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AMOS STUMBLED UPON a dirt road not more than ten minutes after he gained the crest of the steep incline. It made sense there’d be a road running along the ridge, he supposed. He’d simply expected it to be one of those crumbling and untended relics from the time before the Hoarders.
Amos was bemused to discover it was little more than two tracks worn down by single-lane traffic, now overgrown as nature gradually reclaimed its own.
He followed the edge of the long-abandoned road, grateful for the level surface, clear of underbrush. He kept to the grass-covered shoulder. The last thing he needed was to leave footprints in the dirt.
As he was congratulating himself on his astute precautions, Amos realized the dirt road was trying to tell him something. He retreated into the underbrush, crouching behind the dense foliage, his senses on full alert.
You’re not alone. The road spoke with stark, unadorned eloquence.
The overgrown track had the look of a long-abandoned trail for weekend adventurers, and after many years of dis-use, there should be no tire tracks. Yet Amos was looking at the recent tread marks of a single vehicle.
Any rainfall or even a decent wind would have scoured the path clean again. These tracks were still fresh, the tread marks sharply defined.
Amos was about to step out of the bushes to inspect the telltale markings, but something in his heightened sensitivity cautioned him. He resumed his journey, keeping his distance from the roadway, a screen of bush shielding him from view.
The thick underbrush slowed his progress to a snail’s pace, and the need for added stealth only compounded his painstaking advance.
He travelled perhaps a hundred meters when a sixth sense shrilled in the back of his mind. He balked at first. This is no time to get paranoid.
His own mental rejoinder came fast on the heels of the thought. It’s no time to get careless, either.
Amos crouched behind a thick copse of waist-high junipers, peering between their thick branches. He was rewarded a moment later when he spotted a figure on the opposite side of the road, clothed in a military camouflage jacket.
The newcomer crouched in the thick undergrowth, mirroring Amos’s posture. If he (or she) hadn’t moved a low-hanging branch aside for a better view of the road, Amos would have been unaware of their presence.
Whoever his counterpart was, they were equally intent on remaining anonymous.
Amos took stock of his own position. Unlike the lurking figure across the road, less than thirty meters away, he was not wearing camouflage, although his dark and dirty clothing did an adequate job of blending into the shadows under the trees.
He couldn’t tell if the other was armed or not, and he was too close to consider the ill-advised strategy of climbing a tree for a better vantage point. But whether co-fugitive or hunter, the person hidden in the bushes was also surveying the road.
The clash of grinding gears sounded from beyond the ridge. He couldn’t see the vehicle, but it seemed plausible whoever had left the incriminating tracks on the road was returning.
This isn’t exactly a well-travelled highway. There has to be a connection to whoever is hiding in the bushes.
The heavy-duty truck—anything less would have been unable to navigate the rugged terrain—lurched over the crest of the ridge and slowed to an immediate stop. Directly opposite him.
The black vehicle was mud-covered and scuffed, its windows opaque with tinting of the same color. Everything about its design suggested a Hoarder vehicle. Newer vehicles were the exclusive property of those who lived inside the Enclave’s fortified walls.
Amos crouched low, holding his breath as the door facing him swung open, revealing the dark-clad driver.
He felt a wave of relief. The driver hadn’t spotted him. No, on the contrary, the driver’s attention was on the camouflaged figure across the road. He emerged from the concealing bushes, approaching the truck with a confident swagger.
Amos felt a trickle of sweat run down his cheek. One person, I might have taken. He chafed at the stalemate. I can’t risk taking on two.
“And there could be more in the back of the truck,” he muttered under his breath.
“Or behind you,” a new voice said, startling Amos. He spun around, his serrated hunting knife flashing in the sunlight.
His sudden movement shook the bushes, betraying his location. He heard a startled exclamation from the two by the truck, but he only had eyes for the unknown speaker behind him.
“Whoa, whoa, go easy now.” The newcomer grinned, raising his hands in mock surrender, while keeping a respectful distance. Amos lowered his knife as he recognized the familiar face.
“You take stupid chances, Stephen.” Amos slammed his knife back into its sheath. “If you’d been any closer, I’d have gutted you.”
“I know.” Stephen remained amiable, unfazed by Amos’s dour greeting. “Why do you think I wasn’t any closer to you?”
He lowered his hands, shrugging. “Sorry if I startled you, Amos. We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Without looking like we were looking, I mean.”
Amos struggled to his feet, still annoyed. “In a Hoarder’s truck? What’s not obvious about that?”
He was relieved to find Stephen, but the tension, fear, and exhaustion of the past couple of days colored his words. He scowled, bending down to retrieve his rucksack.
Stephen’s grin faltered, his carefree expression now replaced by a resentful look. “I said I was sorry, okay? Look, do you think some Hoarder donated this truck? Stolen vehicles tend to attract the authorities, y’know. Plus, we’re taking a huge risk somebody doesn’t figure out our travel permits are fake.”
He spread his hands helplessly. “If you didn’t make it, we’re as good as dead, or did you forget that irritating little fact?”
Amos closed his eyes as he drew a deep breath, willing himself to relax. “I’m not indispensable. None of us are.”
He opened his eyes and nodded at Stephen. “And thanks for coming after me. I mean it—thanks. That truck must come with a story.”
“Not indispensable?” A new voice queried, in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. “Well, now, I hate to argue with my favorite Runner, but that’s not entirely true.”
Amos smiled, recognizing Sheila’s voice. He’d known her for a long time. She waved as she disembarked from the truck, her easy-going smile belying her tenacious personality.
There were few people as dedicated as Sheila.
She’d had any number of reasons to close her eyes and just go on with her life, but she was better than that. Once she learned the Hoarders were putting the micro-technology they called ‘Implants’ into innocent people, she had to get involved.
“It’s nice to hear a friendly voice.” Amos acknowledged her greeting. Her voice always had a calming effect on her companions. Some of the tension in the back of his neck began to fade.
You’re among friends again. No, more than friends—co-belligerents against the Hoarders and their Implants.
“This really isn’t the place for a family reunion.” The suggestion came from the camouflaged former lurker across the road. Amos relaxed at the sight of his old friend, Don.
His burly friend stood beside the truck, one arm resting on the hood, his good-natured drawl at odds with his serious expression. “This truck will get us where we need to go, but our fake permits won’t last forever. We need to keep moving. And by that, I mean now.”
The four of them crowded into the idling truck. Sheila seated in the front with Stephen beside her, and Don squeezing his big frame into the back with Amos.
Don pulled off his camo jacket, revealing dark but unremarkable clothing. He bent down and stuffed the jacket under the rear seat. A thorough search would reveal it, of course, but to the casual observer, it was hidden as well as could be expected.
Don spoke to Sheila, who had resumed her position in the driver’s seat. “Drive like an idiot until you’re near the checkpoint. I’ve never seen Hoarders drive like they care about anybody but themselves.”
Amos saw the stern set to Sheila’s jaw as she threw the truck into gear and jammed her foot on the gas. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened as the truck careened along the dirt road, heading down the opposite side of the ridge.
Don pulled a second object from beneath the rear seat, handing it without ceremony to Amos. “Put this on,” he said in his gruff, no-nonsense fashion. “You look like you slept in a ditch. No offense.”
“None taken.” Amos unfolded the dark jacket and pulled it on, the rich fabric hanging mid-thigh in length. It didn’t hide his dirty pants, but it did provide cover for his belt knife.
The fabric was of the highest quality, but Amos suspected a good hour tramping through the forest would reduce the fashionable garment to rags. Hoarders. It wouldn’t occur to them to make clothes tough enough to survive in the bush.
“We put a fake ident on the truck,” Stephen said, twisting around in the front passenger seat to look Amos in the eye. “And Sheila forged a travel permit for herself and passengers, but without specific names. Try not to look like a fugitive, okay? We’re not far from the outskirts of the City, so there’s only one checkpoint. But even so, we’ve still got some potential obstacles.”
He paused to look at Sheila. She kept her eyes on the road ahead, reducing speed as they emerged from the forest ridge. The checkpoint could be seen in the near distance, not far from where the dirt track intersected with one of the old, decaying highways.
“We’re going to try and re-enter the City?” Amos felt his pulse quicken as he blurted out the nervous question. His voice sounded steady to his ears, not betraying his sudden apprehension. “So soon after the Mission was attacked?”
“Not a chance.” Sheila down-shifted as they neared the paved section of the highway. The crumbling surface was a far cry from its condition before the Hoarders took control. “We’re heading further east, but to get there, we still have to navigate one checkpoint.”
We’re heading for the same destination I had in mind, Amos guessed, nodding with satisfaction. And it’s just a single, rural checkpoint. No problem.
Don leaned forward to peer through the windshield, addressing his comment to Amos. “We’re not absolutely sure, mind you, but they may have a Tracker with them at the checkpoint. And because it’s impossible to know everything that might set a Tracker off . . .”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Amos felt his mouth go dry. The solitary checkpoint became more ominous than it had been moments earlier. What if it’s already in my blood? What if the Implants aren’t the only thing that sets them off?
“Look smug, everyone, and don’t forget to be obnoxious.” Don’s coaching was light-hearted, no trace of anxiety in his voice or body language. “We are the elite, the upper crust of society, privileged and entitled Hoarders. Which gives us the right to drive anywhere we want, in the Enclave or the City, and run over anyone who gets in our way.”
He leaned back in his seat, the very epitome of calm, waiting for whatever would unfold.
Like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Amos stole a glance at Don with grudging admiration. But it’s my blood that’s on the line here.
He rebuked himself for such a selfish thought as they slowed to a stop. As the guard approached their truck, Amos reminded himself all of their futures would be decided within the next few minutes.
It’s not just my blood that’s at stake. But it could be the trigger that betrays us all.