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“I DON’T TRUST HIM,” Amos said flatly. “Most his ‘guided tour’ made sense, but there’s something about him that sets off all my alarms. And I’m not just referring to him being a Tracker.”
The three Runners kept a steady pace, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the Enclave. They’d covered several kilometers by the time the moon rose, adding its eerie illumination to their journey.
“A Tracker? Claiming he’s part of the Hub network?” Jane repeated herself, disbelief coloring her voice. “I can’t get my head around it. When Mateo’s eye lit up, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. What if he killed the real Hub leader, and took their place?”
“Then he’d be in the perfect position to spread bad intel throughout the entire network,” Amos replied. “Or is he just collecting information from people like us?”
They’d re-entered the City an hour earlier, making good time toward the derelict financial district. If their luck held, the stolen truck they’d hidden in an abandoned parking garage would still be there.
“I was wondering the same thing,” Don said. He pivoted in a quick circle as he spoke, surveying their surroundings. “Why bother giving us any information at all? If he killed the others—if there were others—why not kill us as well? Or just rat us out to the Hoarders at the gate?”
They paused at the next intersection. The traffic lights were dark, as lifeless as any of the lampposts within sigh. They waited, alert for anything out of the ordinary.
There was no movement, no betraying sound. The core of the City was deserted, empty, a man-made wilderness. It was a marked reversal from the time when the downtown was a vibrant hub of commerce, entertainment, and upscale housing.
Amos glanced over his shoulder, unable to shake the feeling they were under surveillance. Jane took the lead as they jogged diagonally across the intersection. The parking garage was less than a block away, visible under the cold moonlight.
“I’d like to believe Mateo.” Amos was willing to concede that much. “ And Don’s right: It would’ve been easy for Mateo to kill us, or have the guards do it. We were only about fifteen meters from the gates at one point. What about you, Jane? You haven’t mentioned what you learned from the townspeople.”
“There’s not much to tell.” Jane made an exasperated noise. “I tried playing ‘little lost girl looking for work,’ and half the people said ‘try Gate Seven in the morning.’ The rest pointed to Mateo. He’s got a solid reputation locally. And he’s a Tracker—what tipped you off, Amos?”
Amos shrugged. “He never gave us a straight answer. That made me suspicious. Then I realized his mannerisms were strange, as well. Trackers have an odd way of moving. Very human-like for the most part, but also stiff and mechanical, which makes sense if you think about it.”
“So, you believe him—or you’d like to—but you don’t trust him.” Jane’s skepticism remained unchanged. “Mateo wasn’t forced to give his identity away. That means he wanted us to know what he was. Or would he have kept his mouth shut if you hadn’t figured it out?”
“There’s no way to know,” Amos replied. “Everything he said made sense. The work permits, the protocols for getting inside the Enclave, the purges . . . Only one thing’s difficult to prove. Mateo claims there’s traitors among the Hoarders—dissidents, he called them. That’s the part I have trouble with.”
“These dissidents . . .” Don sounded perplexed. “I can’t decide if he was serious, or just trying to distract us. There’s no doubt he’s a Tracker, but he seems to have recovered his autonomy. The Givers can’t be happy about that. Why haven’t they taken him down?”
They halted at the entrance to the parking garage. The staircase to the lower levels was shrouded in inky darkness. They lingered just outside the dented and glass-less doors, looking at each other in bewilderment.
“What if the Givers changed a Hub leader into a Tracker, and assigned him to his own shop?” Jane shivered, her eyes large in the moonlight. “Amos is right: Mateo could be the eyes and ears of the Hoarders.”
Don shook his head, oddly backlit by the moonlight. “If he wanted to spy on us, the last thing he would do is reveal his Tracker-ness.”
The big man snapped his fingers. “I think he really is a renegade Tracker. Although I have no idea how he broke free, or why he’d choose to stay in the shantytown.”
“Living next to Hoarderville is a huge risk,” Amos said. “But Jane’s right, he was too quick to reveal himself. Mateo likes to speak in riddles. He more or less forced us to make up our own minds.”
Jane barked a short, self-deprecating laugh. “We’ve jumped to the wrong conclusions before. We were convinced everything was between us and the Hoarders. Then we found out about the Givers.”
Don shushed them, pivoting in a wary circle, his arms outstretched. Amos tensed and Jane fell silent. What’s wrong with us—standing out here in the open, discussing Mateo?
Don completed his quick reconnaissance and darted between Amos and Jane, opening the battered door to the parking garage. He pressed a finger against his lips, and led them inside.
Their footsteps were silent as they descended to the second subterranean level. The moonlight couldn’t reach the bottom of the staircase, and the darkness was almost absolute.
No point in hoping our eyes will adjust. Amos caught one of Don’s massive hands in his own, reaching back to link to Jane with the other. So connected, they shuffled cautiously forward.
Don guided them, almost feeling his way, in a slow advance to where they’d left the stolen truck. Amos counted their steps under his breath, trying to recall just how far in they’d parked. Jane padded behind him—as silent as a panther on the hunt—keeping a firm grip on his hand.
He heard Don’s thin sigh of relief as his outstretched hand rapped against the truck, the hollow sound obscenely loud. The Runners felt their way around the vehicle, opening doors and climbing in.
The interior lights were dazzling. Amos shielded his eyes while Don fished the keys out of his pocket.
The engine roared into life, the sound echoing in the empty parking garage.
So much for the element of surprise. Amos almost laughed aloud, amused by his reaction. There’s nobody here to surprise. His mirth subsided abruptly. We hope.
Their headlights blazed, illuminating the exit ramp. Don gunned the engine and the heavy vehicle bellowed its way to street level. Don executed a sharp left turn, tires spinning on the cracked and uneven pavement.
“Okay, now we make up for lost time.” Don seemed energized now that he was driving. “We’ll be hiking a couple of kilometers after we hide the truck again, but it’s better than walking the whole way.”
“Or taking the sewer route.” Jane wrinkled her nose. She perched on the edge of the rear seat, one arm on each of the front seats. “Tell me more about these dissidents. What were Mateo’s exact words, and what was your gut reaction?”
Amos took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. “I assumed Mateo was warning us. I thought he meant there were people nearby who’d turn us over to the Hoarders if they got the chance.”
Don took up the story, keeping his foot on the accelerator. “I had the same reaction, until Mateo made it clear he wasn’t referring to spies in the shantytown. I couldn’t believe Hoarders would betray their own kind.”
Don looked pensive, his face illuminated by the greenish glow from the truck’s instrument panel. “And then he fires up his little red eyeball. That was a total game-changer. A Tracker breaks free of the Givers? I didn’t think it was possible.”
Amos nodded, twisting sideways in his chair to look at his companions. “The Tracker we captured is the only one I’ve ever heard speak, even if she doesn’t make a lot of sense. But Mateo talks like a scholar.”
“I wonder if there’s more like him?” Jane ran her fingers through her hair. “Does this mean some Trackers are defective? How else could they break free from the Givers?”
Amos shook his head, unable to accept her hypothesis. “I think Mateo’s unique. The Tracker at our Hub might be talking now, but the only reason she’s ‘free’ is because Aubrey shorted out her system with a cattle prod.”
Jane refused to back down. “So how do we explain Mateo?”
The truck veered around another corner. Their destination, a nondescript service garage in an otherwise abandoned building, was only moments away.
As they completed the turn, Don jammed his foot on the brakes, bringing them to a full stop. Amos saw his face harden and heard Jane’s dismayed gasp. He glanced through the front windshield, and then he understood.
A body lay crumpled in a heap, blocking their path, a dark and glistening puddle spreading from it.
Don allowed the truck to idle for a few moments before he killed the engine. The street was plunged into greater darkness as he extinguished the headlights. The moon, now directly overhead, provided just enough light to illuminate the gruesome scene.
No one of them spoke as they exited the truck, each closing their door with care. Don knelt to examine the remains. Amos and Jane stood on either side of him, watching up and down the street.
The windows. Amos’s inner voice sounded the warning. They’ll be watching from the upper windows.
Don lifted the corner of the victim’s jacket, studying the ragged hole in her abdomen. It was her only visible wound.
“No broken bones, no sign of sudden impact.” Don relayed his findings in a detached, clinical voice. “Defensive marks on the wrists and hands—looks like another successful ‘harvest’ for the Trackers.”
Harvest. Amos shuddered, recalling the sterile term they’d learned from their captured Tracker. It’s a cold description for a Tracker ripping an Implant out of its victim.
Jane said nothing, the expression on her face a stark combination of horror, empathy and fury.
“Look where it happened.” Amos shivered as memories of the attack on the Mission returned. He gestured around the street, his voice hoarse. “A Tracker was here, less than a kilometer from the Mission. And our Hub.”
“I wonder who her target was.” Jane stared at the mutilated body. “Implants always drive people to specific targets.”
The longer she stared, the more Amos sensed her growing rage.
“Hoarders.” She spat on the ground. “What kind of monster uses another human being for an Implant?”
Don covered the gaping wound with the young woman’s jacket. He remained down on one knee, his expression difficult to read. When he spoke again, he kept his voice low. “If anyone’s watching, our cover’s blown. No self-respecting Hoarder would’ve stopped.”
He rose to his full height, towering over his companions. For a long moment, he remained motionless, staring past them into the night. “There’s nowhere to bury her, but I’m not leaving her body on the street.”
“We don’t have a choice, Don.” Jane didn’t flinch at the angry look he threw her way. “We’ll be on foot after we ditch the truck. We can’t carry her body through the tunnels. Even if we did, there’s nowhere to bury her around the Mission, either. Everything’s concrete.”
That may sound cold, but it’s the truth. Amos couldn’t argue with her logic, but he still found the idea disturbing. “Hoarders created this situation, Don. It’s not our fault we can’t give her a decent burial.”
Don acted as if he hadn’t heard. He dropped to one knee, gathering the limp body in his muscular arms.
Without a word, he strode to a nearby tenement, driving a massive shoulder into the door. It swung open with a dry crack, and Don disappeared inside.
It was an unsettling moment—the gentleness of Don’s actions in somber contrast to the irreverent burial setting. A few minutes passed before Don reappeared, empty-handed.
And now a “decent burial” means leaving the body hidden inside an empty ruin instead of the middle of the street. Amos clenched his fists, loathing the Hoarders anew. This is what we’ve been reduced to.
Jane sidled closer to him, watching Don with somber eyes as he trudged to rejoin them. No one kept an eye on the adjacent buildings, the empty windows, or the street ahead.
Or behind.