Warning: Rated for themes of horror and implied violence.
Only Shadows Ahead
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The restaurant is lovely. A quaint, dimly-lit little place on the outskirts of town. Crisp, white tablecloths and a tea-light candle flickering away within a glass jar. The entrees are placed on the table and they dig in.
Linka smiles shyly, taking a delicate bite out of her garlic bread as her dinner partner chats away.
He's an accountant from Washington. Luke can't seem to take his eyes off her. Brushing crumbs from the corners of her mouth, the memory of how they first met distracts her from the inane chatter about corporation tax credits and financial investments.
She had run into him several times before now, always at the same time and place — a coffee cart located in the foyer of that nondescript building that was absolutely, definitely not being utilised by the CIA.
Even though it was.
That coffee cart soon became her temporary safe haven; desperate to escape the monotony of the meetings, the computer screens. The sneers levelled at her by the chief computer analyst. Wanting to escape the feeling that she was butting her head against a brick wall.
He worked across the street — an investment company that had two or three surnames linked together in an effort to make the company sound more impressive than what they probably were. Even better was the fact that he didn't recognise her.
Today, on her fifth visit to Washington (and the third time she had bumped into Luke) he had asked her out on the spot, proposing an early dinner.
Glancing back towards the lifts, the usual thoughts entered her mind.
I do not have time for this.
I just want to go home.
It isn't going to work.
And the unexpected admission that trumped all the others: that she'd rather be curled up on the couch next to Wheeler tonight watching a scary movie, pretending not to enjoy his fingers playing with her hair.
She'd surprised herself by accepting, tying things up in the offices upstairs and meeting Luke in the foyer ten minutes later.
He's still talking, asking about her day. She considers telling him the truth — that she spent the morning in Mexico dealing with a shipment of dead, native birds, and her afternoon getting into a heated verbal screaming-match with that ublyudok of a computer analyst.
That she's stressed, burnt-out, frustrated, angry, over-tired — and perhaps even a little lonely.
But she doesn't tell him any of that. She says her day was fine, thank you for asking. How was yours?
He's a lovely man. Tall and thin with glasses. Very intelligent and well spoken. Does all the right things. Opens doors for her. Listens attentively. Smiles a lot. Makes eye contact. He's very kind and gentle in his mannerisms.
But she's not attracted to him.
Not in the least.
The main meals arrive and she eats slowly, glancing around the restaurant. A few young families are present. An older couple in the corner eat their dinner in silence, and a pair of lovebirds are seated three tables away from their own. She watches them with a small pang of jealousy as the young man leans in and kisses his partner.
Feeling frustrated that despite the numerous come-ons and offers she's had over the years — she has a limited basis for comparison when it comes to matters of a sexual nature.
Two or three dates here or there. A brief fling with a rugged-looking park ranger last year who she'd kept everyone in the dark about — including Gi. The experience had left her wondering what all the fuss was about. She'd approached the act itself almost like a science experiment. Detached and distant.
For the most part though, she's kept herself emotionally unavailable to men. Her reasoning was mostly determined by her work and her circumstances, but also partly self-inflicted. By choice — until now, that is.
She's starting to grow weary of it.
Luke is asking her how the food is, and she replies that it's delicious. His gaze subtly drops down to her cleavage, before sweeping back up to her face again. She chews her pasta slowly, passing her arms across her chest in an effort to conceal the soft swell of her breasts, briefly wondering what it is about that area that fascinates men no end.
They discuss some political and world events for another hour before ordering coffees. He really is a sweet man, but she doesn't have that sense of nervous butterflies. The heat rising when he smiles, or the tingling sensation when his hand brushes hers.
She doesn't find herself wheezing with laughter at something horrendously inappropriate that he's said.
She can't imagine passing out next to him in the middle of a movie. Waking up — disorientated — with her hair styled in a wild and colourful assortment of fourteen plaits and piggy-tails, sticking out in all directions.
She's unsure if he would be so bold as to pull her into his lap and wrap his arms around her waist on public transport, supposedly due to a lack of available seats.
She doubts he would put his life on the line for her time and time again.
Luke raises his hand, gesturing for the cheque. She continues sipping her coffee and when the bill arrives, she offers to pay her half but he refuses.
They grab their coats and he leads her out into the street. He says he lives down the road. Would she like him to call her a cab from there?
"Da," she replies. "All right."
They walk for a while, making small conversation. He's still glancing at her every now and then, and she assumes he's sizing her up. Wondering what she looks like under her black woollen dress.
He stops outside of an older-style stone facade, a set of four apartments. They climb the stairs before reaching the door. She's distracted, peering at the surnames on the buzzer panel as the hair she had so carefully straightened earlier that morning blows about her face.
He reaches forward and tilts her chin upwards. She blinks, about to say something but he closes the distance between them.
It's all a bit awkward. She stands stiffly, pressed against the door frame as his mouth bears down on hers. He grips her hips and pulls her closer towards him.
"Wanna come up for a drink?"
His voice is full of cautious optimism. He kisses her again, and she places her palms against his chest before stepping back nervously.
"I really should go," she whispers, as his hand moves higher, resting just under the curve of her breast. "It will take me a while to get back."
"Can I see you again?"
She doesn't want to disappoint him so she nods, intending on letting work and distance assist her in gradually letting things go.
She makes it back to the Geo-Cruiser and sets the coordinates of the short-term apartment they're staying in. Running on auto-pilot not just in terms of the aircraft, but in a metaphorical sense as well.
Settling back into the pilots seat, she stares out into the gloom and light rain, feeling vaguely unsettled. The CIA visits are taking a toll on her, not to mention Kwame's incident several months prior. It is the closest any of them have come to death and it was a wake-up call, highlighting just how dangerous their job is becoming.
The next few hours are a blur. She lands on the rooftop and hurries towards the fire-exit, accessing the apartment complex. The concrete staircase holds the faint scent of urine and she quickens her pace, holding her breath until she reaches her floor.
The front door looms towards the end of the corridor and she's never been so happy to see anything in her life.
She fumbles in her bag for the key and unlocks the door, stepping inside as quietly as possible, taking a moment to collect her thoughts.
"Long-ass meetin'?"
She looks up, surprised. Wheeler is sprawled out on the sofa in front of the television. His voice is husky and she knows she's woken him in spite of how quietly she tried to enter. He's always the first to offer to sleep on the couch in case there aren't enough bedrooms to share.
"Ugh," she says, closing the door behind her. "Do not even ask."
"Still givin' you a hard time?"
"I feel like I am just there to look pretty," she complains, the frustration evident in her voice. "They are not listening to me."
"Walk in naked next time," he suggests with a sleepy grin. "That should get their attention."
"Neposlushnyy mal'chik," she chastises but she can't help but laugh. Linka tosses her handbag on the other armchair and sinks to the floor in front of him, feeling guilty about waking him. "You are a degenerate."
"Yeah," he replies tiredly. He rolls over, facing her and a bright variety of candy wrappers tumble to the floor. He pulls the quilt further over his shoulders. Dishevelled red hair peeks out from under the fabric and she resists the urge to run her fingers through it.
She glances at the closed door to the first bedroom, knowing Gi is already asleep within. She's tired — bone weary in fact — but her mind is still racing with the events of the day.
She removes her coat and boots, followed by a jaunty one-legged hop as she struggles with her stockings.
"Move over," she says softly. Wheeler raises his eyebrows, unaccustomed to Linka initiating contact. Usually it's him. He says nothing though, scooting over to allow her room. He raises the quilt and she climbs in beneath it, settling herself against him with a tired sigh — enjoying his warmth and the firm line of his body pressed up against her spine.
"Bad day?"
"Bad year," she says, barely audible. She rolls over and burrows against his chest, feeling his arms wrap around her body, holding her close. "How is Kwame today?"
"Pissed."
The physical scars are healing but the mental scars remain. Kwame is much quieter now. Morose. Prone to angry outbursts. Two plastic surgeries have done little to improve the knife wound.
She closes her eyes. The subtle aroma of soap is present on Wheeler's skin and his breath is warm and steady on her forehead. His fingers are gently scratching back and forth along her lower back. Even through the fabric, it feels so good and she's tempted to tell him so.
She considers telling Wheeler about her date. Needing to express her complicated thought-processes, but it's two in the morning and she's warm and comfortable and relaxed.
She falls asleep in his arms.
Bright blue sky peeked out from beneath the low cloud cover as she opened her eyes. It was the first time she'd actually seen the sky since she arrived, due to the constant haze that seemed to permeate the atmosphere here.
Linka stretched; rolling over onto her side and wincing as her body struggled to deal with the simple movement. The hard ground had made a poor mattress last night, and her muscles and joints were screaming.
Sam and Dan were also sitting up in their sleeping bags, staring upwards. They seemed overjoyed by the small hints of blue breaking through and Linka marvelled that something so simple — something she had always taken for granted — could evoke so much joy.
Settling her cheek against her arm, she spotted a piece of glossy paper wedged between the ground and her bag. Frowning, she rolled over onto her stomach, fingers outstretches in an effort to grab hold of it.
Her eyes lit up. She grinned, delighted at gaining another precious glimpse into the life she had apparently lived with Wheeler.
Linka looked around, breathless as she scanned the surroundings for Wheeler. She spotted Kwame immediately, deep in conversation with members of the team. A few people were in various stages of getting ready for the day ahead, but the Yankee was nowhere in sight.
Settling her gaze back on the photograph again, Linka traced a finger over her future self's smiling face.
She assumed the photo must have been taken somewhere in Asia — perhaps Thailand or Bali judging by the beach and frivolity featured in the background.
They were sitting in plastic chairs, with their feet submerged in tanks. Small fish were congregating around their toes and Wheeler's arm was firmly wrapped around her shoulders, as if to hold her in place. They both appeared to be in hysterics.
This Linka's eyes were closed and her expression was halfway between a laugh and a scream. One of her hands held her white sundress away from the water: the other was gripping Wheeler's thigh so hard that she could practically see the fingernail indents in his skin.
Her own future hair was still dark (although thankfully not as dark as Gi's initial dye-job), however Wheeler's hair had lightened significantly.
He went blonde.
Linka pushed herself into a sitting position, grinning happily as she clutched the photo tightly.
"Here," a deep voice said from close behind her. Kwame dropped a homemade bar of something oat-based into her lap. "Breakfast. Trissa made them for the trip."
"Spasiba," she said, waving the photograph in his direction. "Look!"
He took the photo and gave it a once-over. Chuckling, he passed it back to her with a wink. "Some things never change."
She nodded, grinning. Gathering her things together, Linka began to pack up.
They were back on the highway again, treading the broken asphalt and weaving their way through the abandoned cars lying strewn throughout. The others were spread out over the course of several hundred feet but Linka was sticking to Wheeler like glue, unwilling to let him out of her sight.
She bobbed along beside him, sneaking glances when his attention was elsewhere. It was strange to say the least, seeing him eleven years older and knowing his background now. Knowing the main events from his life — but it was the smaller details she was now desperate to get a grasp on.
His joy for life and impulsive streak had been replaced with a sense of cautious apprehension. But the Wheeler she knew was still in there. She was delighted to catch glimpses of his cheeky sense of humour shining through every now and then.
On the increasing occasions when he smiled, the corners of his eyes would crinkle. She would find herself waiting with bated breath, hoping for a smart-ass comment or a theatrical gesture that — in her experience — usually followed.
But patience was supposedly a virtue. She was willing to wait, peppering him with incessant questions instead. Pulling the photo from her pocket, Linka waved it in front of Wheeler.
"You changed your hair?"
"Yeah. Had no choice. Layin' low was kinda difficult with my natural colour."
"It suited you."
"You did an all-right job, actually," he commented, glancing at her. "Peroxide and lemon juice. Fucked up the hotel room towels, though."
"Oh," she said. "Where was the photo taken?"
"Thailand, I think," he answered. "Maybe Phuket?"
"We travelled a lot?"
"Yeah. Spent a few months island hoppin'. Just chillin' out. Hadn't planned to, but then the shit hit the proverbial fan."
"What happened?"
"Things got pretty hairy after we left the others," he said. "We spent the first two weeks on the run."
"What do you mean?" she asked, genuinely curious. "On the run? I thought the — whatever they were — relocated us?"
"CIA?" A dark look passed over Wheeler's face. "They were meant to. Relocation never happened."
She stared at him, stumbling on a stray rock due to her moment of distraction. Wheeler was quick to haul her back up again.
"What happened?"
He sighed. "It's ancient history, Lin. It's not your future now, anyway. Don't have to worry 'bout it."
"It does matter, Wheeler," she said sternly. "I still want to know."
"That's my point — you don't need to know. Why drag it all up? Your future has already been re-written. Does it really matter?"
"Da."
"You're not gonna stop, are ya?" he muttered. "Still a pain in my ass, girl."
"Da," she replied, crossing her arms. Resolute. "You know me. I am like a dog with a bone."
He chuckled. "Freakin' rottweiler."
"I am a poodle with a stubborn streak." She smiled, reaching out and shoving him good naturedly. "You might as well start at the beginning, Yankee."
He rolled his eyes, settling his gaze on the road ahead. "We said our goodbyes to the others. Tossed us into a car to Washington. Had to wait in a shitty hotel room for our new paperwork and identities, then the plan was to put us on a plane out of the country. Didn't get that far, though. We barely survived the first 48 hours."
"WHAT?" she exclaimed, clutching his arm tightly. "Oh God. What happened?"
"Someone gave up your location. Blight must have paid off one of the analysts. Bastard sold us out."
She rubbed a hand over her mouth, still reeling with shock. "How did you find out?"
"I'd gone downstairs to grab a coffee. Elevator doors open and there's fuckin' Kroi and about five of Plunder's asshole employees on the other side of the foyer. Just hangin' at the reception desk. They're ringin' the room and about to head up."
"Oh my God," she breathed.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Hightailed it back upstairs and dragged you the hell out of there. We literally had nothin' but the clothes on our backs. Our new ID's had been compromised, so we couldn't leave the country without leavin' a trail. We were on our own."
"I cannot believe…"
"Yeah. I had to throw a punch at the analyst guy since he wasn't gonna let us leave. Tore my sutures in the process. Bleedin' everywhere. You were freakin' out. Complete fuckin' mess."
"Sutures?" she said, tripping again and grabbing his arm to help steady herself. "What do you mean?"
"I'd been shot a few weeks prior to all this goin' down," he explained. Wheeler tapped his finger below his collar bone. "Two 44 caliber bullets. Made a mess. Plunder."
Her conversation with Kwame on the first night came floating back to her. She walked in silence for a moment, mulling things over. "I cannot believe…" she whispered. "What happened next?"
"Managed to get my hands on a couple of fake passports. I knew a guy who knew a guy… and that guy knew another guy."
"Why does that not surprise me, Yankee?" she said, shaking her head. "We made it out, though?"
"Yeah. Once we got outta the US, things got easier. South to Mexico. Spent a few weeks bummin' around the Bahamas, then island hopped around Greece for a few months. By the time we hit Thailand you were already pregnant. You woulda been a couple of months in that photo."
"Wow," Linka murmured. She settled her eyes on the road ahead, considering his words. "I had assumed — before I knew about us — that I had gone into hiding on my own. I had… I had a picture in my head, I guess. I thought I must have been alone and frightened. Gi showed me a photograph while we were in the Metro city. I guess it confirmed this to me."
"What photo?"
"Um… a photograph of all of us. Gi said it was taken right before I left." She shivered, remembering her own forlorn face pressed up against Wheeler's. "We were all together on a couch. I looked like one of the zombies in your horror movies."
"Was it taken the morning the trench-coat mafia picked us up?"
"I guess so," she said. "I looked terrible."
"You woulda been tired," Wheeler said, smiling at the memory. "Some idiot had kept you up all night."
"Oh," she said, her eyes wide at the unspoken inference. "We were… together?"
Wheeler smirked. "We sure as hell weren't playin' UNO."
"Okay." She nodded, feeling that familiar heat creeping back into her cheeks. Feeling the urge to stop the conversation in its tracks. "All right. Spasiba. My curiosity has been —"
"You want details on how many times I nailed you that night? How many positions? How loud you —"
NO!" she shrieked, covering her ears and turning bright red with embarrassment. She shook her head vehemently. "Nyet. That is quite fine, Yankee."
"Only had 75% use of my right arm at the time, but I made it count," he mused. "You certainly had no complaints."
"Oh God, Wheeler!" she cried, holding her hands outwards. "Really, I do not need to —"
"You sure?" he teased, amused at her obvious discomfort. "Ten minutes ago you were drilling me for more information."
"That is fine," she croaked, completely flustered now. "I do not need those details, Yankee."
"All right," he replied, shrugging with an air of nonchalance. He pulled out one of Trissa's home made oat-bar concoctions from his pocket, munching on it and making a face of disgust. "Don't say I didn't offer."
"Bozhe moy," she said under her breath, giving him the side eye.
"Right," he said. He readjusted his backpack and pushed his sunglasses further up his nose. He nodded towards Kwame who had stopped up ahead — standing and staring at something in the distance. "I'm gonna go ask why the boss would marry someone who makes breakfast bars that taste like compressed cardboard."
"Wheeler!" she hissed, caught between a gasp and a giggle. He strode away, shoulders squared and Linka hurried to follow him. "Do not even think about…"
Her voice trailed away to nothing as they approached the former Earth Planeteer. Kwame was still frozen to the same spot: standing tense and alert further up the road. Sam and Dan had also stopped, pointing to something ahead and talking quietly to one another.
Linka's mouth dropped open as Dan suddenly slapped a hand to his mouth and lurched to the side of the road. Doubled over in the long grass, it didn't take much to know that he was emptying the contents of his stomach.
"Wait," Wheeler said, the apprehension evident in his voice. The scene ahead hadn't escaped his attention either. He held his hand up and used the other to drop his backpack to the ground. "Wait here a moment."
He jogged away and Linka crossed her arms, peering in the direction of the others. She could see a highway sign with a large cross painted roughly over the surface of it, in tones of brown or red. In all honesty, she couldn't tell the exact colour.
The air shimmered and she shifted slightly, becoming frustrated. The highway was becoming more densely populated with surrounding structures and the buildings were not as heavily damaged here.
Linka craned her neck, raising her hands in bewilderment as Wheeler glanced back at her.
"What?" she called out as the final three members of the team caught up to her, out of breath and watching on in confusion. "What is going —"
"Just wait there," Wheeler called back.
Linka's eyes narrowed. Wheeler's command was like waving a red flag to a bull.
She dropped her bag and jogged quietly towards them. The sign came closer into focus and she stumbled slightly, her heart in her mouth. A cold chill descended despite the warm day.
She watched Kwame turn around, dropping into a crouching position. His head was lowered. A piece of tattered paper was clutched tightly in his hands and he looked utterly bereft, barely noticing Linka approach. His face was ashen and she diverted her gaze back to the sign.
Oh God. It is not paint, she thought, hysteria mounting. It is definitely not paint.
Linka ground to a halt as the body came into view.
Four limbs stretched and bound to the corresponding corners of the metal surface. Weathered and dried-out skin, lips shrunk back from the gums and grinning at them. Eyes closed and a gaping hole where the intestines should have been.
Linka clapped a hand to her mouth, unable to drag her gaze from him… her… it… The current condition meant she couldn't even distinguish gender.
Her breathing quickened as she spotted the noose drawn tightly around the body's neck. Linka stumbled backwards with a sob, spotting more signs further in the distance, each with the grotesque cross symbol draped over them.
More bodies.
She jumped, trembling as a pair of hands gripped her shoulders, steering her away from the highway. Away from the sightless, dead eyes that seemed to follow her regardless of what direction she paced.
"I think we need to get off the fuckin' road, people," Wheeler called out, guiding Linka between the barriers and towards an embankment. "We're sittin' ducks out here. I'm not waitin' for 'em to jump us."
The others followed. They staggered down and headed towards the abandoned car yard by the side of the highway. Linka felt Wheeler's arm slip around her shoulders and she leaned in instinctively, grateful for the contact.
"I knew her," Kwame voiced quietly from beside her. He shook his head and strode ahead, lost in thought. "She'd gone with three others. Gathering information for us. Never made it home."