soldier off of him.

“Thank you,” Northfield said as Dimitri helped him to his feet.

“What?” Dimitri screamed. Even yelling at the top of his lungs, he was difficult to hear.

So instead of trying to clarify, Northfield pointed forward.

The message was simple: they had to keep moving.

After they had only taken a couple of steps, a shard of debris flew through the air, careening into Northfield’s mask, just below his left eye. Spiderweb splinters spread across his mask’s visor. He felt a sharp sting; the debris had cut his cheek.

The pain caused him to react instantly; if the debris had cut his face, that meant it had breached his gas mask. Blind panic threatened to seize him as he pressed his left hand hard against the breach in his mask. The breach was dime-sized; he could seal it entirely with his palm.

Still, he held his breath. It was impossible to assess how much gas had seeped in. There was a small threshold of the gas that humans could inhale without damage. After that threshold, the gas would activate inside his lungs, turning them into two piles 262

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of slush. It took about one deep breath outside, where the gas was densest, to do the trick.

But he had to breathe. There was no other option. Reluctantly, he sucked in air and waited. He felt a tingling in his lungs but nothing further. He took another breath, to no ill effect. With relief, he realized that he had blocked the breach in time. The tingling in his lungs was probably his mind playing tricks on him.

He had to keep his hand on the breach, though. If he pulled it away for even a little bit, the gas would seep back in, and he could kiss his life goodbye. He slung his rifle over his back; it would prove useless with one usable hand. He drew his pistol.

He and Dimitri continued forward into the cloud, hoping they were going in the right direction. He thought so, but the dense cloud was so thick that it was anyone’s guess.

Behind them, through the whirling black cloud, the neon gas swirled around the tornado’s body. That was enough of a compass for Northfield. Wherever they were headed, it had to be as far away from that thing as possible.

They pushed forward, turning the corner of the leftmost gray building. The main road to the gate, and their vehicles, lay ahead. The black silhouette of one of the transport helicopters was barely visible, hovering a couple of stories high. Northfield was amazed the thing was still airborne. He had counted two helicopters earlier; the other pilot might have been smarter and grounded his aircraft.

Closer yet, a line of Death Corps soldiers materialized out of the smoke. He counted at least five of them standing firm along the road to impede their progress, but more could be obscured.

Bad news. If they could see the soldiers, that meant the soldiers could now see them.

Northfield tensed just as he saw their muzzles flash. Guns on the helicopter flashed as well, ripping up the ground around them with high-caliber rounds. As the bullets whizzed by, Northfield ducked low and pushed Dimitri down, too, slinking back behind the gray building.

With his hand still pressed against his cracked visor, he stared at his pistol dejectedly. How was he gonna take these guys out single-handedly?

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Behind them, silhouettes emerged from the cloud. Northfield gripped his pistol tightly, and he started to raise it before he recognized the friendly forms of Rayne, Leo, and Andy. However, neither Samuel nor any members of Bravo Team were in sight.

The present members of Widow Team stacked up against the gray building alongside Northfield and Dimitri. Northfield communicated the presence of the Death Corps with hand gestures; the approaching whirlwind roared too loudly now for verbal communication.

Before the others could react, Northfield spotted something out of the corner of his eye: a black blur, something slightly smaller than the size of a man, approaching at a blazing speed.

“Down!” he screamed, pointing downward. Widow Team reacted quickly, dropping to their stomachs. Dimitri was slower to react; Northfield shoved him down with his free hand.

The thing flew above their heads at an angle. Its corner hit the gray building and ricocheted off, tumbling on the ground before getting picked back up. The object was cylindrical in shape; it looked like some sort of large trash can.

They exchanged glances before Rayne pointed emphatically in the direction of the metal-recycling plant. From that gesture, Northfield could glean Rayne’s thought process because it was one that he shared.

If the wind was strong enough to pick up big trash cans, men, too, would be lifted off the ground in short order. The odds were slim that they could push through the Death Corps, get to their vehicles, and storm out of the gates with enough speed to beat the tornado.

The safest place to be was the Interior, deep underground, but the storm was too far along for them to go back. The last thing they wanted to risk was running in the direction of the approaching tornado.

That left the recycling plant as the next best option. With all of the heavy machinery nailed to the ground, it was their best chance at survival. As much as they didn’t want to wait for the storm to pass, they had few options.

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The recycling plant was horizontal to their position. It was across the main road rather than down it. They had to cross the open road and face fire from their waiting enemies, but right now, that didn’t seem like the worst thing.

They got to their feet, and without further delay, they darted toward the recycling plant. Their enemies opened fire again, a mix of small-arms fire and the high-caliber chut-chut-chut from the helicopter’s weapons. The road felt impossibly wide; the facility seemed like it was miles away.

While running, Northfield aimed his pistol to the side and fired rounds at his enemies. He spent his entire magazine with little effect. He kept Dimitri on the far side of the action so his own body would take a bullet before Dimitri’s.

When he reached halfway across the road, something hot sliced across his right calf, and he stumbled to his knees. He gritted his teeth and was thankful that his hand didn’t slip from his visor.

It was just a flesh wound. He had been shot enough times to tell immediately. Still, it hurt like hell.

He felt a hand grab him by the collar roughly and tug him to his feet. His rescuer was Leo, who was firing rounds at their enemies as he shoved Northfield and Dimitri forward.

Northfield ran on with a slight limp; every impact on his foot sent a spike of pain up his leg. He had dealt with worse, though.

The helicopter stopped firing. The black silhouette in the sky then did something strange. It seemed to twist unnaturally. Then it started spiraling. The ground troops stopped firing, turning toward the silhouette and gesturing. Then they started diving for the ground.

Northfield’s eyes widened.

The helicopter’s coming down, he realized, hardly believing it.

The situation first struck him as a godsend, but then he was filled with horror. The helicopter was hurtling straight toward him.

The rotors spiraled in the air, in a very wrong way, with their center pointing toward the sky, then toward the ground, then back toward the sky.

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Northfield limp-ran as fast as he could, pushing Dimitri ahead. Leo tried to help, but Northfield shoved him forward, too.

He wouldn’t slow them down.

The hurtling, screeching black mass was even louder than the tornado. Northfield stumbled forward, then fell to his stomach, shielding his head with his free hand. It was a futile effort, the non-panicking part of his brain realized dimly. His flimsy flesh would be torn up by those helicopter blades if they even thought about touching him.

Still, he tried to get low, low, low, trying to make himself one with the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he could witness the falling giant.

The helicopter crashed into the earth somewhere between where the Death Corps were firing and where Widow Team was running.

The rotor blades spun into the earth, being sheared off as they impacted the ground. The helicopter tumbled, lurching back into the air and heading straight for Northfield. He couldn’t bear to look anymore. He pointed his head toward the ground and pressed himself into it.

He felt a gust over his back. Metal creaked and groaned; the helicopter’s rotor mass still spun furiously, despite no rotor blades being attached. The great mass of the helicopter loomed inches from the nape of his neck.

The helicopter was over him, only for a breath, but it felt like it had lasted the better part of an eternity. The wreckage tumbled on, parts of it breaking off with each impact, with the smaller shards getting picked up by the whirlwind.

He glanced about. He had been the only one in the helicopter’s path. Andy was behind him. He helped Northfield to his feet, and they ran again to catch up with their teammates ahead.

The Death Corps soldiers down the road had recovered from the helicopter’s crash, and they resumed firing at Stormrise.

The shooting was slightly more subdued, however. Northfield suspected that they shared the same fears about the storm. They all needed to find cover soon.

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Then the shooting stopped abruptly. From what he could see through the fog, the Death Corps soldiers had started moving in the same direction that Widow Team was going. They were headed to the recycling plant, too. That confirmed Northfield’s suspicions that the Death Corps were seeking cover from the storm.

At least most of them were.

Andy nudged Northfield in the shoulder and pointed behind them. Two RAID soldiers lumbered out of the swirling masses of black.

The RAID soldiers’ armor could withstand the immense wind speeds, and their high-powered legs allowed them to move quickly. They were coming from the direction of the Interior; these guys had likely been contending with Bravo Team when Stormrise had separated.

Now the RAID soldiers were coming for them. That meant one of two possibilities. One, the RAID soldiers had either killed off all of Bravo Team and were making for their new targets.

Or two, the RAID soldiers had lost Bravo Team in the storm, decided their enemy was either dead or close to it, and left the more intense part of the storm to chase a new quarry. Northfield didn’t know which was the case. He hoped for the latter, but he couldn’t mull on it. He didn’t like being the new quarry, not at all.

He forgot that his pistol was empty. He went through the awkward task of reloading it one-handed.

The RAID soldiers caught sight of them and picked up their speed. The wind did seem to slow them down. They rushed forward faster than any man but slower than the eye-defying blurs that normally defined their movement.

Stormrise’s troops reached the recycling plant, but they still had a ways to go. They were at the facility’s back corner; the front doors were the only way into and out of the facility.

Unfortunately, their enemies that were seeking cover were nearer to the front doors.

Still, the RAID soldiers approached from their rear. The men of Stormrise lowered their heads and forged a path toward the recycling plant’s entrance.

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They didn’t face resistance from the Death Corps soldiers heading for the facility; it appeared that they had decided to head into the facility rather than try to defend it from the outside and prevent Stormrise from entering. It was a smart decision. That way, the Death Corps could get protection from the storm by the facility’s heavy machinery and merely stop Stormrise’s men when they tried to enter.

Widow Team pressed through the front doors, entering the decontamination room, and they stacked up against the doors leading into the recycling plant. They knew that a fight awaited them. With the RAID soldiers approaching, as well as the storm, they had to move quickly—and lethally. Otherwise, they risked being sandwiched between the forces inside the facility and the threats outside. Rayne plucked the last smoke grenade from his belt.

Without further ado, they kicked in the doors. Rayne tossed the smoke grenade, and jet-black smoke plumed. Gunfire punctured the swirling smoke; their enemies were ready.

But Stormrise had to move. They lowered their heads and plunged themselves into the darkness.

Northfield kept his hand pressed firmly against the side of his mask, crouch-walking as smoothly as his wounded leg would allow. He swiveled his pistol back and forth, surveying the dark cloud, feeling bullets fly just over his head. Dimitri followed, aiming backward, watching for the RAID soldiers’ arrival.

Big structures loomed ahead, silhouettes among the smoke.

They were the big collection bins for metal brought to the facility.

Northfield suspected soldiers were hiding behind them. He kept his pistol at the ready.

They crept ahead. Through the smoke, Northfield saw a silhouette peeking around one of the big bins. The Death Corps soldier was firing into the cloud.

The soldier saw them now, too, through the smoke. He adjusted his aim slightly lower, slightly more right, picking out the center mass of the silhouetted blob that Northfield and Dimitri formed.

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Northfield dumped rounds at him. With his one usable arm and his wounded leg, which was starting to make him feel a bit woozy, he wasn’t exactly feeling the most accurate.

His shots missed—at least he thought so—but they were close enough that the soldier ducked behind the big container.

Dimitri nudged him hard, and he pointed. Northfield followed his finger. Another soldier, behind a bin to their left, had spotted them. He had an open shot at Northfield and Dimitri.

Northfield fired his pistol first. Again, he missed, but he caused the soldier to flinch. Northfield darted toward the collection bin that the first soldier had hidden behind, and he pressed himself against the opposite side. Dimitri did the same.

Behind the cover of the collection bin, neither of the soldiers had an angle on them. Not right now, at least, but he was sure that they would change that.

He glanced at Dimitri, checking to make sure he was unhurt.

Earlier, Dimitri should have taken the shot at the Death Corps soldier instead of pointing and telling Northfield to. It would have been faster. But he wasn’t going to criticize the man’s battle decisions. Not now.

He couldn’t see the other Stormrise men, not through the smoke. Evidently, they had gone another way, the incoming gunfire forming a wedge between them.

Dimitri nudged him again, pointing toward the front doors.

Northfield seethed in tired frustration. The RAID soldiers had arrived through the front doors and were hunting them. He could make out their glowing arms, just barely, through the smoke.

The exact situation that they had wanted to prevent had happened; they were now sandwiched between the RAID soldiers and the normal soldiers. The only thing that would have been worse was the tornado swallowing them up. And Northfield couldn’t count that possibility out, either, as the sky’s deafening roar reminded him.

Northfield checked the underside of the bin that he and Dimitri leaned against; it was too narrow for them to crawl through. Scratch that idea.

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He shuffled to the other side of the bin, seeing if there was a safer passage around the corner. No dice, he thought, scowling.

There were even more soldiers firing behind the collection bins; they were closer to the center of the facility.

Contending with the RAID soldier wasn’t a route he wanted to take. Not injured, not with one hand. Only one route remained viable. They needed to contend with the soldiers that had been firing at them. They needed to push through.

A nasty groan emanated from the rooftop. The storm put a great strain on it, and at any moment, Northfield expected pieces to start coming off. When he and Dimitri made it past the soldiers, they needed to find some sort of shelter, fast.

Northfield couldn’t do this himself, though. He nudged Dimitri, and he pointed. His message was clear: You take the close one. Dimitri nodded tentatively. It was apparent that the idea of participating in a battle unnerved him. Still, he had rescued Northfield from the RAID soldier. He could do this.

Northfield started to move, and Dimitri followed. He hadn’t had a chance to reload; his pistol had twelve shots left, by his count. He wondered if Dimitri had reloaded his revolver after shooting the RAID soldier. It was too late now; Dimitri would just have to make do with whatever ammo he had.

The RAID soldiers split up. One started skulking toward Northfield and Dimitri. A moment later, his submachine gun rose, and he started firing. The other RAID soldier headed in the opposite direction, presumably going after the other members of Widow Team. Northfield couldn’t worry about them now.

Northfield fired four rounds at the RAID soldier; the soldier was fully exposed. The RAID soldier vanished in a blue blur.

Northfield cursed. Now that the RAID soldier was out of the storm’s intense winds, he could once again move at peak speeds.

Dimitri hugged the corner and pivoted around it, aiming at the soldier at the opposite end of their container. Northfield took a couple of steps behind him and pivoted, getting a tight angle on the far guard and firing. His shot hit the soldier; his head kicked back, and he stumbled to the ground. The slower, deeper shots of Dimitri’s pistol sounded. Northfield didn’t know if he was hitting 270

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anything, but at least he was firing. Northfield swiveled around, trying to find where the RAID soldier had shifted to.

The ceiling shrieked; sections of it were ripped off in large chunks, pulled into the hungry stomach of the tornado. The open sky was exposed. Toxic gas and smoke and debris flooded through the openings. The walls strained against the violent force of nature. Soon, they would be torn asunder by the whirlwind.

Northfield and Dimitri needed to hurry.

Dimitri’s pistol ran empty. The soldier he had been firing at took aim at them. Northfield had been watching, though, and he fired first, letting three shots loose. The soldier fell, limp.

That meant the RAID soldier was their only direct threat.

The sharp crackle of gunfire barely pierced the tornado’s roar, which was nearly all-consuming. Their allies were engaged in a gunfight with the other soldiers in the facility.

Northfield didn’t know if he could help. With his broken mask and an injured leg, he didn’t know if he was in good enough shape to be worth much. And with the storm so close, he didn’t know if there was enough time.

His mind was made up. He’d get Dimitri to safety. Then he would see.

Even that seems like a monumental task.

He had four bullets remaining. Four sure didn’t feel like enough to handle a RAID soldier.

Still, the RAID soldier was nowhere in sight. Northfield didn’t have any urge to hunt him down. He gestured for Dimitri to follow him. One leg after the other. Just put one leg after the other. That was what he had to do. That was all he could do.

He and Dimitri passed the collection bins. On the other side of them, the RAID soldier made his appearance. He had been crouched in a dark corner behind one of the collection bins, waiting to ambush them.

Northfield saw him out of the corner of his eye. He dove, although it was more of a stumble, and shoved Dimitri forward along with him.

They fell behind a set of heavy metal bins as the trail of the RAID soldier’s submachine gun fire arced toward them.

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The heavy metal bins protected them from the bullets; rounds ricocheted off the far side, but they didn’t pierce through.

The metal sorting bins sat in front of a conveyor belt that protruded from the collection bins. One was labeled steel.

Northfield and Dimitri hid behind it.

Despite the cover that the bin gave them, Northfield didn’t breathe easily. They couldn’t sit here while the storm approached.

Worse yet, the RAID soldier wouldn’t be content sitting there for long.

Northfield twisted his head back, looking deeper into the facility. Beyond the sorting station lay the shredders. They were big, bulky machines bolted to the ground, and the undersides had a wide enough opening for a person to crawl underneath. In fact, he remembered pulling a slave out from under one of those very shredders.

Underneath the shredder was the safest spot to ride out the storm, at least of all the places he could feasibly reach before the tornado was on top of him.

Unless the tornado miraculously changes direction. One of God’s miracles. Yeah, I don’t think he’s handing those out today.

The nearest shredder lay a couple of dozen yards ahead. It looked so damned far. Dimitri nervously thumbed new rounds into his revolver.

A blue blur materialized past his feet; the RAID soldier had moved, pivoting to face them. His shield was up, covering the bulk of his body. The main part of him exposed was his arm as he swung his submachine gun in their direction.

Northfield and Dimitri were entirely exposed, practically at the guy’s feet. He wouldn’t miss if he got a shot off.

Northfield desperately emptied his pistol. Dimitri hadn’t had a chance to close the cylinder of his revolver and fumbled with it.

One of Northfield’s four shots found its mark. The bullet pierced the RAID soldier’s shooting hand; he yelped and dropped his submachine gun.

Dimitri managed to close the revolver’s cylinder, but the weapon wouldn’t fire for some reason.

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The RAID soldier recognized that his enemies had run dry on ammo. His right hand wasn’t good for gripping anymore, so he disengaged the shield on his left side and pulled out a karambit knife from an ankle holster.

The RAID soldier charged at them in a blur. Within a moment, Northfield felt the RAID soldier’s forearm pressed against his throat; his knife hand reared back, prepared to stab.

With all the force he could muster, Northfield swung his arm, ramming the butt of his pistol into the RAID soldier’s head just as the RAID soldier plunged the knife.

The RAID soldier’s head recoiled, but his helmet was unyielding.

A sharp pain went down Northfield’s side. The soldier’s blade had cut near his obliques. It was just a cut, though, not impalement; he had thrown the soldier off-balance enough to miss.

The RAID soldier moved to stab him. Northfield started to strike again with his pistol, but he wouldn’t be fast enough.

Before the knife plunged, the soldier’s head jolted to the side.

Dimitri had given up on his own pistol, and he chucked it at the soldier. The butt hit the RAID soldier’s head squarely. The blow stunned the RAID soldier, and he dropped his knife.

Northfield had a knife of his own strapped to his ankle holster.

However, he couldn’t get to it with the RAID soldier on top of him. He shoved the soldier off of him with all the strength he could muster. The soldier dropped his knife; Northfield dropped his pistol. He reached for his ankle holster and pulled his knife out.

He kicked the RAID soldier’s knife away, and he plunged his knife toward the soldier’s back. The soldier lifted his bad hand and blocked the blow. In a flash, his good hand drove forward, straight into Northfield’s chest.

He felt something crack, and he flew backward, crashing into the bin next to Dimitri. He gasped for air, and each breath caused a shot of pain to ripple from his chest to the rest of his body.

A rib had been broken or at least badly bruised; he could tell immediately. He had let go of his knife; the blade had landed a 273

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couple of feet away. But he hadn’t let go of his mask. That was the most important part. At least he was breathing.

The roof of the factory had been almost entirely torn off by the tornado; the remaining pieces were getting torn out as he watched. Debris inside the factory was getting picked up and tossed about like it was some playhouse being jostled by a child.

The dust and dirt and grime in the place lifted into the air and swirled around, creating a cloud that killed visibility.

They didn’t have long. In about a minute, the storm would reach the factory walls, and if Northfield and Dimitri were still out in the open, they would be swallowed up.

The RAID soldier searched the ground for his knife. There was a slight stagger in his step; he was still dizzy. At least Northfield and Dimitri had done some damage to the soldier.

Northfield gestured for Dimitri to go. He didn’t care if the RAID soldier stabbed him in the meantime; he needed Dimitri to get under that shredder.

Dimitri furiously shook his head, but Northfield gestured again. Dimitri reluctantly got up and sprinted for the shredder.

Northfield picked up his knife and charged at the RAID soldier.

The RAID soldier was bent over, having found his knife wedged under a collection bin. Northfield aimed for the small of his back. He lunged down, but the RAID soldier blocked him again.

Northfield knew a stab was incoming, so he preemptively pivoted his torso. His instinct was correct. The RAID soldier’s blade plunged in a blur, but it was hard to hit a target that wasn’t there anymore, no matter how fast he moved.

Northfield wrapped his good arm around the RAID soldier’s extended arm. He twisted his hips, trying to throw the RAID soldier off-balance but not really succeeding.

He paid for it. The RAID soldier thrashed his arm, with Northfield hooked onto it. The next thing he knew, he was hurtling through the air. His back hit something, and he tumbled to the ground.

Once again, he had let go of his knife but kept his hold on the breach in his mask. He felt an unwelcome sense of déjà vu.

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The RAID soldier had thrown him over the far side of the collection bins. The bins now separated him from the soldier. He had a second of reprieve.

The landing had aggravated his ribs, and he used every fiber of his willpower not to double over in agony.

His eyes widened. Out of the swirling cloud of debris that surrounded him, an object hurtled through the air in his direction. It was a sorting bin from one of the farther-down sorting lines.

He twisted his body fiercely, a movement that made his lungs scream in agony.

The bin slammed into the collection bins behind him. It appeared to be empty, so it rebounded off and hurtled back into the air, reentering the swirling cloud.

This place is a death trap, he thought in despair. He couldn’t give up, though. He couldn’t.

He searched for his knife. Unable to find it, he panicked. If the storm could pick up that big bin, it surely could pick up a small knife.

A blur rounded the sorting line and materialized in front of Northfield. The RAID soldier appeared a dozen yards from his feet. The silhouette of his knife stood out above all.

The RAID soldier had put a bit of distance between him and Northfield when rounding the line to make sure his enemy didn’t have any tricks up his sleeve. Seeing Northfield defenseless now, he prepared to charge.

Northfield scanned his environment desperately. A glimmer of hope appeared. His knife was wedged under the collection bin next to him.

He lunged for the knife. The RAID soldier charged. Northfield’s hand found the handle. He swung his hand desperately in an arc behind his back.

His hand found abrupt resistance. He looked around his shoulder to see his knife plunged straight through the RAID soldier’s helmet. The RAID soldier slumped over, his entire body going limp.

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Northfield couldn’t even think about feeling relief. The walls buckled under the strain of the incoming whirlwind. They were quickly torn apart, the debris becoming one with the swirling storm.

He got to his feet, ignored all the aches and pains, and made for the shredder. The wind pulled him back, back, more furiously than anything he had ever felt, but he put one foot in front of the other with everything he had in him.

God help me, he thought desperately. God help me, God help me, God help me.

Debris flew through the air and hit him in the shoulder. It knocked him off balance, and he stumbled to his knee.

He crawled forward with his hand, scrambling to his feet. He eyed the shredder like it was all that existed in the world to him.

He pushed against the ever-growing wind, ignoring the everloudening howl of rending metal and chaos. He dared not look back, not even for a moment.

At last, the shredder was before him. Dimitri reached his hand out from below, eager to help pull him in.

An abruptly strong gust of wind pushed against Northfield.

To his horror, his feet were lifted off the ground. He lunged for Dimitri’s hand, clasping him by the forearm. Dimitri pulled him as hard as he could, and for a moment, Northfield was suspended in the air, tugged between the violent winds and Dimitri.

Dimitri grabbed Northfield with his other hand and pulled him down with all his strength. Northfield stuck his feet under the shredder and used them to help pull himself in. Together, they struggled until Northfield was in the damp, dark confines under the shredder.

The storm howled even louder, and Northfield planted his head face-down. The last thing he could afford was another hole in his mask.

His shelter against the storm was as safe as anywhere in this place, but now it seemed so flimsy against the tornado. Worse yet, he wondered if his friends had made it to cover.

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Let them be okay, God. We were trying to do good here. Don’t you see that? We tried. God, we really tried.

The wind deafened all his thoughts. The tornado fell atop them.

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23 At last, there was silence, except for the ringing in Northfield’s ears. It was a tentative reminder of the sheer violence of the storm that had befallen them.

He pulled himself out from under the shredder, and Dimitri followed. The sight of their surroundings rendered him still.

Only the back wall stood upright. A paltry skeleton of support beams and rebar extended from it; it was all that remained of the roof. The first rays of sunlight streamed through the breaking clouds, but it somehow made the surroundings look even more dismal.

The various machinery throughout the facility had been tossed, torn, and thrown upside down, with only the biggest machines and those bolted to the ground remaining intact.

Rubble filled the floor, accumulating in piles that reached even a couple of feet tall.

A limp hand, encased in a black glove, extended from one of the piles. Northfield’s heart told him with certainty that the Death Corps soldier was dead.

Very quickly, he spotted more bodies. Death Corps soldiers strewn about, torn by the storm and debris. He couldn’t focus on the state of the bodies, but they nonetheless served as a very real glimpse into Northfield and Dimitri’s future had they not found refuge under the shredders.

Rayne and Andy and Leo… if they…

He didn’t finish the thought. Past the wreckage of the factory, a Death Corps soldier’s body lay on the remains of a roof. The man had been swept up by the tornado and discarded like a limp, wet rag.

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Northfield glanced back at the shredder that they had hidden under. Dings and scrapes and large dents marked its frame; the storm had done a number on it. Once again, he was reminded that those markings would be on his own body if he had not been under shelter.

His hand was beyond sore after being plastered to his face for so long to seal his mask. His leg ached, and his chest screamed out in pain with every breath. But the pain was better than death, so he ignored it for now. He had to look for his teammates.

Despair threatened to overwhelm him. Given the destruction around him, he had trouble finding hope.

We loved watching thunderstorms, Jess. Do you remember that? We would sit at the window for hours, watching the sky light up. And when the sky broke, we’d go outside and smell that fresh rain scent.

I don’t know how I feel about storms. Not anymore.

He reloaded his pistol just in case there were Death Corps soldiers lurking about. Then he called out the names of Widow Team.

He didn’t hear a response, so he kept calling out the names.

Dimitri joined him.

I know you have your plans, God. But I’ve gotta tell you, sometimes it just all feels like you do things on a whim.

I thought that maybe you’d try to help. Send an angel, maybe, bearing down with some mortars. Even a sling and a rock, maybe.

I bet David would let us borrow his.

He glanced around the wreckage, desperately trying to find his friends. But this… this didn’t feel like help.

He heard a shout then. It was muffled by something. He and Dimitri neared the sound. Then they heard multiple voices. They came from underneath one of the shredders. Rubble surrounded it, blocking the openings on all sides.

“I think that’s Rayne,” Dimitri exclaimed when one of the voices came through particularly loudly.

At once, Northfield and Dimitri knelt and started pulling the rubble away. They produced an opening, and a hand burst through it. Northfield grabbed on with his free hand and pulled with all of his might, ignoring the agony in his chest.

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Rayne emerged from the pile of debris, coughing from under his mask.

“You boys… you made it. Lord, am I glad to see it,” Rayne said. “Now come on. Help me get the others out.”

They worked together to pull Andy and Leo out from under the shredder. When they were done, Northfield staggered back, clutching his chest and grimacing.

“They did a number on you, kid,” Leo said to Northfield.

“I have bandages,” Andy said. “Come here. I’ll patch you up real quick.”

“I’m going to radio base. I’ll see if they know where the others are,” Rayne said. Samuel and a large part of Bravo Team had been separated when they left the Interior.

Andy bandaged Northfield’s leg and carefully sealed Northfield’s mask. He couldn’t do anything for his ribs, unfortunately, but Northfield was glad enough to let his hand drop from his mask after pressing against it for so long.

“This is Widow Team. Bravo Team, come in. Over,” Rayne said.

The radio crackled to life, and the leader of Bravo Team came in. “We’re up and ready. After we split with you guys, we doubled back to the Interior and sheltered underground. We’re hiking up the stairs as we speak.”

“Any losses?” Rayne asked.

“No,” the team leader said. “We picked up one of your strays, though. Red’s with us.”

Samuel’s voice crackled in through the radio. “Couldn’t get rid of me that easily.”

“What’s your status?” the Bravo Team leader asked.

“We lost a few,” Rayne said, recounting with regret their losses.

“Their families are going to want a burial,” the Bravo Team leader said solemnly. “We should recover the bodies if we can.”

Rayne froze. He turned his ear toward the main road leading into Section 808 and leaned forward.

He said to the men near him, “My ears are still ringing… but do you hear that?”

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“Yeah, I do,” Leo said, growling.

Northfield heard it as well, barely through the whining in his own ears. Past the main road, from the thicket of the forest behind, came a soft rumbling noise.

“Widow Team?” the leader of Bravo Team asked.

“The cavalry,” Rayne muttered to himself. He radioed to Bravo Team, “Tangoes inbound. At least one vehicle, but I’d say multiple. We have a minute, maybe two, before they show up.

Haul your asses to our escape vehicles.”

“No good, Rayne,” the Bravo Team leader said, foregoing his codename. “The bodies…”

“No time,” Rayne said.

The leader of Bravo Team knew it, too. He said, “Copy that.

On our way.”

Rayne switched channels to home base, and he declared, “The storm’s passed, but the bad guys are inbound. We’re heading to our vehicles. We’ll have to do some off-roading.”

General Taylor said, “Get back in one piece.”

They left the factory. The greater facility didn’t seem to be in any better shape, with debris and wreckage strewn about. The carcasses of buildings stood unsteadily. The clouds continued to break, and more sunlight streamed down.

They didn’t need to travel very far; they spotted their vehicles just as Bravo Team linked back up with them. Both escape vehicles were overturned and smashed in.

Samuel kicked at the ground and unleashed a volley of curses.

The situation went from bad to worse. Death Corps vehicles broke out of the woods, heading on the main road to Section 808. Another vehicle followed. Then another followed.

Rayne didn’t wait to see if more would appear. He commanded everyone to hide behind the wreckage of the nearest building, out of sight of the main road.

“Escape vehicles are out of operation,” Rayne radioed to home base. “Reinforcements are here. We’re gonna have to go with Plan B.” He eyed each man of Widow and Bravo Team.

“Ready your weapons. Pray we don’t have to use them.”

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He gestured toward the rear of Section 808. Everyone understood the plan: sneak behind the Interior and slink through the fence. Then they would sneak across the clearing and creep into the cover of the forest.

As one, they started to move. They kept to the shadows, avoiding paths where they could be spotted from the main road.

The vehicles arrived at camp. Doors opened and slammed shut as soldiers disembarked. A commander barked out orders to his soldiers in the Death Corps’ trademark modulated voice.

At the very sound, Northfield felt his muscles tense.

The Death Corps kept the motors of their trucks running, ready to go in the event they needed to hunt down prey. Based on the sounds, Northfield guessed four trucks, though he wasn’t sure. He didn’t plan on peeking around a corner to check.

Four vehicles meant a lot of soldiers. A wave of boots crunching on earth followed as the soldiers began their search.

The men of Stormrise continued toward the fence behind the Interior. The tornado had created a lot of debris. They had no shortage of cover to break the sightline between them and the hunting soldiers. The Death Corps men, too, were slowed by the debris. Every nook, every crevice, every shadow cast by a broken wall meant another place an enemy could be hiding.

Another unwelcome sound reached the Stormrise men’s ears.

Soon, enemy soldiers wouldn’t be their only concern.

The drone of helicopter blades filled the air. After the first wave of helicopters had gone down, the Network dispatched another set.

Rayne beckoned his men, urging them to move faster. They had to reach the forest before the helicopters arrived.

Stormrise broke up into smaller groups. They weaved through gaps in debris and crept under the shadows. Working as smaller units prevented bottlenecks. Otherwise, each man would have to wait as the man in front of him navigated the maze of destruction. Northfield traveled with Leo and Andy.

Ahead of them lay an exposed area they had no choice but to cross. In the middle lay a chunk of debris they could hide behind.

Andy started to move before Northfield lunged out and grabbed his shoulder, pulling them back.

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A Death Corps soldier searched the nearby area; any further movement would have caught his eye and sent the entire enemy force to their location. The soldier was moving toward a chunk of wall leaning against an upright wall, with a deep shadow underneath. Northfield knew that, in a moment, the soldier would turn his back toward the Stormrise men and search that area.

When the soldier turned, they advanced to the debris pile, forward. Their deadly game of leapfrog continued until they reached the rear of the Interior.

Evidently, the trio had chosen the least efficient path; Rayne and the others were waiting for them. Together, they slinked through the fence.

The Death Corps soldiers continued searching Section 808.

Amidst all the wreckage, they didn’t know whether everyone had died, including their enemies, so they resolved to comb through everything.

The helicopters grew louder in the sky. Northfield looked across the clearing. He didn’t know if they would make it in time.

There was only one way to find out. Stormrise hurried across the clearing, keeping low. Their camouflage suits blended in with the long grass, just as they had during their assault on the facility.

The forest line inched ever closer. Northfield ignored the burning and aching in his body from his sore muscles and wounds and pressed ahead. Always ahead.

They only had a couple of dozen meters to go.

They didn’t make it. The helicopters burst over the tree line.

Rayne commanded everyone into prone positions. Their only shot was to crawl the rest of the way.

The helicopters hovered over Section 808 and the surrounding clearing like angry wasps, buzzing and sweeping back and forth.

Slowly, very slowly, Stormrise continued slinking toward the tree line. One elbow after another, after another, and then after another. The ground seemed to stretch endlessly. They might as well have had to crawl a dozen miles, not a dozen yards.

The helicopters continued to sweep. Their pilots and gunmen scoured for any signs of their enemies. A volley of gunfire would signify whether Stormrise’s camouflage would hold.

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The forest line was close now. Northfield could almost scrape his fingers against the nearest tree trunk.

More helicopters arrived. More trucks pulled into Section 808. Stormrise’s men were a drop in the bucket in comparison.

Their camouflage held. The men pulled themselves to their feet, relishing in the canopy overhead.

Northfield took one last look at the remains of Section 808.

That storm could’ve hit anywhere, at any time. But it hit here— and now. Just… I don’t understand. I don’t understand.

Going from one impossibility to another and then to another.

Free to move more quickly under the trees, Stormrise sprinted into the depths of the forest, knowing their enemies weren’t too far behind.

When Rayne deemed it safe to speak, he radioed Stormrise headquarters.

Softball again provided instructions for the supply warehouse.

Stormrise dispatched a large van to pick them up at that location.

The sound of helicopter rotors soon whirled above, but Stormrise kept focused on finding the warehouse. The canopy and shroud of gas provided them with good enough cover.

When they reached the supply warehouse, they prepared for conflict. Thankfully, though, the Stormrise van arrived before the Death Corps managed to sniff around their area. Their enemies were still sifting through the wreckage at Section 808, it seemed.

They piled into the van. Swiftly, they were off to the safety that awaited them at Stormrise headquarters. Or at least the closest thing they could get to safety in this escalating conflict.

Yet the shadow of the whirlwind was still imprinted on Northfield’s mind. He glanced at Dimitri’s backpack, which sat in his lap and contained the hard drive.

Whatever’s on that thing, I pray it’s worth it. *** “Look at all of ’em, Mark,” Geralt said as they watched the new arrivals at Stormrise stand in line at the entrance to the medical bay. Chief Kaminski ordered that all of the former 284

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Network slaves be given a brief checkup to assess their mental and physical state—specifically, to check if any had contagious diseases or infections that the doctors needed to keep an eye on.

“Bunch of fresh faces.”

“I don’t know if I’d call them fresh,” Northfield replied.

“They’re gonna need time to recover. To acclimate.”

“Sure,” Geralt said. “But you know what they’re gonna be after what the Network did to them? They’re gonna be hungry for payback.” His eyes flickered with anger, likely from his own grudge against the Network.

Northfield pursed his lips. “I don’t know. Seeing what these people went through… part of me wants them to be as far away from this fight as they can get. I want them to find some measure of peace if they can.”

“That ain’t possible,” Geralt said. “There ain’t nowhere these people can go that’s safe from the Network. They’ll be hunted like dogs till the end of their days. Fighting with us is their best shot.

Hell, their only shot.” He surveyed the survivors again. “And just look at them. That’s what these people want anyway. I guarantee it.”

“You’re right,” Northfield said. “I still feel bad about it, though. I wish it wasn’t this way, that’s all.”

“Well, good thing this place doesn’t run off your feelings,” Geralt said. “Otherwise, we’d be digging our own graves, politely asking the Network if they can provide us caskets. Forget how these people feel, Mark. The fact is, we need them. And we don’t need more justification than that.”

Northfield spotted Odell walking past the line of survivors on his way to the clinic. He was going to volunteer. He spotted Northfield and offered a meager smile and wave.

“Well, would you look at that,” Geralt said. “It’s Captain Flask.”

“Don’t make fun of him, Geralt,” Northfield said. “Remember everything he’s done for us.”

“Oh, I ain’t forgetting,” Geralt said. “But that don’t mean I have to kiss his feet for the rest of my life. He’s turning his problems into everyone else’s. We can’t afford that. You don’t think the rest of us wanna pull a bottle? But we ain’t, are we?”

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“He’s had some slip-ups,” Northfield said. “But he’ll be all right. Look, he’s volunteering to help Dr. Cohanan and Dr. Mitchell.”

Geralt shrugged but, for once, didn’t say more. Northfield stared once again at the long line, his frown deepening. He said, “I’m gonna go see what I can do to help, too.”

He pushed off of the wall he had been leaning against, and he grimaced, clutching his ribs.

“Maybe you should get that checked out while you’re there,” Geralt said.

Northfield shook his head. “The docs have got enough to worry about. Besides, I’ve hurt my ribs before. Best the doc can usually do is say sorry.”

He caught up with Odell and met him at the front door of the clinic.

“How are you holding up?” Northfield asked him.

“I should ask the same about you,” he replied, looking Northfield up and down. “You’ve got a limp.”

“Got hit in the calf,” he said. “Not a bad hit, though. It’ll heal up just fine. Now how about you?”

A few Stormrise members walked by. When they did so, they looked at Odell strangely for a few moments before averting their gazes and continuing on.

Odell watched them, and he shrugged. “I’m a bit of a pariah now after what… happened. It’s all right. I deserve it.”

Northfield frowned. “Did you apologize to Aubrey yet?”

Odell’s face darkened. “I just don’t know what to say, Mark.

What happened… I can’t justify it. I can’t explain it, really.”

Well, starting off should be easy. You could open with an apology, he thought, but he didn’t push the issue. Instead, he said, “Well, come on. I’m sure the nurses and doctors are itching for help.”

They headed into the clinic. The place was flooded. Refugees from Section 808 occupied every available chair, and the floor space was filled with more of them standing. Nurses and volunteers ran to and fro, shuffling patients into and out of rooms.

Most of the nurses performed the examinations themselves to take the load off the doctors.

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Northfield threaded through the crowd with Odell, looking for the most available-looking nurse to ask how they could assist.

Then Dr. Cohanan emerged from one of the rooms, preceded by a female refugee. She took a moment to wipe her forehead.

Exhaustion was apparent in the lines on her face, and her tightly bound ponytail was beginning to fray and unwind.

She spotted them, and she said, “Mark? Odell? What are you doing here?”

“Looking to lend a hand,” he said. “Seems that you could use it.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she said. She looked around with urgency as if Northfield and Odell would drift off into the clouds if she didn’t quickly find them a task. She seized a couple of clipboards and thrust them to the men. “We need to check these people in. Names, ages, former occupations, etcetera. There are also some baseline questions everyone needs to answer about if they’re experiencing symptoms of any kind. Hand these out to everyone waiting. Got it?”

“Sounds easy enough,” Odell said.

So they did as she asked, going forth and spreading forms and pens to the waiting masses. *** “Is that scowl paying rent?” Helen asked, trying her best to be jovial.

Elliot met her glance. His expression softened only a little.

Then he turned away and continued studying the hallways like he was still a prisoner searching for an escape route.

They waited in line for the Stormrise clinic with the other former slaves of Section 808.

The whole concept of Stormrise was foreign to most of the former slaves, as they had spent the last year without much communication with the outside world. However, the Stormrise members treated the former slaves warmly, and they had already fed them a fresh meal in their cafeteria. As long as the former slaves were out of the Network’s clutches, they were happy to go 287

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along for the ride. Helen shared this sentiment. Elliot, it seemed, didn’t.

They shuffled forward a short distance. Elliot muttered, “This is gonna take all afternoon.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s better than working with a shovel.”

He shrugged but said nothing more. She tried to push her worry about him out of her head.

Eventually, they reached the inside of the clinic. A man approached them, wielding a bundle of papers and clipboards in one hand and a pen in the other. He had blond hair and lightning-blue eyes.

“Hey there,” he said. “I’m Mark Northfield. What are your names?”

Helen recognized both of his features. She said, “You were at Section 808, weren’t you? You’re the one that pulled me out from under the shredder.”

“Yeah, that was me,” he said, smiling. His smile was new to her; his mouth had previously been concealed by his gas mask.

There was a real warmth in it. “I’m glad we get to meet again, under better circumstances this time.”

She looked around, and she asked, “You work in this clinic, too?”

He shrugged. “Just volunteering. They needed some help with the influx of patients.”

She studied him up and down, and then she stuck out her hand. “I’m Helen. Thanks again for—” He waved off her thanks.

She turned to Elliot. He glared at Mark Northfield intensely.

Mark seemed a bit taken aback, judging by a small curling at the corner of his mouth.

She nudged Elliot, prompting him to give his name. He didn’t utter a word. So she jumped in. “This is my brother, Elliot. Sorry, he’s a bit, ah, quiet.”

“Hey, Elliot,” Mark said, to which Elliot didn’t reply. He turned to Helen, attached two forms to a clipboard, and handed them to her, along with a pen. “If you guys could fill these forms

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out, one for each of you, I’d appreciate it. It’ll just help the doctors and nurses get through everyone quicker.”

“Yeah, of course,” Helen said. “No problem.”

Mark studied both of them before he said, mostly to Elliot, “This is about as safe from the Network as you can get, okay?

We’re gonna treat you well. We’re gonna keep you secure.”

With that, he headed off in search of new arrivals. Helen and Elliot found a pair of seats that had just been vacated. He continued scanning the place. When they sat down, she glared at him.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” she asked.

He pressed his lips together, took one more glance around, and then leaned in toward her.

“That guy… he’s a soldier. But he’s also doing some hours at the clinic. What’s that tell you?”

“I don’t know, Elliot. You tell me.”

“They don’t got that many people here, Helen,” he said. “Not if guys like that are pulling double duty. Nowhere near enough to take on the Network.”

“They’ve already shown us kindness here—” she started to say.

“I don’t care if they’re all Mother Theresas,” he said. “It doesn’t make a difference if they get steamrolled by the Network, all right?” His lips curled into a deep frown.

“You don’t know that, Elliot,” she said. “They were pretty successful attacking Section 808, weren’t they?”

“One attack doesn’t mean anything,” he said. “The Network has an army. It’s got factories. Stormrise has this… this school.

We’re not safe here, Helen. Not for long. Sooner or later, this place is gonna come down. And I don’t wanna be here when it does.”

She glanced around desperately. The thought of leaving this place of relative safety sounded like just about the worst thing.

She decided to reason from his perspective. “Maybe someday.

But that doesn’t mean it’s likely to be soon, does it? Can’t we sit tight here for a couple of weeks? Recuperate and get acquainted

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a bit better with the world outside of our prison? Then we can decide what to do.”

He pondered her words for a little while. She waited tensely, afraid he might refuse.

Then he said, “Fine.”

A pinch of relief passed through Helen.

Maybe in a couple of weeks, he would grow fond of this place.

But by the way he skulked around and looked at everything, she doubted it.

She wondered, not for the first time that day, what she would do with him. *** At long last, all the refugees had passed through the clinic.

Some had been in bad shape, and they were admitted to the hospital. With everyone stable, though, Northfield considered his job done.

He left the clinic and leaned against a nearby wall, nursing his ribs. All of this moving around had aggravated them.

Dr. Mitchell stopped by briefly, putting his hand on Northfield’s shoulder. “You did well.”

Northfield shrugged. “All in a day’s work and all of that.”

Dr. Cohanan left the clinic, also taking a break. She spotted Northfield and came over to him, leaning against the same wall.

She exhaled deeply, a sound of profound exhaustion, and she said, “Thanks for the help. That was kind of you.” She studied him. “I noticed you favoring your left leg in there.”

“Eh, I got dinged in the field. But I’ve been shot before. This one’s not bad. It should heal up just fine.”

“You could get an infection,” she said.

“I’ve already disinfected it and taken antibiotics.”

“Look at you,” she said. “Maybe you should’ve been a doctor.”

He snorted at that. He looked down the hallway at all the refugees. The hallways seemed a hell of a lot fuller than they used to.

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She followed his gaze.

Then she said, “I’ve heard some rumblings. There are more camps, apparently. Camps that we plan on liberating.”

He nodded.

She pressed her lips together. “It worries me.”

“How so?” he asked, leaning forward. “That we’ll grow too much? Get too big for our britches and not be able to handle the inflow?”

“That, partly,” she said. “But also, it was one thing when Stormrise was one hundred people. We were a little organization in a lot of ways. Able to dip and duck out of the Network’s gaze.

As we grow, Mark, this fight will escalate. I guess that’s the whole point, right?” She threw her shoulders up. “But the escalation… who knows what will happen?”

“Yeah,” he said. “That worries me, too.”

He noticed a figure coming toward them, weaving through the outbound crowd. Andy shot up his hand and beckoned Northfield over.

He said to Dr. Cohanan, “Guess I’ve got to go.”

“See you around, Mark.”

When he neared Andy, he noticed the urgency in his body language. Excitement—or maybe it was tension—seemed to radiate from him.

“They did it,” Andy said.

“Who did what?”

“Dimitri and Softball,” he said. “They’ve extracted the hard drive’s contents. And they’ve found a lot, Mark.”

Northfield understood his mix of excitement and tension; the same emotions filled him.

“The rest of the Stormrise leadership team is already at Dimitri’s lab to go over everything. They’re waiting for you,” Andy said.

“Well, I won’t keep them waiting any longer. Thanks, Andy,” Northfield said.

“Yeah, sure,” Andy said. His face twisted into a frown. “To be honest, Mark, I’m not sure if I really wanna know about whatever they’ve found.”

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“Me neither,” Northfield said. “But pushing it under the rug is letting the Network get away with it, and I want that even less.”

As he made his way to Dimitri’s computer room, he steeled himself for whatever he might see.

Keep me strong, God. Keep me steady.

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24 Dimitri and Softball sat in office chairs in front of Dimitri’s multi-monitor computer setup. The topmost monitor displayed a hazy video, paused at the beginning. Stormrise’s leadership— consisting of Geralt, Chief Kaminski, General Taylor, Northfield, and Rayne—stood in a semicircle around them.

Dimitri and Softball shared the same shell-shocked expression. Having been the ones to recover the footage from the hard drives, they had naturally already seen it.

Chief Kaminski crossed her arms, and she said to Dimitri and Softball, “Before we get into this, I want to commend the two of you for your work. I’m no tech expert, but I can appreciate it when a job is difficult. And this was certainly difficult.

“Dimitri, I also want to commend you for your work in the field. Your quick thinking earned us these drives. Without you, we’d have nothing.”

“I’ll second that,” General Taylor said. “You did good, kid.”

Dimitri looked bashful, and he merely nodded at the compliments.

Chief Kaminski said to Softball, “You did an excellent job providing technical support for the mission. You’re proving yourself a valuable asset to the team.”

“Eh,” she said, shrugging. “You sprung me out of the Network’s hands. I’d rather type away on a keyboard than sit in one of their prisons, eating slop.” She glanced back at the screen behind her, and her face paled a bit. “Or something even worse.” She looked back at them and swallowed, a forced grin on her face. She tried to bring levity to the situation. “The food here could use some salt, though.”

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“I’ll pass the word along to our chefs,” Chief Kaminski said good-naturedly, noticing Softball’s uneasiness. She nodded toward the screen. “Now, let’s get into this.”

Softball and Dimitri exchanged a glance. They appeared unsure of where to start. Then Softball said, “So Section 808 had two different operations going on at the same time. The first is what we all expected the Network was up to: slave labor. Section 808 had a metal-recycling plant. Scrap metal was scavenged from the wasteland and brought to Section 808 for recycling, eventually to be used in the Network’s greater operations.” Her face twisted into a frown. “Section 808’s second operation took place in the Interior.”

Dimitri took over. “The Network would take people from Section 808 and bring them to the Interior. The abductions seemed random to the slaves, and that’s exactly how the Network wanted it. Sometimes, when people were taken from New Medea, they were brought directly to the Interior.

“The people in the Interior were being… studied. Scientists were each assigned a handful of subjects. They recorded video logs of their findings for each slave, which were saved to the computers throughout the facility. We’ve recovered footage from the hard drive around one subject, 47-B. Elliot McTavish.”

Northfield blinked. “Elliot?”

Dimitri looked cockeyed at him. “Yeah. Why?” “I met a woman and her brother at Section 808. Helen and Elliot. They’re here now, at Stormrise,” he said.

Rayne pitched in, “I think I know who you’re talking about.

His sister prompted him to tell us what was in the Interior, but he wouldn’t say.”

“Well,” Dimitri said darkly, “after seeing this, I don’t blame him.”

“So they have these subjects,” Anne Kaminski said. “And the Network is doing studies on them. But to what end?”

Dimitri and Softball shared another glance. Softball said softly, “We’ve spliced the videos together into a shorter edit to get the whole story across. I think we should just let that do the talking.”

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“All right,” Chief Kaminski said, nodding her approval.

Dimitri hit Play on the video.

The video came into focus, and a man in a lab coat sat in front of the camera. The little hair he still had leaned more gray than brown. He had a small pair of sharp blue eyes.

He adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. “My name is Dr. Conrad Willow. This is Video Log 1 of Subject 47-B, Elliot McTavish. This log set is part of Project Augustus, at Section 808.”

He adjusted his tie again, muttering, “Stupid damned thing.”

He looked back at the camera and said, “As this is the first video log of this subject, I will reiterate the purpose of Project Augustus to preserve the cohesiveness of this log set for any viewers.”

“I don’t think that means us,” Geralt said wryly. “Whoopsie for them.”

Nobody laughed; they were too absorbed in the video.

Dr. Willow said, “The directive of Project Augustus is simple: what makes the best fighter? The Network needs to forge the best men and women it can for its armed forces. Whether it be to fight Stormrise or some other entity, the Network wants the most optimal fighting force it can get.

“The Network sends new Corps recruits through a training regimen—a process to forge them from men to units. The question is, how do we best optimize the process to produce the most capable men and women? What incentives, what disincentives, do we have to provide?

“The apocalypse has altered the psyche of survivors, and this inevitably factors into the training process. Is a man less afraid of death, having already seen so many around him perish? Or is he more so, having had to face his own morality again and again?

“Is the post-apocalyptic man more responsive to the promise of awards? Or to the threat of punishment? Is the post-apocalyptic man better forged into a warrior through trial and torment or encouragement and lavishness?

“All of these questions are what we’re here to answer. We experiment with the subjects, offering them different incentives, disincentives, and various psychological manipulation. Some are treated well. Others are treated not so well. Some are promised 295

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rewards. Others are promised punishment. Then they are put to the test.

“Behavior experiments with humans are not an exact science.

Inevitably, there are so many variables that go into a man, and they cannot be neatly separated into controlled and measured variables.

“Our best route to find results, therefore, is repetition.

Observing noticeable trends in our subjects that transcend whatever personal variables are at play.”

Northfield could only blink. Evil. This is just pure evil.

The scientist continued, “Which brings us to our subject, 47B. Twenty-seven-year-old male, Caucasian. Average height. In fairly good physical shape, without any noticeable deficiencies.

Subject 47-B presents us with a unique studying opportunity. His sister, designated 47-A, is also at Section 808. She isn’t part of Project Augustus.

“Not yet, at least. With 47-B, we get the chance to observe how well family is used as motivation for the post-apocalyptic man. We’ll promise him a better future for his sister if he passes the test. If he doesn’t prove responsive to the carrot approach, we’ll use the stick. We’ll threaten that his sister will be brought into Project Augustus if he doesn’t succeed.”

Dr. Willow looked past the camera, nodded, and looked back at it. “Subject 47-B is ready for me now. I will report progress with the subject.”

The video cut out, and then another promptly started playing.

“We are now on day twenty-two with Subject 47-B. We have been proceeding with the carrot approach by promising that his sister will be let free if he performs well in the test. Subject 47-B is not responding well to this approach. He doesn’t believe that the Network would come through on its word. His personality is becoming increasingly withdrawn and bitter. It may be time to change tack.”

Another log started to play. “We are now on day thirty-six with Subject 47-B. He has been more responsive to our threats.

His initial, impassioned anger is settling down. I think he’s realizing that yelling at us isn’t going to sway our decision on 296

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his sister. Today, he asked about the test and what it entails. I’m marking this as a good sign.”

Another log followed. “Day forty-one. Subject 47-B’s anger towards us has seemed to wane. Or, at the very least, his focus is directed chiefly on the trial. He’s determined to succeed and conquer it. I’ve pivoted my approach, offering myself as a somewhat reluctant participant in this whole endeavor. I’ve given him what he thinks are secret tips to do better in the trial.

He certainly doesn’t view me as a friend, but I believe he sees me as his only ally. In his mind, I’ve transformed the threat of his sister from a threat made by me to an inevitability by the moving machine that is the Network. I can’t stop it, but I’m trying my best to help him.

“Video surveillance in his cell has captured him doing pushups and sit-ups. He is motivated. This approach—holding a subject under veiled threat and following that up with a veneer of friendliness—may hold real merit. Imagine a world where apt recruits are forced into service with the threat of punishment for desertion. That, paired with a friendly CO determined to help them get the best stationing and positions if only they do their best. It’s my theory that the post-apocalyptic man is conditioned to face hardship and threats, hardwired for it, even. This conditioning, when paired with the slight glimmer of friendship and warmth of which he has been so deprived, is a powerful combination. I’m going to send a brief report of my findings to Network leadership.

“Day sixty-two. The day of the trial approaches. Subject 47-B is training harder and harder. His goal is oriented toward survival, primarily. In our latest sessions, we hardly talk about his sister. Instead, he keeps asking for more information about the trial. He wants to know how to survive.

“Day sixty-five. Today is the day of the trial. Subject 47-B and I had our last meeting today. He was not very talkative. When he spoke, it was only about the trial. I wished him well. Now we’ll see how he performs.”

The video cut out, and another started to play. A bunch of prisoners stood at the perimeter of a colosseum-like room.

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Northfield recognized the colosseum from the Interior. Andy and Samuel explored it while Northfield, Andy, Leo, Dimitri, and Rayne investigated the computer room.

The prisoners all looked tense, most crouching in battleready positions. Their wrists were chained to pillars.

In the center of the room sat a pedestal. A long combat knife lay atop it.

Northfield didn’t like where this was going. Not at all.

Dr. Willow voiced over the proceedings. “This is trial version five of Project Augustus. The subjects will fight to the death with a single weapon to battle for. We will observe our subjects. Not only their performance but their behavior. The weapon at the center of the room is beneficial to our studies because it serves as a point of power. It gives the conflict a sense of direction and provides an avenue for strategy. Will they try to team up with other subjects until the end? Will they bide their time, waiting for the crowd to thin itself out? Will they make a bid for the weapon from the get-go? We will chart our subjects’ behaviors and compare our notes after the event.

“In trial version five, we replaced the firearm at the room’s center with a knife. This change, in our view, provided a more fruitful set of results. The pistol was too quick. The knife extended the encounter, providing us with a longer window of observation. If this trial provides another welcome set of results, we will continue to implement version five in the future.”

“What the ever-loving hell…,” Geralt muttered. Northfield felt any semblance of warmth drain from his own face.

I don’t usually give much thought to the presence of demons.

But I’m thinking about them now.

A loud siren went off in the colosseum, and the subjects’ chains were released. The behavior of the subjects varied. Some hesitated, staying their ground, glancing side to side and making sure another prisoner wasn’t headed for their throat.

A few prisoners darted straight for the knife. When one got ahold of it, the others around him recognized the danger and proceeded to gang up on him. They held him down, and they proceeded to beat him.

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Northfield had to look away for a moment. He was accustomed to violence, more than any man should be, but this went into another realm. The fact that the violence was part of some clinical experiment, where these people would otherwise not be laying a hand on each other, was just too nauseating a prospect to witness.

When he steeled himself to look again, the initial knifewielder was a bloodied mess on the floor.

He averted his eyes, instead searching for Elliot. It occurred to him that Elliot had to win this bloodbath. Otherwise, he wouldn’t still be alive.

Elliot hung back along the colosseum’s perimeter. After the first man had died, he took the opportunity to speak with a redheaded woman at his side. He pointed at the dead man, gesturing between the two of them.

Clearly, he was making an alliance with her. Once she nodded her assent, he turned to his other side and made a similar deal with a tall, heavily built man.

The trio stuck together, watching each other’s backs. They targeted lone prisoners along the perimeter, keeping away from the larger ruckus over the knife. They picked off these prisoners in quick, gruesome attacks. The battlefield thinned out as the clash to get power over the knife resulted in casualty after casualty.

Eventually, the only survivors were Elliot’s trio, a bulky and heavily tattooed man who had gained control of the knife, and two other scrappy fighters who had avoided the larger conflicts.

Elliot’s trio ganged up on the knife-wielding man, tackling him to the ground. The heavily built man in Elliot’s trio pressed down on the knife-wielding man’s chest while the redhead held his feet down. Elliot tried to wedge the knife out of the man’s hand. The man fought back, wrenching his arm free and slashing wildly with the knife. He caught Elliot with a vertical slash across his left eye. Blood quickly started to pour out, but Elliot didn’t react with more than a flinch. The cut didn’t break through his eyelid and slice his eye, it seemed. Elliot managed to grab the man’s wrist firmly and pry the knife away. Then Elliot swiftly plunged the knife into him.

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When the knife-wielder was dead, the redhead and the bulky man in Elliot’s trio pivoted toward their remaining enemies.

Suddenly, the bulky man slumped and fell forward. The redhead turned to see Elliot pulling the knife out of the bulky man’s chest. She was shocked, unsure of what to do.

Clearly, Elliot had broken whatever pact they’d agreed to.

Likely, it was to take out all opposition and only then go after each other. She stepped back, holding up her hands, trying to convince him not to attack.

He didn’t listen.

Once the redhead had been dispatched, only the two scrappers remained. They tried to gang up on Elliot, but he wielded the knife adeptly. He slashed at one, keeping him at bay, and then lunged at the other, plunging the knife into his stomach.

Only one scrapper remained. He didn’t stand a chance against Elliot with the knife.

Elliot was the last man standing.

Dr. Willow said, “Interesting. As I expected, 47-B had a high probability of success. We researchers will compare our findings.

Subject 47-B will be released back into the labor populace, and study on him will continue.

“Soldiers eventually have to come home. As such, it’s important to assess the potential impact of our treatment on subjects after they return to a life outside of their combat encounter. I’m particularly curious to see how 47-B adjusts to labor life after his treachery in the colosseum below—” The video cut off abruptly. Softball said, “That’s it… The rest of the video on the hard drive is corrupted. But I think it’s enough.”

Dimitri said, “We’ve uncovered the locations of more camps through the shipping logs. We don’t have sure evidence of it, but I’m sure there are more experiments like this going on.”

“I’d stake my life on it,” Chief Kaminski said. “Dimitri, you’ve mentioned to me before that you’ve uncovered a back door into New Medea’s broadcast systems.”

He nodded. “Yeah. There’s a bug in their software. I can worm through and project our own footage. I’d guess we have 300

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about a minute before the Network wizens up and shuts down their systems. They’ll patch the bug out soon after. We’ve only got that minute.”

Chief Kaminski said, “Do you think you can distill this video into a minute-long edit? Something that communicates everything necessary to the people?”

Softball said, “I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem.”

Northfield stared at the frozen video. He said, “If we put a video of this out, the Network may go into damage-control mode. They might kill all the slaves at the facilities—or at least the ones they’ve experimented on.”

“The Network would do that already,” Geralt said. “We already raided one of their facilities and sprung the joint. The assholes in charge are panicking. It ain’t gonna make a difference if we put out a video or not.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Chief Kaminski said. “The experiments the Network might stop. But the slave labor? Judging by the metal-recycling plant, it appears that the Network relies on it.

The Network won’t be so quick to shut it all down. There is a chance we will still be able to raid these facilities and save some people.”

“I agree,” General Taylor said. “Our ability to attack them may be limited because the Network will put all its effort into fortifying their facilities. But the facilities won’t go anywhere.”

Rayne said, “Public support will swing our way again once this video goes out. We need to use that momentum to build up our numbers. Quickly. Then we’ll have the strength to attack these facilities. From the facilities, we can get more recruits. It will be a snowball effect.”

“Last I checked, we’ve already got some new recruits,” Geralt said. “I say we start attacking hard now.”

Chief Kaminski said, “We can discuss tactics further later.

Dimitri and Softball, let’s get that video ready to deploy. I’m going to address our people and let them know what’s to come.”

She looked around the room. “Great work, everybody. This may be our biggest win yet.”

Northfield kept his eyes on the screen. Then why does it not feel much like one?

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The meeting broke up. Northfield fetched his gas mask and went outside. His bones ached. His chest ached. The weariness was all-consuming. He found a big tree to lean against, one with a deep shadow cast by the dying sun.

He lowered his head and closed his eyes.

You know, God, I keep thinking about the twister that you parked on top of us. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen something so… destructive. It’s up there with the gas, even.

I prayed for you to help us, and we got that instead.

In those moments, cowering from the wind, I felt like you hated me. It’s only the second time I’ve ever felt like that.

He leaned his head back.

But we made it out, didn’t we? In the end, we did. And I’m trying to make out what that means.

Maybe it’s past my understanding. Maybe the world getting better isn’t something I’m meant to see. Maybe it won’t bear fruit in my lifetime. Or five lifetimes from now.

But maybe it’s all still worth it. Maybe I’ve gotta keep going, God. Keep doing the best I can. No matter if all I see are dark clouds. No matter what.

He pondered that for a moment, listening to the wind, hoping to hear something, but all he could make out was the rustling of leaves.

He thought about the video; the battle in the war room was seared into his brain.

Am I up to that task, though?

I’ve seen selfishness. I’ve seen callousness. I’ve seen a complete disregard for human life so many times that I could fill a journal about it.

But abject evil, cruelty… that I’ve rarely seen, not on that level.

Or maybe my eyes have just been shut to it.

I don’t know… I don’t know how I’m gonna avoid losing myself in it.

Jess, you’d set me straight. Look at how much I think about you, still, after ten years. I hope you know what your love meant to me.

I do.

The world’s cold without you. So cold.

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25 General Arkland peered out of his penthouse windows. The sky was still, with the wind seemingly having forgotten how to blow. The flashing neon lights of the city and the dazzling electronic billboards shined brighter than the stars, as always.

But below, the streets churned. Protestors, an indistinguishable horde to his eye, held up their picket signs and swarmed around the building, at least as close as the Corps perimeter would allow.

Not a soul tried to break through the line. Not yet.

“General,” said Jane Sloan. She held a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. She poured them each a glass.

He drank his quickly, savoring the burn. He held the glass tightly, staring at the crowd below.

“The Head of Science and the Head of Resources want to speak with you,” she said, pouring him another glass.

“I bet they do,” he said. He didn’t drink the second glass, just swirled the liquid around and watched it circle. “How are they taking the leak?”

She pursed her lips. “The Head of Science is beside himself.

He’s worried about the repercussions, mostly for his own ass.” She mused for a moment. “It’s odd to see him like this. He’s usually so level-headed.”

General Arkland said, “A lot of men can be perfectly rational.

Except when it comes to their own ass.”

“That is true, sir.” She drank the rest of her glass, and she poured another.

“What about the Head of Resources?” he asked.

“She’s calmer, but not by a large margin,” she said. “As the head of the labor operation, her biggest concern is not being able 303

to acquire new heads for the factories. She’s concerned about the public backlash, of course. She worries that this will put wind in Stormrise’s sails. Too much wind.”

General Arkland frowned, recalling when he first heard the news about footage from Section 808; it had been broadcast on the city’s billboards for all to see. The Network’s technology unit had shut down the footage and patched the code in the software that had enabled the leak, but the damage had already been done.

It was funny how only a few hours earlier could feel like ages ago.

He said, “We need to change tactics, Sloan.”

“What are you thinking, sir?”

He said, “We have been trying to frame the battle between us and Stormrise as a moral conflict. We can’t continue down that route. In the public’s eyes, morality is now decided. We need to shift to a different strategy.

“Morality is a luxury, Sloan. We all learned that a decade ago.

People forgot quickly, but they will remember even more quickly.

“The gloves are off for us. In some ways, this is freeing. We’ll show people what strength is. We’ll give people a glimpse of what a real war with the Network would turn into. They’ll have to think about that when all their material comfort is stripped away.

When scavenging for food becomes the norm again. When your neighbor comes for your throat again. What are some slaves, far away and out of sight, going to matter against that future?

“Politics boils down to a simple maxim: reward your friends and punish your enemies. We need to make that the rule of law and make it known quickly. The Network will reward its friends, and it will punish its enemies. When that’s clear, we’ll see how quickly people line up on our side of the fence.”

He took another step toward the window. Below, the colored shirts and jackets seemed like a pile of fall leaves.

“We can dictate how the winds blow, Sloan. When we apply force, watch how quickly these people drift in the direction we want. The lies they tell themselves about their principles will only last for so long. Pretense withers away in the light of reality.”

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3

“Within the first few pages of Northfield Saga: Apocalypse Bounty, I was immediately sucked into the post-apocalyptic world. Fisher does a great job of immersing you in the world, giving you questions to linger on right up until the very end. The book is well written, it is a fun read and I would recommend this book to anyone.”

—TRENTON PARROTTE, Amazon Reviewer

CALVIN B. FISHER

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

Storm Warning is third in his award-winning Northfield Saga series.

The first two novels in the Northfield Saga, Apocalypse Bounty and Stormrise, both won awards at the Southern California Book Festival and Stormrise also garnered an award at the New England Book Festival. Fisher’s 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.

STORM WARNING

Mark Northfield and Geralt Salb have escaped New Medea with Stormrise, but they are far from unscathed. Geralt Salb has received grievous injuries, and his life hangs in the balance. General Arkland is determined to destroy Stormrise and he is willing to use every tool at his disposal. He fights not merely with guns. He also employs psychological warfare. If he drives the populace to apathy, then Stormrise will have no power. Mark Northfield hopes for the light, but things only seem to grow darker. It is a battle of men, a battle of time, and a battle of wills, to secure the fate New Medea and declare a vision for the post-apocalyptic future.