Okay, life lesson for anyone who does or is considering go-karting: keep your damn hands on the wheel, especially if it's raining, hospital visits are not much fun.
On another more on-topic note, we're coming up to the end of the story, quite conceivably within the next three or four chapters. I still have the logs to write up for those characters I've not done yet and they'll come. Eventually.
Read on, and as always, I hope you enjoy.
The Pelanoi Accounts
Chapter Fifteen: Betrayal
The Survivors
Walking into the city of Faraquay was almost like taking a trip back to Elspeth City.
Unlike Elspeth, however, where abandoned, empty cars littered the streets as people tried to flee en masse from the terrible bloodshed that engulfed their home, Faraquay appeared much quieter. It was eerily silent, whereas in Elspeth you couldn't walk long without hearing screams or gunfire, or the shrieking of the monsters stalking the alleys in search of something to kill.
To devour.
'Can I just say how much I don't like this?' Randolf murmured softly as the ten survivors walked softly through a residential district. Flashy, modern apartment buildings lined the streets, which appeared strangely unmarked by the same carnage that had run rampant in Elspeth.
'It was your damn idea,' Sydney muttered darkly in response. Everyone raised an eyebrow at that. It was the most biting thing the usually quiet teen had ever said, which was proof enough that the stress was beginning to eat at her.
'Why's it so quiet?' Mary asked, an innocent question, phrased by a no longer innocent young girl who would be forever tainted by the nightmare unleashed on the island.
'Ain't that the million dollar question?' Leah mumbled; her gaze fixated on a drying pool of blood that lingered outside the smashed-in door to a corner shop.
'Isn't it?' Sema wondered aloud. 'If you remember Elspeth–'
'I'd rather not,' Leah interrupted. Sema shot her a look before continuing, 'if you remember Elspeth, it was absolute chaos: people running around left and right and those… monsters in the middle of it all. Here however… I mean, I'm no detective but here it looks like it was all business as usual until…' the nurse trailed off, letting the implications sink in.
'What, you're saying everyone here was sitting in their cubicles clack-clacking away on their keyboards while everything fell to shit around them? C'mon,' Ellen scoffed. 'People are dumb but they're not that dumb.'
'Well, what else makes sense?' Sema asked her. 'Aside from a few… obvious indications,' she said as she inclined her head in the direction of a broken-in door to an apartment complex, 'there's almost nothing to suggest anything like the panic that took place in Elspeth City happened here.'
They stopped for a moment and, for a moment, actually took in their surroundings. They all stood in the middle of a street that wouldn't have looked out of place in any modern first-world city. A few parked cars sat in little parking bays reserved for residents or employees of the handful of take-outs, family-owned eateries and convenience stores, and there were a handful of clear signs of violence; bloodstains, smashed windows and doors, a chillingly tiny bloody handprint on the window of a ground level apartment, but aside from that, nothing. There wasn't a single peep from the city, no signs of any fires, or indeed, as Sema indicated, any sign of panic.
'So?' Ellen asked. 'Maybe people are that dumb, your point being?'
'Whatever it is that is spreading on this island makes peop– corpses get up after they die, so far as I can tell. It sounds like the premise for a bad horror movie, but that's what it is. They get bitten; they die; they come back; they hunt; they kill, and the cycle continues.' Sema explained. 'The point I'm getting at is this: if everyone in Faraquay has been infected by the pathogen – and we have to assume that's what's happened here – then where exactly are they all now?'
No one said anything for a moment, letting Sema's words sink in.
Then a car window exploded.
And not long after that, they heard the gunshot…
The Mercenaries
Jäger bared his teeth in a frustrated grimace as he tweaked with his scope. He couldn't believe he'd fumbled another easy shot; he'd been too eager, way too eager to try and soothe his wounded pride and rub it in that jackass Dunbar's face that he'd completely forgotten that he'd adjusted his scope when he'd been scouting for whatever it was that was stalking them in the thick foliage of the wildlife preserve. Where exactly whatever it was had gone, he didn't know, it had abandoned its hunting of Grey Team shortly before they'd broken through the edge of the preserve, and at that moment he hadn't cared.
They had Tech to thank for putting them on the right track; whatever technological doo-dads he had installed in that campy mask of his had plugged him into the miraculously functioning CCTV systems around the city and upon first glimpse of their quarry he'd had a location pinned down in seconds and worked out the approximate route they'd take. Jäger and Viper had scouted out a sniper's perch, the latter of whom was on watch for anything that might fancy taking a bite out of either of them, and as the two of them had paced through the city, Jäger began to wonder at the state of the place. The leak had apparently started in Faraquay first, so where was all the damage? And where were all the BOWs? The silence was more than a little unnerving, and from the way Viper occasionally glanced around it was clear he didn't like it either.
They had climbed to the top of a multi-storey car park and set up on the top floor, granting them a lovely long view of the road their targets would eventually take. Scant minutes later they'd appeared, wandering down appearing almost dead on their feet from exhaustion; Jäger had almost felt sorry for his little walking targets. In the end, however, money talked, and Jäger's cut depended on him proving to the asshole in charge that he wasn't a liability.
In the end, however, he'd proven too impetuous and he'd paid for it with quite possibly the most embarrassing streak of misses in his career. His first shot went wide and shattered a car window, promptly ending the silence permeating the city. Jäger almost felt like he had defiled something sacred. That thought was pushed from his mind, however, as he hastily rattled off three more shots. Each one a miss, though his last almost winged the little girl standing by the big guy with the crooked nose. Shame, it would probably have been a mercy, all things considered.
The targets scattered and went to ground and Jäger swore vehemently in his native tongue as all ten targets escaped his grasp once again. Humiliation burned within him and he wanted to lash out at the nearest thing capable of feeling pain but he took a breath and willed himself to be calm. Dunbar and the rest of the team were on the way even now and would no doubt flush them out of their cover. All he had to do was readjust his scope and wait for them to come running into his crosshairs.
He liked the sound of that, so he took another breath, steadied himself, and leaned away from his scope before reaching up with one hand to fiddle with the settings, silently chastising himself for forgetting to readjust it when they were clear of the thick forest. He heard heavy footsteps approach him from behind, Viper.
'Stow it,' the German sniper muttered. So far the enigmatic mercenary had given no indication that he'd be the type to gloat over the mistakes of others, but he was still considerably bitter. 'I really don't want to hear any shit ri–'
Two muffled gunshots echoed throughout the car park.
Jäger found suddenly that he was unable to speak. He also realised that he was lying face down on the cold floor of the car park and that it was now excruciatingly painful to breathe.
'Wh… what?' he slurred through the pain.
Viper
The call came in just before Jäger began his embarrassing display of marksmanship.
'We have a development,' came the silky smooth, and distinctly female voice of Viper's employer. Viper turned to regard Jäger, hunched over his rifle eyeing up their quarry, before muting his helmet's external speakers, ensuring that no one could hear their conversation.
'What kind of development?' he asked.
'There is little time, so I will be brief,' she told him. 'The Americans are planning to sterilise the island. Preparations are almost complete. Within twenty-four hours Pelanoi will be reduced to a radioactive wasteland.'
'I see,' Viper replied.
'Finish your retrieval of my samples and extricate yourself immediately. We have several extraction vehicles waiting for you at various locations on Pelanoi. If you'd be so kind as to give me your location…?'
'Faraquay City, South district.' Viper responded.
'Interesting…' the voice murmured. 'In that event, the closest means of extraction would be in the Lampoon Fishing & Shrimping warehouse in the harbour. There is an entrance to a hidden basement in the manager's office where you'll find your vehicle all ready to go. I trust you're familiar with the IL-23 Submersible?'
The IL-23 was a two-man submersible covertly developed by Umbrella to carry samples or specimens under the nose of the various global security institutions such as the UN or the BSAA. It was quiet enough to escape all but the most powerful SONAR arrays and easy enough to handle that mastering the machine was a simple matter of hours. There were, however, precious few of these machines left following Umbrella's destruction. That his employer had managed to get her hands on one impressed him.
'I am.'
'Good. Once you're clear of Pelanoi and anyone who might be interested in what you're carrying, call the number I gave you at the start of your operation and we'll arrange a place to meet.'
'Understood. Viper out.'
With that the connection was terminated and Viper was left with a dilemma. He had enough on his person to meet the demands of his employer and the pay for that was already substantial on top of what G&G had already paid him even discounting the mission completion bonus he was forfeiting. On the other hand the strain of virus that smattering of blood in the ranger station had contained was like nothing he'd ever seen before, and that would almost certainly be of interest. Possibly enough for another twenty million at least.
He made up his mind as Jäger took his first shot.
Whirling his head around, Viper wondered if his position had just been made abruptly simpler, but the furious snarl on the German sniper's face made it clear that was not the case. Viper would have sighed in relief, but such displays were beneath him.
Then he noticed something that made him take pause.
His helmet's built-in motion sensor was picking up movement close by; a lot of them. Fast too. Definitely not the slow, stupid zombies, and most likely not the Licker specimens either. Which meant dogs or…
Jäger took another three shots, each of them flying wide if his venomous cursing was any indication.
Viper decided then and there that he'd have to cut Jäger loose. If he was in a calmer state of mind then maybe he could have persuaded the German to assist him, but his performance was dropping, he'd allowed Dunbar's dismissiveness of his abilities to eat at him, and that made him sloppy.
As it turned out, however, at that moment, Viper had a rather suitable use for a sloppy man.
He removed his silenced 8mm handgun – a heavily modified Roth-Steyr M-1907 – from its holster and calmly strolled up to the German. No sense taking chances and missing. Jäger noticed his approach but didn't turn around.
'Stow it,' he began as Viper raised the weapon. 'I really don't want to hear any shit ri–'
And then Viper fired.
Two shots, right through the abdomen, and Jäger dropped face-first on the ground; still alive but in no state to move and no doubt in some considerable pain. Blood began to stream from the holes punched in his flesh.
Something in the car park hissed. Viper whipped around, pistol up, and caught a glimpse of a hunched, reptilian profile with long, very sharp claws duck behind a van. He smirked to himself. He'd been almost dead on the money.
Hunters, and his motion tracker told him there were more, no doubt working themselves into a frenzy over the scent of fresh, hot blood. He spared Jäger a desultory glance to make sure he was still alive, dead flesh wouldn't provide much of a distraction. The German had turned onto his side and was staring up at Viper with a blend of confusion, shock and rage.
Viper spared him no words. The Hunters were approaching, and his window of escape was growing rapidly smaller. He holstered his pistol, unslung his G-36C and pounded for the exit, hearing the Hunters scream as they spotted Felix Jäger. Hearing the clatter of clawed feet as they rushed towards the dying merc.
Hearing his strangulated cries as they pounced.
The Survivors
'Scatter!' Tiffany screamed as she realised the danger they were all in.
Without another warning everyone scrambled behind cars or around corners as another three shots rang out, each thankfully flying wide, though one almost grazed Mary, drawing a surprised shriek from the poor girl.
Then they were all around or behind something solid, and silence reigned once more.
'Shit, shit, shit… holyshitshitshit,' Tiffany heard Cassidy breathe over and over to herself as she tried to make herself as small as possible behind the car she'd taken cover behind with herself and Kit. Randolf, Leah and Ellen were just beyond them crouched behind another car, while Nick, Mary, Sydney and Sema had rushed into an alcove.
For a tense minute nothing else happened, and everyone was silent, ears straining to pick out any indication they were still being tracked.
'Shit…' Kit cursed softly, 'is it them again?'
'I don't know, maybe,' replied Tiffany, willing herself not to focus on how close his face was to hers.
'Who else could it be?' Cassidy asked miserably.
Tiffany didn't have much of an answer to that.
'How the hell did these pricks get ahead of us?' Kit wondered, his tone uncharacteristically vicious. 'Can they track our movements or something?'
'They can't be.' Tiffany said shaking her head, 'I just… they can't. Unless they have a satellite tracking us or something…'
'That would be just our luck,' Cassidy moaned.
Tiffany glanced at Cassidy before taking her lapels roughly in one hand and shaking.
'What the–?!' Kit started, but Tiffany had stopped when he reached a hand out to stop her.
'Keep it together!' Tiffany said as she released the older woman. 'We're so close to getting off this island and we need you in one piece so you can work the boat. This sucks, I know, we get it. We pretty much live it by this point but dwelling on it and despairing is only going to get you and everyone else here killed! Are you hearing me? Or do I need to slap some sense into you?' the tone she took was not unlike the one she used when giving commands. This was the voice of "Mother Tiff" Connors, Captain in the US Marines, and it was a voice used to being obeyed.
Cassidy blinked, more than a little shocked at the rough treatment, but after a brief, tense moment she squeezed her eyes shut, and when they reopened, they were resolved. She nodded at Tiffany, who nodded back.
'Good, now we need to work out a way to get moving. Chances are if that is that kill-team on our butts then the others will be on their way to try and flush us out and we really don't want to be here when they are so…' she trailed off, cocking her head to one side. 'Can you hear that?' she asked.
Bemusedly, Kit and Cassidy shared a look before glancing around, trying to discern what exactly Tiffany had heard.
Then they heard it too.
It was a low, keening noise, and it had only escaped their notice until now because it had risen gradually following the din of the sniper shots, and it was growing steadily louder.
It was the din of almost all of Faraquay City's population of 202,133 raising their voices in a tormented cry of eternal, insatiable hunger.
'Oh shit…' Cassidy whispered.
The Mercenaries
Grey Team sans two were barely a corner away from their quarry when they too heard the cries of the dead.
'That doesn't sound good,' Tech remarked.
'It could sound terrible and I'd care just as much,' Alaina growled, fingering the trigger guard of her shotgun. 'C'mon, we're this close to finishing these arsewipes so let's get a fucking move on already.'
Elias grunted and gestured for the Irishwoman to take point, aware that they had little time before a veritable tidal wave of undead descended upon them and the prey. A tiny, barely-heard part of him wanted to just leave, the professional, however, needed to be absolutely sure that there were no loose ends.
As usual, it was the professional who won out.
They skirted through a back alley towards the street where Jäger would have pinned the survivors down (and killed at least a couple of them if he knew what was good for him), listening to the wailing of the dead grow louder and louder as they converged on the source of the gunshots. They rounded another corner and then all that stood between Grey Team and their prey was a flimsy chain-link door.
Alaina put on a burst of speed, pounding towards the portal before hunching her shoulders in and ramming into it. The door was almost thrown off its hinges by the force and Alaina Jenkins followed by the rest of Grey Team burst into the street…
…face to face with their targets.
The Survivors
The figures in black combat gear were unmistakable, and their sudden appearance caught all of them flat-footed and unawares. They were caught, and if the murderous glint in the lead woman's eyes was any indication, they were also dead. Unconsciously, Tiffany's hand sought out Kit's as they crouched and waited for the deathblows to come.
Burke
Jake Burke's heart hammered in his chest and time slowed to a snail's pace as he saw Alaina's face light up with savage glee. He'd tried to keep these poor bastards out of the crosshairs but it clearly hadn't been enough. Already, Tech and Elias had exited the alley, barely two steps behind Jenkins, and were spreading out, raising their own weapons to execute the group of survivors.
Deep in his subconscious mind he knew that this was deeply wrong and if he let this go ahead he would be irrevocably tainted. But how could he intervene? He didn't much have it in him to coldly gun down his squadmates, even if he disliked them. What can you do? Just follow your orders and you can go home. A voice in the back of his head told him. It would be easy to just stay back and let the rest of Grey Team do the dirty work. That way his hands would be clean, right?
His breath shaking, heart thumping, Jake Burke clamped his eyes shut…
…and made a choice.
The Survivors
A burst of gunfire from the alley shattered the shotgun of the short, blond woman at the front of the pack. Her expression of savage joy abruptly changed to one of abject confusion at the destruction of her weapon. The other two, the large man Tiffany and Kit had tangoed with in the Ranger Station, and another male wearing a mask similar to the one worn by the killer from the Scream movies, turned their heads in the direction of the attack.
'Ghost…' the big man spoke, his voice low and dangerous. 'What exactly are you doing?'
Another figure emerged from the alley. The one who had let them go last night, Tiffany was certain. For a moment she was completely and utterly at a loss as to what was going on.
The distinctly shorter mercenary, who had an SG553 submachine gun trained on the other three figures in black, did not respond. Instead he turned his head a fraction to regard Tiffany and Kit.
'Go on…' he said, his voice faintly trembling. 'Get out of here.'
Tiffany wasn't sure she'd heard correctly.
'I said go!' he suddenly shouted. The noise startled her into action and she warily picked herself up, watching the others do the same.
'Poor choice of action,' the British mercenary chuckled, it was a low noise, lacking any sort of humour and promising much pain. 'Jäger… shoot Burke if you will.'
Tiffany watched their saviour – Burke if she was any judge – freeze as he realised his peril. Nothing happened, however, and Burke remained standing.
'Jäger…' the man repeated, injecting a note of threat into his tone.
Still nothing happened.
Then the Hunters attacked.
It was so sudden. One moment they were in the middle of a stand-off. The next, a hunched, bulky reptilian monstrosity leapt from the top of a building to land behind the team of black-clad killers. A swift, savage blow severed the left arm of the mercenary with the Scream killermask and he staggered back, clutching the gushing stump and stumbling onto the claws of another Hunter which punched through his chest. The mercenary reached up to touch the bloody tips of the claws protruding through his torso, and then a powerful swipe removed his head from his body.
'Fucking run for it!' Sema screamed as more screeching Hunters began to land among them.
One of the creatures made a lunge for Ellen, who twisted to avoid its attack and, taking her .357 in both hands, fired twice at the creature, blowing great chunks out of its head and silencing the creature forever.
'Thank you Ethan,' she muttered under her breath. She hadn't liked the spiteful shit one bit, but those extra bullets he'd had – regardless of how few they had been – may very well have saved her.
Another Hunter landed with such force next to Tiffany and Kit that it cracked the asphalt, sweeping with its claws to behead the pair as the other had done to the mercenary. Kit threw himself to the side, tackling Tiffany over and sending them both sprawling. The movement was clumsy and fuelled by desperation, and in the collision Kit knocked his head against the road, dazing himself. Tiffany, however, was saved from any great harm by Kit, and in a smooth, practised movement she withdrew her pistol from her holster and unloaded on the BOW, emptying the entire magazine but killing the beast in the process.
Tiffany hurriedly picked herself up and hauled Kit along with her, turning to flee down the street with the others as the collective groaning of the undead grew in volume.
Burke
Jake was barely able to take in the shock he felt at the sudden, inexplicable death of Tech when Elias moved.
It was insane. One moment he was there, the next he was in Jake's face. The punch shattered the lens of his C3 gas mask and drove it into his face. Jake felt something in his face creak and blood streamed from his nose. Even as he staggered, Elias kept coming, jabbing twice before spinning on one heel and using the momentum of the spin to plant a kick in Jake's midsection that would have broken ribs were it not for his protective gear. The sheer force behind the kick, however, folded the Canadian mercenary in half and he collapsed to his knees.
Behind him, Alaina's sidearm barked, punching holes and gouging craters in the scaled flesh of more dropping Hunter BOWs. One landed with a heavy thud behind Elias, and that saved Jake's life. Elias realised the danger at almost the last second and stepped inside the Hunter's swing, and though it undoubtedly saved his life, the brute force behind the swing lifted the Brit off his feet and slammed him against a wall.
The Hunter shrieked and leapt, fully intent on capitalising on its advantage. Elias dropped and snatched up his MP7, pointing it squarely at the hulking creature before hammering on the trigger, unleashing a storm of lead which reduced its head and shoulders to bloody pulp. The Hunter sagged and fell on top of Elias, who cursed viciously as he struggled to haul its dead weight off of him. A quick look told Jake that Alaina was fending off two of the creatures and would have no way of dealing with him.
Jake sprang to his feet and started off at a bolt in the direction of the people he'd just saved.
'Burke!' a voice roared from behind him. Jake turned to see Elias gradually shifting the dead BOW off of himself. His upper body was painted with its blood and through the pane of his mask; Jake could see a smouldering fury in Elias' usually cold eyes.
'I'll have your goddamn head for this you treacherous weakling!' Elias bellowed; his voice full of raw, naked fury.
Jake blinked, and then, strangely, began to laugh. This entire situation was just so… out there, and now there was the cool, collected Elias Dunbar losing his shit because of him.
There was a lot that Jake Burke wanted to say in that moment, but there were more Hunter BOWs dropping from the top of a Chinese takeaway and he had no time for anything long.
So, instead, all he said was, 'Good luck,' before he turned and pelted after the survivors.
The Mercenaries
Alaina's shotgun was useless, so she dropped its shattered remains and whipped up her 9mm with one hand while drawing her knife with the other. The first Hunter to try and murder her the same way Tech had just gone received a face-full of 9x19mm Parabellum. Another landed next to its fallen buddy and leapt. In different circumstances, in a different mindset, Alaina Jenkins would have been unable to react and the monster would have born her to the ground and ripped her arms from their sockets before tearing into her throat.
As it happened, however, Alaina was running on all sorts of rage. Rage at seeing the chucklefucks who murdered her friend, rage at seeing the objects of her wrath grow steadily more distant, rage at being denied vengeance by a coward traitor who was even now scampering off like the rat he was, and rage at the creatures that dared to bar her path when she was so. Damn. Close.
Alaina jinked her head aside and raised her knife-arm while dropping into a crouch. The Hunter flew into the blade and passed harmlessly over the Irish mercenary, bisecting itself on the blade. It landed roughly, its maimed, torn mouth screeching bloody murder as its guts spilled from the gash carved into its belly. Alaina gave it a contemptuous look before planting three bullets into its head.
Three more Hunters landed and advanced on her. Alaina gunned down the closest with what was left of the magazine and swapped it out.
'You want a go?' she screeched, 'then let's go you lizard-faced fucks!'
Then a weapon chattered and the remaining two Hunters fell in a pile of shredded limbs and ruined bodies. Alaina turned to see Elias, covered in slick, hot blood, standing with his weapon clutched in both hands, having extricated himself from underneath the dead Hunter.
The two shared a look. Each was beyond pissed and each knew it. Slowly, Alaina nodded, and then Elias repeated the gesture. There were no words between them. Instead they took quick stock of their remaining equipment before haring off in pursuit of their targets.
-X-
And now we have an extract from one of the stories I'm writing in between my spare time (which I can now spend as I please now that I've been discharged). I debated on whether or not to just put it in a pastebin link but if I recall correctly, FF doesn't much care for links and it's terribly impersonal so in the end I just decided to paste the entire thing at the end of the story. Hope you enjoy a taste of what will hopefully be my first published novel Guardian.
-X-
Execution
The pole stands in the middle of the firing range, its battered, wooden form standing out like a beggar in a ballroom in the pristine white of the underground chamber. There are six others with me, each toting old rifles with a bolt that requires working in order to chamber each shot. It seems a very inefficient weapon to me, and though I and the other Guardians here can utilise it more effectively than any of the un-augmented soldiers in The Pit, I don't quite feel comfortable with it. If any of my comrades share these thoughts, their stony expressions hide them completely.
Behind us is a small group of individuals, all but one of them are in uniform, and not one is below the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel, with the Senior Officer being a stocky, grey-haired woman in her mid-fifties who bears the Crown, star and crossed sword and baton of a General of the British Army. The other is clearly non-military, judging from his slouched posture, unshaven face; long, greasy brown hair, and expression of unease. The way he regularly flits his eyes over all the uniforms tells me he's not much comfortable around them either.
I don't need anyone to tell me that we're on execution detail. I've got no doubt that the cameras monitoring the range are broadcasting the images they take now to a number of monitors across The Pit. The message is simple, and it's also the same one it has been the last hundred times, and will continue to be for a hundred more: This is the price you pay for betraying the human race.
I fondle the weapon, playing my fingers along the wooden (wooden!) stock of the weapon. This will be my first execution detail, and a morbid part of me wonders what killing one of our own feels like. I also wonder what the condemned did. I've heard that charges grow increasingly trivial, and I'm all but sure most of the unlucky sods are sentenced to death by a judge who wants to feel just a little in control of something in a world where control of our own planet is slipping. I and my fellow Guardians fight and we fight damn well, but there aren't many of us, and while we're damned tough we're far from invincible.
More worrying – at least to the people who tell us to die for humanity so that they won't have to – is that the number of "disappearances" among our ranks is growing, though no one will ever admit to it. They're called desertions in private. I know otherwise, I remember–
–slavering jaw and bloodshot eyes, her entire body trembles and she howls like a banshee as she leaps at me, clawing for my throat and gnashing her bloody teeth–
–my last encounter with an alleged "deserter". I close my eyes and feel the constant throb that is usually nothing more than a dull, irritating ache that I'm able to push to one side most of the time. Seeing her, though–
–babbling like a newborn as she smashes Jared's head to paste, her pale, grey, unfocused eyes never leaving mine as she wails for the pain to end–
–made me wonder about… well, everything: the training, the augmentations… the suit and the melding process. Did Caitlin know about the pain? Would she have tried to spare me from it if she had? I almost scoff at the thought: put one child ahead of how many thousands of lives I could potentially save if I was melded to the suit?
Not even if you asked?
I pause, considering the question carefully before denying it. No. No one shared a bond like we do, but if it had been me in her shoes; I doubt I'd have done anything differently even if I had known what an excruciating process the melding would be, and I chide myself for the stupid, selfish thoughts. This was never about me, or any one child. This was about humanity.
This was about survival.
'Room-shun!' the general bellows and all seven of us react instinctively to the commanding tone, straightening and standing at attention, rifles clamped in both hands with a synchronisation that would have made any parade detail green with envy.
'Execution detail! Prepare to receive the condemned!' the general barks. The door to the range hisses open and I hear footsteps behind us; today's dead man and his escort. The footfalls of the prisoner sound strange, however; light. A woman in heels, I decide. I hear the heavier steps of the general who reads the charges; sabotage of some unspecified project, the assault of military personnel. Tedious stuff.
Until I register the name…
…and then I think I feel my heart stop in my chest.
No, you heard that wrong. There's no way it'd be–
But then the prisoner is made to walk across the range to the pole and I see her properly.
Caitlin Woods.
She is thin, much thinner than I remember her being, and her skin tone is waxy and pale. The bags under her eyes are so pronounced she looks like someone's drawn around them in felt pen. Her once wavy blonde hair appears dry and is streaked with silver. She is dressed, as always, in a white lab coat and dark pencil skirt, with black heels. Two guards, in those grey-white patterned fatigues, walk her to the pole and tie her to it. One takes a blindfold from his pocket and offers it to her.
Take it, I think to myself as the rifle in my hands seems to gain a thousand kilos of weight. Don't look; don't see me here, not like this. Not here of all places of all times.
She declines it, of course. The guards finish binding her and leave the range, getting themselves out of the line of fire. Then she looks across the range at us.
At me.
For a moment she wears the most pained face I've ever seen her wear, and the display is a thousand poisoned needles ripping through my heart. The expression is gone in the time it takes to blink, replaced by weary acceptance of her situation. My pulse quickens and nausea builds in my gut. I start to feel eerily disconnected from myself. I'm fighting a losing battle to control my breathing until a sharp command freezes me on the spot. Do they know of my relation to her? I wonder. Stupid question; of course they do. They must. So they must also know that I cannot go along with–
'Guardian Etrius!'
It's the general. I instinctively snap to attention and in that moment I loathe the way my body responds to her, to this old, fat woman who has the gall to use that name. My name. The one Caitlin gave to me.
'About turn!' she commands.
I almost comply.
A stunned silence falls over the firing range. I notice that the Guardian to my side – an Indian I know as Nitish – gives me a wary look. If I continue with this insubordination, I expect they'll order the rest of the execution detail to detain me, meaning that my "friend" is now sizing me up for the best way to bring me down.
'Etrius!'
It's Caitlin this time who calls my name.
'Don't,' is all she says as she shakes her head and smiles. It's a bitter, broken smile, but despite that I can see that even now, she worries for me.
The sight of it breaks my heart.
'Don't make me do this,' I whisper in a small voice.
No one hears me.
'Detail! Present arms!' Another voice orders, one of the Colonels this time. The command is so sudden that my rifle is up and my eyes lowered to the sights, which waver over Caitlin's heart before I can even register the movement. I feel light headed. This isn't right. This isn't right. Thisisn'trightthisisn'trightthisisn'tri–
'Etrius!' she calls one more time, snapping me out of my stressing. I don't want to meet her gaze. Oh God if you're really there please don't make me–
'Etrius!' she shouts, more urgently this time.
I wish I was a weaker sort, so I wouldn't have looked into her tired green eyes for the last time.
Instead I look, rifle shaking in my hands. Footsteps echo behind me. Will they put a gun to my head and threaten to shoot me if I don't kill her? Maybe that would be better.
'I'm sorry,' Caitlin tells me. I think I hear her voice break a little bit, 'I wish I could have spared you a lot of things. I really wish I could have at least spared you this, but I can't. But you need to get through this. I need you to get through this. It breaks my heart that this is the way it's turned out, but…'
There it is.
Caitlin Woods, a brilliant mind with a compassionate soul, and the closest thing to a mother I've ever had, is telling me that I have to kill her.
'I'm sorry again, Etrius, but I need you to do something for me when I'm gone.'
I barely manage a nod nod, and then another voice bellows for us to load. The speed with which I comply with the order horrifies me as I work the bolt, sliding a bullet into the chamber. The order to fire is miliseconds away; I can already hear the officer frantically drawing his breath to give it. Why now? Why don't they let her finish speaking? What is it they don't want her telling me?
'Save them,' she says simply, her eyes not leaving mine even as the guillotine drops.
'Fire!'
And without even a moment to think about it, I and six others slip our fingers inside the trigger guard, slide across the smooth, slender trigger, and squeeze.
And extinguish a life.