In which tomorrow looks a little like yesterday.


The God of the Sun


"You're safe now."

Zofia almost believed him. Wanted to, at any rate, because she'd been scared for far too long. Ever since that morning with the shattering glass, the gunfire and the screaming, fear had been all she'd known. Hunger, too. A constant pinch in her stomach that kept her awake at night.

You're safe now, hadn't been something she'd expected to hear again. Ever.

"We'll shelter you. We'll care for you," he continued, eyes sweeping across the five women in front of him.

Or girls, rather, none older than her. All trembling faintly as they stood shoulder to shoulder in a room that smelled of naked terror.

The man paced. Kept looking at them, from left to right and right to left, his gaze sharp and heavy. He had his arms folded behind his back, and the way he fixed on them, and how his steps were smooth and calculated, he reminded her of a cat.

Her nose itched.

A mean cat in a neatly tailored suit, the front wide open to show off a tattooed, hard front.

His men called him Rais. The same men who'd dragged her, kicking and screaming and crying, out from under a bed. Zofia swallowed. Scratched at her still aching scalp. They'd got a handful of her hair, and it still hurt. Pretended to, anyway, the ghost of sharp pain where they'd yanked her around.

You should have run. Why didn't you run?

Tears stung at her eyes. She blinked them away. Tried to, hard as she could, knew it wouldn't work, because she remembered the blood and the dead downstairs when they'd pulled her to the door. Not everyone had hid like her. Some had stayed to fight.

"All we ask in return," Rais continued, "is your loyalty. Your devotion. Respect. Know your place, serve us and obey, and you'll never want again."

He didn't need go into any more detail. Not really. The other men's bright, greedy eyes spelled it out well enough. And when one of them said something in Arabic to his friend, and both of them laughed, the first girl started crying. Her ugly, raw sobs spread like wildfire, travelled the whole line of frightened sheep with the wolves closing in. Mixed with pleas for mercy, for clemency, to please, please, let me go. My husband-boyfriend-I-can't-you-can't-don'thurtmeplease.

Except they could, even if Zofia couldn't quite grasp the concept. She tried to puzzle it out. Tried to figure where this'd all turn out to be a big misunderstanding, or a horrible, horrible, prank. The zombies, too. The quarantine. This. It had to be, no? Her ears rang with how hard her heart pumped blood, and she tasted bile at the back of her throat. And somehow, she forgot to cry like the rest of them.

She stood very still, instead. Stared straight ahead. Stared at Rais when he stopped pacing in front of her, a cruel smile pulling his lips up. Around them, people moved. Girls yelped. Begged. She barely heard it all.

"What's your name?" he asked and studied her, eyes focused and clear. Like a cat eyeing a bird before it pounced.

"Fi? Fi - Zofia?"

Crane's voice found her, walked back in time for her, and popped the memory like a balloon filled with soot and rot.

"Let her down."

The window slipped out of view, Rais along with it, and there were hands and voices and she couldn't breathe. Everyone and everything came together in a tight knot. Which made it difficult to tell people apart, who was saying what— and why was Taylor talking to Damien, Damien wasn't here. Wasn't like he could do a bloody thing.

Wasn't like any of them could.

"Hey— Fi. Hey— look at me."

She blinked at Crane. Swallowed. Whimpered, a pathetic, mewling sound she'd have loved to choke back down her dry throat. And her fingers ached. All of them, even the ones she'd lost.

"Tell me what you saw," he asked. "Like, how many are there?"

Another swallow. Another twitch of her fingers, and then there was focus, the memory— the past —shunted off to be dealt with another time.

She started simple. "Three trucks." Told her heart off for wanting to stop. Took a shaky breath. "Military. Front one had four people. Two each in the rest— Crane— it's him. I swear. It is. I don't know how, but he's here. He shouldn't be." Choke. "Here."

Crane nodded. Squeezed her neck. "I believe you. Okay? We're getting out of this though. Promise."

Would he ever stop lying? Pretending?

Zofia willed a bit of steel into her spine. Bobbed her head up and down in docile agreement, and let him get to work. Because lies or not, he'd always try.

Though he didn't get very far, barely had time to take in a breath to start bossing people around, before a voice she'd love to forget but never would, popped the last sliver of hope that she'd just been imagining it all. Hope that she hadn't even known she'd been clinging to.

"Crane. Kyle Crane ? Come to grace us with his presence in my humble kingdom? I can scarcely believe it."

Zofia slipped her tongue between her teeth and bit down. Not too hard, just enough to sting a little. Stop her from making another noise, lest he hear her. Know she was in here, too. Couldn't let him know, because then he'd walk right through that door that'd fallen shut on them, and take her away.

For now, he stayed outside. Hand on the deadbolt, for all she knew, laughing and clapping, the sounds so sharp they cut right through her and silenced everyone else. Enough for her to hear Crane's gloves creak as he balled his hands into fists.

The hush lasted until Rais addressed whatever crowd had formed outside. In Arabic, no less, which left her staring at the door, feeling dumb atop of scared, while her mind grabbed for anything that might sound familiar. Nothing did, because she'd always been horrible with languages and Harran hadn't changed that.

"Who is this guy?"

Zofia blinked. Of course, Russel wouldn't know, how could he?

"Suleiman," Taylor put forward. "But I thought he was dead?" It sounded a little like an accusation.

To which Crane replied with a grunt. A rather aggressive one that bordered on a growl.

"You're in luck though," Rais continued out there. He sounded closer now. Like he'd half passed through the wood, seeped through it like a nightmare wanting for a shape. "I heard while I was in the neighbourhood, tending to my people. Just in time for a little detour to come welcome you myself. Give you all the attention deserving of Harran's famous hero."

"I'm glad you're so fucking delighted, Rais." Crane ground the words up, sounding a little like his throat was lined with a serrated edge. "Why don't we shake hands. Just you and my fist."

Rais laughed. "Still volatile as ever, I'm almost glad to hear you haven't changed at all."

"He should have died," she whispered. A pointless, obvious statement, and now it was Meghan's turn to squeeze her shoulder. Squeeze-squeeze-there-there, because somewhere between that godforsaken bunker and the now, she'd figured it all out. Or maybe Crane had told her everything, since the man leaked words worse than a suburban housewife. Except he meant well. Generally.

Then the deadbolt came free, and they all died. Right then and there— wait— all eyes cut to the other door, and watched it inch open. Slowly. Carefully, until a beam of light cut inside, and a pair of green eyes peered through the gap.

The girl from the house. Ezgi?

"Come. This way. He won't be talking forever."

She had a heavy accent, though not as thick and unwieldy as everyone else they'd met here so far, including her father. And she was helping.

No one needed telling twice. They let Rais rant, go on and on about how Crane better not be thinking to chew off his own leg like a trapped fox and blah, blah, blah. His audience all but tripped out of their dusty prison and followed Ezgi and her torch, shuffling between wooden crates stacked to form an inconvenient maze.

"Our gear," Crane asked, his voice low, but still harsh enough to carry forward, "where's our gear?"

Ezgi turned on the spot, flicked her torch up at him. He grunted. And walked right into a crate.

Bloody klutz, she thought and caught the crate against her side as it tried to slide to the floor.

"Your gear is back at the house. Which is right past Rais and his men."

Zofia's heart gave a painful squeeze. The bow. You're never going to see it again. Ever. Again. Why was she thinking about her bow of all things? Wasn't like the thing had been awfully useful lately. And wasn't like it'd help with any of this.

"Great." Crane huffed. The whole group had picked up moving again, a little more careful than before. "So, where we going? You got some loose floorboards to stick us under?"

She scoffed. "No. I am taking out of here. I can get you past the farm walls, and I know a place where we can hide."

"Woah— wait- we?"

Ezgi stopped. Her torch winked out.

"Yes, you're taking me with you. I'm not staying here another day, and besides—" She nudged another door open. Motioned them out, one by one. "—I don't plan on finding out what Rais would do to me if he found out I helped you. When he finds out."

Clever lass.

Outside, night had come and got comfortable. It'd thrown stars into the darkened skies, and brought a chill to the air, loaded heavy with moisture— and Zofia knew she ought to be worrying about that a lot more than she presently was. But as they slunk through the shadows like a bunch of thieves, her mind caught on something else entirely.

Just as they slipped from behind one barn to the next, she saw him again. Much clearer this time, stood in a literal ring of light pooling around him, his arms folded behind his back. He still grew the same, pointed beard. Still kept his hair short. Still commanded with the same confident air that'd earned him both fear and respect when he'd ruled his last kingdom. The one that'd fallen. Which she'd kind of helped with.

Zofia almost jumped from her skin when Meghan grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her along.

Oh. She'd stopped moving.

The gate Ezgi brought them to— same as the one they'd passed through earlier —was guarded. Two men, both armed, and equally distracted. Thin, blue smoke curled off the end of the fag one of them held pinched between his lips, the smell of cheap tobacco scratching at her lungs.

Zofia tried not to cough, since that'd give them away, though as it turned out she really hadn't needed to bother. Since way across, on the other corner of the farm, Rais nodded to the door. The door that he expected to find them behind. Where he wouldn't—

They'd run out of time. Except when'd that ever stopped Crane?

He threw a look to Meghan, before quirking a brow into the direction of the guards. She nodded. Quick and grim. And with a "Let's do this," he approached the guard on the left. Tapped him on the shoulder even, all polite and "Excuse me—" until he swung at him, hard, the dull smack of fist hitting meat and bone entirely too loud.

Right the same moment, Meghan wrapped an arm around the second guard's throat, who spluttered and wheezed, the fag dropping from his lips and tumbling off into the dirt.

While Crane snatched the stunned man and dragged him out of sight, Meghan walked hers backwards, until he sagged and sagged and sagged and eventually went limp as she dropped him to the side.

They took their weapons. Their ammunition. Across the farm, Rais screamed: "Find them!" and Ezgi unlocked the thick padlock on the gate.

"Get ready to run."

No one argued with that either. Even if they all knew what'd wait for them out past the sheltering, blue lights. Wasn't like they had a choice.

The gate rattled when she flung it open. Drew everyone's attention, and that got Rais real mad, seeing them slip out right under his ugly, hooked nose. It was a little odd, how she feared him screaming after them more than the nightmares out in the dark. How she could run through tall grass whipping against her legs, feel the evening dew soak her trousers, and know they were around here, somewhere, yet all she could think of was him.

Catching her.

Taking a lot more than he'd already done.

Piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

Motors roared to life. Growled and whined as the trucks she'd seen earlier sped from the gate. Their headlights swept across the fields, wide, blinding cones that made her own shadow dash on ahead of her.

If only she could outrun it.

Instead, she whipped her head around. Stumbled. Saw the trucks chew up the ground, coming closer— closer— until heads and arms and rifles poked out of passenger windows.

"Pick up the fucking pace, people!"

She turned forward. Did as Crane told her, never mind that she was a little ahead already. Was running headlong into nothing, the night finally coming alive with the monsters that'd been bored all day long.

Dirt kicked up next to her. CRACK CRACK-CRACK-CRACK Bullets zipped past her, thudded into earth and rock, and every shot coming after them made her back ache, muscles pulling taut with the expectation of getting hit. But that'd be fine. Better to die running like a rabbit from the baying hounds, than get caught. Or get torn to shreds by the shadows she saw darting through the black. Not many. Just two or three, but enough.

And then there was one shot that wasn't quite like the others. For one, it was louder. More of a hollow BWAHM-SNAP followed by a loud whistle that ended in crunch somewhere behind them. Hadn't come from the same direction either, but from somewhere in the pitch.

Zofia's foot caught on something. Tangled grass, maybe, firm enough to trip her, and she went down in a halfway decent roll. Wheezing, she pulled herself back up, only to have her arm snatched anyway as Crane hurried by and plucked her up. Because that was just what he did.

On the way up, she saw the lead truck… no longer leading. It rolled off in the distance. Had a nightmare on its back, too.

BWAHM-SNAP

A white spiderweb broke apart on the second truck's windshield. Instantly, the truck veered to the side, hard enough for the whole bloody thing to upend. The crunch of metal bending as it rolled twice was loud enough to call the whole damn night to dinner.

And because even truck number three knew that, it didn't as much slow, as it skidded to a stop, the nose dipping low. Though whether or not it turned tail, she didn't know and didn't care.

She ran on and on, with Crane next to her whooping "Great shooting, asshole!" and not once letting go of her. Even when they'd left the farm, and whatever'd amounted to hope, far behind.


Taffer Notes: Alright. So, if it wasn't obvious before that I wasn't kidding when I mentioned that "The Following" is turned on its head in Latchkey, then maybe it's clear enough now. And because there is a lot of work to do yet for me, and I have a very busy month coming with April, updates will be suspended for a while. With Part 1: Insert Coin done, this is a good a place as any for me to take a break and finish up a bit of plotting.

Latchkey Hero will be back with more episodes in May. I'll miss you all.