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NEMESIS [nem-uh-sis] noun;
1. A long-standing rival; an archenemy.
2. An opponent that is very difficult to defeat.
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A GUST OF COOL WIND rustled the leaves underfoot, a reminder of the impending change of seasons. Towering evergreens kept watch over the rocky hillside, like sentinels on patrol. The idyllic scene was cloaked in silence, broken at rare intervals by an occasional birdcall.
Amos stood over his brother’s grave, hands shoved into his pockets.
He heard the wind, the creak of the needle-laden pines, and the infrequent cry of birds. He felt the warm sunlight filtering through the branches overhead, falling in uneven patterns across his shoulders. He tasted the cool air as he breathed—inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale—the steady rhythm which should have had a calming effect on him.
He was also acutely aware of the tension in his clenched fists, the tingling alarm knotted between his shoulder blades, and the accompanying ache spreading up the back of his neck.
I hate this place. Yet I keep coming back. The hollow sensation in his gut threatened to overwhelm him. It’s like a dark magnet, pulling on me.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes ranging up the sharp incline. The entrance to the cave was unremarkable, the moss-covered boulders overshadowed by tough pine trees growing around and between them.
Dried leaves and pine needles from countless seasons carpeted the ground. The hillside was littered with dozens of similar outcroppings, each one a minor variation on the others.
This cave was unique.
Amos squared his shoulders, turning his back on the grave as he faced the somber entrance.
The last place I saw my brother alive. He steeled himself against the resurgent guilt. I left him here, wounded, and I said I was going for help. But that wasn’t all of it. I was scared the Hoarders would find us.
And I was right. They did, and they killed Trey. Amos the coward goes on living, and what’s left of Trey is buried in an unmarked grave.
He knew it wasn’t his fault, if and when he thought about it logically. The Hoarders who’d chased the two young boys, shooting at them for sport—as if they were wild animals—were the real killers. The Hoarders . . .
Amos lurched into motion, forcing himself up the steep hillside. He hadn’t come back to relive his brother’s murder. Nor was he here to reminisce about hiding his Implant in the dark recesses of the underground burrow.
He crouched, peering into the shadowy cave. Hoarders. It always comes back to the Hoarders.
He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten as the thought festered in his mind. Hoarders killed Trey. Hoarders created the Implants. Hoarders send Trackers to hunt us down.
He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing that was enough to keep his memories at bay. He didn’t want to think about the three Hoarders they’d met the day before.
The ones Mateo insisted they partner with against the alien Givers. The Hoarders who freely—proudly—admitted they invented the cursed Implants.
And Darcy, their leader, taunting Aubrey, insinuating he was responsible for her Implant. What about mine, too? How could Mateo—let alone Garr—honestly expect us to work with any Hoarder, especially him?
Amos crawled into the cave, rolling over on his back to stare at the rough stone overhead.
There’s something very dysfunctional about coming here. His lips curved into a wry smile. Doc would have a field day psycho-analyzing me over it. But I need time to think. And this is where it all started for me. If you look at it that way, coming here makes perfect sense.
He was stalling, and he knew it. Darcy was only part of the reason he’d fled the City. Yes, his reaction to the Hoarders was connected to Trey’s murder and his own Implant. But that wasn’t all of it—there was something else troubling him.
His faint smile vanished as a memory surged to the forefront of his mind. He’d held it at bay for almost twenty-four hours, but the recollection was crouching at the door of his consciousness, waiting to pounce.
He was tempted to bury it, but he knew this was why he’d sought refuge in the cave. Yes, to sort things out. But even more, to answer one burning question.
Trackers couldn’t have known where to find us, yet they did. We were betrayed. But by who?