XX

Author's Note: New username, same me. I changed my username to coincide with the same name I use across my gaming and social media platforms. I will try to update more consistently. A special thank to the loyal readers that continue to follow this project. I owe this to you.

If DEV was a man, Damon envisioned strangling him to at least within an inch of his life, just before he blacked out. It was some of the best sleep he'd gotten in a while, so much so that the AI's incessant chirp to wake him up was almost criminal in it's method. Then again, he always felt emotionally irrational in the mornings, or whatever time it was. It was hard to keep track. But Aaron had news, obviously so important that he needed to talk in the middle of the night of what would normally be 3:15 am back on Earth. Time, it seemed, was a foreign concept to him.

Damon rolled out of the bed, funneling this legs into a pair of black sweats and a grey hoodie. He laced up his boots, flipped the hood over his head, and walked out of his room. The empty halls felt chillier than normal, the air almost prickly to his skin. He wanted coffee, or at least some energizer to keep him going. The barley substitute was nothing like the real stuff. Two creams and four sugars—perfection in a cup. Had someone smuggled some in the camp, he was sure he could smell it from kilometers away. Maybe what Aaron had to say was enough stimulant for him to remain awake.

He arrived at the reclusive conference room D. The door was shut, the handle stiff from being locked from the other side. Damon grunted and placed two firm knocks.

"Who's there?" a muffled voice barked.

Damon rolled his eyes. "Ya mama. Open the door."

The lock disengaged and the door swung open with Aaron on the opposite end. He looked the way Damon felt, his checkered shirt was varying blues loosed and crooked at the collar. Two of the old office chairs were pulled close together, making a U-shape. The armrests were removed and on the floor, with Aaron's outer jacket on the empty seats.

"Aren't we testy this evening?"

"It's technically morning, jackass." Damon pushed the door further for him to walk through. He pulled up one of the chairs around the table and sat down, rubbing his left eye. "What's this about?"

Aaron sat down in front of him, leaning forward with hands clasped together. "I got something, and it's huge. My source checked out. He didn't know anything our stowaway specifically, but he pointed me in the right direction. Turns out that our guy has been stealing food."

Damon appeared unfazed. 'That's not out of the ordinary. They gotta eat."

"But get this: my source led me to those walking mannequins, the Cambridge's. The husband told me—and let's be real, this guy seriously looks like a mutant and his wife has the lips of a mud skipper—"

"Aaron," Damon sighed.

"Yeah, right. Sorry," he continued. "They told me that a bulk of their food got stolen during the census we had a month ago. Hubby Hawk-face said that he ran into someone before he left the mess hall. He didn't get a good look, but this person bumped into him. Now here's the kicker: he said he had the keys to to the pantry in his right pocket. When the census was over, the keys were now in his left pocket. He thought he may've switched pockets without knowing it, but I'm not convinced. How often do you switch which pockets your keys are in… I mean, really?"

"Not much, if at all," Damon shrugged. He pulled up from his slouched posture. "You think his keys got lifted?"

"And they were returned when the theft was complete," Aaron followed up. "Think about it. That census took a couple of hours. That's plenty of time to stock up; and the food that was taken have elongated expiration dates, so nothing delicate. Let's add this all up: excellent stealth tactics, has basic medical training, tradecraft, long-term survival prowess, and—with the exception of the blood trail—is great at covering evidence of their existence. Hear me out, but it has to be one of them."

Damon stiffened. His mouth suddenly felt dry, his tongue like sandpaper. He immediately stood up, almost unaware that he began pacing. His mind turned to soup, congealed, and then hardened. Shaking his head, he pointed at Aaron. "No. I'm not even gonna entertain that."

Aaron looked almost offended. "What else explanation is there? I don't know anyone else here with those type of skills. It fits, and you know it."

Damon cleared the distance between himself and Aaron within a second, leaning over the table with the underside of his fist striking the artificial wood surface. "They're dead. They're all dead. You have to know that."

"We don't know that 100%," Aaron countered. "Did we ever go out there and find the bodies? No, we didn't. We just assumed it."

"You don't need..." Damon lowered his rising volume. "You don't need to assume anything that's a fact. The timetable doesn't fit. If anything, it's impossible. It doesn't matter how you calculate it."

Aaron gritted his head and sighed explosively. "What about the fence and the tracks? We never followed them to see how far they went."

"What about them? I walked that fenceline every 72 hours. I would've noticed if someone was sneaking in and out."

"I'm not questioning the quality of your patrols, but these were deceptive and crafty people. They could've easily covered their tracks."

"Aaron," Damon held up his hand, easing back his temper. "You have to understand the possible ramifications of what you're saying. I admit, we're dealing with a person that has some skills, but you can't jump to the conclusion you chose."

"This ain't hop-scotch. I didn't jump at anything. I thought about this. You think that I like that this is a possibility? Hell no, buddy." Aaron got up from the table, placed his hand on Damon's shoulder. "Look, man, I know this triggers some memories that we're all trying to forget. All I'm saying is that we may know our enemy here. Maybe we didn't get them all."

Damon looked up at the dark ceiling for a moment, half hoping the tiles would swirl open and devour him. Aaron couldn't have been right. Unfortunately, the man was usually right most of the time. It was in this moment that Damon hoped he wasn't. Their problems would come full circle if he was. There had to be another explanation. "I'm not ready to commit to this, but I won't rule it out."

"Well, if I am right, then we have two concrete suspects," Aaron added.

Damon pulled his eyes from the ceiling and turned to face Aaron. "And whom might that be?"

"Pearce and Diaz. It's obvious, don't you think? Maybe this stowaway is getting some help from a familiar source. It certainly explains a lot."

Damon had to sit down. He rubbed his right temporal in a rotating motion with his eyes closed. "They're on our side, man. They fought with us."

"You and I know that doesn't always mean absolute unity. We could be mortal enemies, but I'd fight by your side if it meant we could defeat a common enemy greater than us. And more, it's a helluva tactic to save your own skin and stay above suspicion."

"No, I don't think so," Damon denied.

Aaron rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Jeez, are you sleeping with her? Diaz, I mean."

Damon's face twisted. "What?! Hell no!"

"Then why are you defending her?" Aaron ran his hands down his face. "You know who and what she is. Pearce, too. Hell, I don't even know anything about him, do you? I highly doubt he's simply her sidekick or executioner. The man barely has a history we can trace back to. But the one thing we do know about them is that they're insurgents. Maybe not 100%, but they're sure as hell affiliated."

"I'm just saying that this isn't the time to cause division, Aaron. I'm not interrogating them, and neither are you. Let's focus on finding this person first before we start pointing fingers."

Aaron grumbled, glancing down at his boots with intense focus. He exhaled, nodding slowly as he loosened his fists. "Okay. We'll do it your way, but if we come up cold, I'm following my gut. I know they're involved, one way or another."

"You're free to think that," Damon expressed. "But it's our job to keep everyone here safe and together. If otherwise proved, Pearce and Diaz are on off the radar."

Aaron waved his hand dismissively. "Fine."

"Look, I'm going back to sleep." Damon headed towards the door. "We'll continue this after breakfast. An hour afterward? Then we'll snuff this coward out."

Aaron managed a nod. "Yeah, sure." He gestured toward Damon. "I never asked how your end turned out. Your guy know anything?"

Damon tensed up. He slid the door open and stepped through. "No, not a thing."

It was less than 36 hours until the night cycle would end and the people began to feel restless, optimistic. Fifteen days of darkness was coming to an end soon and the sun would return for just as long. If the threat of asphyxiating before freezing to death wasn't their immediate reality, Damon figured all of them walk outside to feel the rays on their faces. He'd slept in today, grabbing a few extra hours before rising to catch the tail end of breakfast. The interchange with Aaron was still fresh on his mind. It was something he couldn't readily dismiss. It was an astute observation, albeit a farfetched one. But… if there was a small possibility that he was right, 4th of July fireworks would seem dim and unimpressive to the show that it would cause. He imagined Aaron was eagerly waiting for him once breakfast was concluded, to finally conjure up some plan to find this mystery threat.

Damon finished up his powdered eggs, washing them down with what he assumed was a grape juice substitute that was cloudy and beige in color. He prepared to stand to deliver his tray to the dish-washing team before he saw Naomi walking through the entryway. She looked like she'd just woke up herself, her black hair pulled up in a frizzled bun atop her head. Taking a tray from the rack, she accepted the food placed in the compartments, grabbed a bottle of juice, and went to find a seat. Damon put his head down with a wince, covering the side of his face with his left hand. He was waiting for a train of Spanish expletives and other insults hurled his way after their previous interaction. Maybe she wouldn't notice him.

A tray clacked down on the table.

Damon pinched his eyes shut and exhaled. He opened them and slowly looked up to see Naomi sitting across from him with her undeniable crass expression across her face. He figured she wouldn't cause a scene. "If you're here to call me a jackass, then go ahead."

Naomi wordlessly took her plastic knife and fork and sliced off a piece of her small ham steak. She took a bite and chewed it slowly as she maintained eye contact with him. "You are a pendejo, but that's not why I sat here."

Damon slid his tray to the side and folded his arms across the table. "Okay, then why?"

"I thought about what you said earlier and I thought I'd help."

"I'm sorry, but you wanna do what now?"

Naomi rolled her eyes. "I'll help you find your person, but let's get one thing straight: I don't like my personal history being drudged up. I had a mind rearrange your sac with my boot, but I thought otherwise." She sipped the grape juice with a grimace. "You came to me, so show some respect. That goes for Polanski, too! Speaking of which, does he know we talked?"

Damon pulled back from the table and scratched the back of his head. "He doesn't, and you can imagine that he won't be as open to your help as I am. We plan on meeting in a few minutes to discuss our next plan of action."

"Well, Mr. Vasher..." Naomi wiped her hands and extended one to Damon. "Looks like we better get going."

Damon nibbled on his lower lip and set his eyes on her outstretched hand. What the hell, he thought. He shook her hand.