| |
DON’T FOOL YOURSELF, Amos’s inner voice warned, sharp and insistent. They’re still hunting you. It’s not safe here. It may not be safe anywhere.
The forest clearing was remarkably tranquil in contrast to his pessimistic appraisal. Sunlight slanted through the branches, illuminating the long yellow-green grass with its warm light. The sight should have tempered his mood, but it didn’t.
It took several moments before Amos realized he was holding his breath, not daring to disturb the calm. Hardly a leaf stirred in the slight breeze, and aside from the occasional bird or cricket, the quiet was absolute.
You’re sleep-deprived and probably still bleeding, his inner voice accused, hammering home its relentless criticism. Even if you heard anything coming, your reflexes are too dull to do anything about it.
He shifted the meager weight of the rucksack on his shoulders, gritting his teeth. He refused to succumb to lethargy, whether brought on by physical exhaustion, or the throbbing pain in his side. Keep moving. Just another ten steps. Then ten more. Just keep moving.
He willed himself into a rhythm, edging around the circumference of the sunlit clearing. Once again, he found some respite from the sun’s heat under the dense foliage.
The cool air revived him. His headache began to fade as the muscles around his eyes relaxed. The throbbing pain under his ribs was a nagging reminder—keep moving.
The forest floor became a downward slope, and he paid close attention to the rough and rooted terrain under his feet.
The last thing he needed was a sprain or a broken bone from an ill-advised step. He couldn’t afford any delays. Not until he put a great deal more distance between himself and what was on his trail.
Did I tell anyone the Story?
He wracked his brain, desperate to recall if he’d let any betraying detail slip about his destination. As far as he knew, he’d told only one other person, a fellow Runner. A friend who knew how to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps the secret was still his. The next few days would depend on it.
The terrain sloped at a steeper rate as he worked his way through the brush. The silence was uncanny. His own stumbling steps were obscenely loud in his ears.
If they’re anywhere nearby, they’ll hear you. His inner voice lashed him without mercy. Faster! Quieter! Keep moving!
The faint trickle of running water reached his ears. Further down, maybe a half kilometer or so, he estimated. The stream was a familiar landmark, and hearing it was reassuring. He’d remembered the route accurately. Even after all these years.
Just make sure you cross the stream without soaking yourself, especially considering what you’re bringing with you.
Amos halted, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. The closer he got to the rushing stream, the less he’d be able to hear. This was perhaps his final opportunity to detect the sound of pursuit. He couldn’t afford to stay still for long, but one last listen wouldn’t hurt.
If they’ve set a Tracker on me, I can’t take too many precautions. He forced himself to draw deep but silent breaths as he listened.
People, I can deal with—probably even fool the dogs with some luck. But a Tracker . . .
He hadn’t seen their attackers at the Mission with his own eyes, but there was little doubt in his mind at least one Tracker was involved. It was the only explanation that made sense. How else could the Mission have been discovered?
Resolutely, Amos muzzled any further thought of his frantic escape from the City.
He resumed his trek downslope, hoping any potential pursuers were far behind. Despite the rough terrain, he made good time, picking his footing with care between the moss-covered rocks and protruding roots.
The denseness of the forest was working to his advantage. It would be difficult for his pursuers to sight him unless they were much closer than he believed.
How good is a Tracker’s eyesight? He wondered, not for the first time. Their knowledge about the enhanced abilities of the fanatical creatures was piecemeal at best.
That they possessed unnatural strength and endurance was fairly obvious, as was their single-mindedness where their targets were concerned. The Hoarders had designed their Trackers for grim efficiency.
And let’s not forget their killer instinct. His mouth formed a grim line. The perfect stealth weapon for the Hoarders. Once a Tracker has your scent—my scent—nothing gets in their way until I’m dead. All over an Implant I didn’t even know I had.
A rock shifted under his foot, throwing him off-balance. He caught himself against the rough bark of a tree, barely averting a headlong fall. The pain under his ribs blossomed into a new fire, wringing a small gasp from him.
His hand burned from the bruising impact against the tree. He examined the damage to his palm, unsurprised to see blood welling up from the scrapes.
Tracker! His inner voice shrilled, although he had no way of knowing if any of the subhuman killing machines were nearby. What are you thinking? Blood on a tree? Why don’t you just send up a flare to let them know where you are?
Although he chafed at the delay, Amos knew he must deal with the bloody mark he’d left on the tree. Unbidden, Doctor Simon’s warning about the connection between Implants and blood came to mind.
I don’t know exactly how this works, she’d admitted with her usual candor. But I can tell you this much, once it’s in the blood, there’s no turning back.
His face twisted into a grimace as he shoved the memory into the recesses of his mind. This wasn’t the appropriate time or place to mull over what had happened. He needed to get under cover.
He pulled his serrated hunting knife from its belt sheath, and with speed and dexterity, carved out the small section of rough bark. Not a trace, not a scent could be left. Amos opened one his jacket pockets, meticulously dropping the bloodied wood chips inside. Leave no trace. None!
He dug up some of the wet earth near the tree, smearing it over the small area where he’d carved the tree trunk. The dark earth dulled the pale under-bark his knife had exposed. Amos spread some fallen leaves over the ground where he’d dug, stepping back to survey his handiwork with a critical eye.
Not bad, but probably not enough. His inner voice nagged at him. You make too many foolish decisions.
Shut up, Amos thought, anger surfacing. I don’t have time for anything else.
His inner voice didn’t miss a beat. Sure, you say that now. But if a Tracker finds you before dawn, you’ll wish you had this moment back.
Frustrated by his own pointless internal dialogue, Amos slammed his knife back into its sheath, making a louder noise than he anticipated. He froze, motionless beside the now-camouflaged tree, every nerve tingling with adrenaline. He listened intently—he could almost imagine he heard the sweat forming at his temples.
Nothing. Just the murmur of the nearby stream. No pounding footsteps. No crashing underbrush. No betraying shouts or the hiss of weapons-fire. He hadn’t given away his location with his unthinking carelessness.
Reassured for the moment, Amos resumed his downhill trek. It took a great deal of resolve to not break into a run. He must maintain firm control if he wanted to avoid discovery, or succumb to the very real possibility of an injury-causing misstep. The stakes were high. Everything depended on keeping his wits about him.
The stream was further downhill than he anticipated, but it wasn’t long before he perched on a large boulder by its banks. The sound of water cascading over the rocks was much louder now.
Amos was very aware of his breathing, as if a part of him was a separate observer of the unfolding drama. He balanced on the boulder, ears attentive for any sound of pursuit, as he scanned for the best possible way across the stream.
He would have felt at ease splashing through whatever depths were hidden beneath the white water, even with the knowledge of how cold—bone-chilling cold—the water would be. He mentally listed the contents of his pack, most of which could survive an unplanned dampening.
Except for one little pocket, his inner voice chided him. If you damage it—or lose it—there goes your only bargaining chip.
Bargaining chip? Amos almost laughed out loud, jolted by the idea. As if Trackers ever negotiate for anything. As far as they’re concerned, the only good Runner is a dead one.
He shook his head, refusing to waste any more time with needless inner argument. One direction was as good as the other. He chose to go to his left, following the current downstream. The trees flanking the waterway remained dense, their branches meeting overheard to create a green tunnel over the stream.
The rushing water was both hypnotic and noisy, which did little to assuage his unease. He scrambled over the rocks, following the winding waterway as he searched for a safe place to cross.
In a different scenario, Amos could almost imagine he was on a pleasant trek in the wilderness.
No tension, no pressing problems requiring a solution. No gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach—the one he realized some time ago was named Fear. Just a challenging, but otherwise pleasant excursion into the wild.
The throbbing ache under his ribs kept his thoughts grounded in reality, reminding him what was at stake. He opened his shirt to examine the bandage. To his relief, the bleeding appeared to have stopped.
He didn’t dare examine the ragged wound. Not now, not here. He could only hope his hasty attempts at stitching the injury were adequate.
He resumed his journey, following the stream’s winding course, pausing every now and then to listen. The rushing water made it difficult to hear, but he was satisfied he was still alone.
Trackers are known for their stealth. His inner voice whittled away at his confidence. This is no time to get over-confident or sloppy.
It was one of those rare moments when Amos and his inner voice agreed. Maybe if I’d been more careful, the Mission would still be standing . . .
He clamped down on the wayward thought, ignoring the mental echo of the gunfire which spurred him to run for his life.
Guilt was a distraction he couldn’t afford.