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AMOS LEANED FORWARD, peering through the front windshield. There wasn’t much to see. A derelict barn stood canted to one side, a scant forty meters from the highway. A short distance beyond the weathered structure, the collapsed ruins of an accompanying farmhouse were visible.
The whole property was neglected and overgrown. Already, the new growth of unchecked underbrush was spreading, season by season, eager to overwhelm the abandoned buildings.
The truck slowed as Sheila geared down, and Stephen jumped out to open the ramshackle remains of a gate. Sheila gunned the engine, pulling into the farmyard. Stephen ran past them, wrestling the barn door open.
Sheila drove the truck inside the barn and shut the engine down. The Runners exited the vehicle, spreading out to do what needed to be done.
We know the routine, don’t we? Amos found the thought reassuring. We don’t even stop to think about it.
Don retrieved his camouflage jacket from under the back seat, crumpling it and wiping down the door handles, inside and out, as well as the steering wheel and gearshift. Fingerprints might be obsolete as a means of identification—the Hoarders probably didn’t even bother anymore—but their knowledge of what Trackers were, and weren’t, capable of was piecemeal at best.
Don scooped a dark glob of grease from the engine compartment, smearing it over the surfaces he’d wiped down. It was an obvious tactic, adding another layer of obfuscation to their trail. But it was also strategic—if Trackers used scent as a guide, the oily residue might throw them off.
Or make some local mechanic’s life confusing. Amos smiled wryly, imagining some poor soul trying to comprehend why anyone would grease the inside of a truck.
Stephen busied himself with a double handful of dried branches he’d collected from behind the barn. He performed his usual thorough job, sweeping all evidence of their tire tracks from the dirt road leading into the farmyard.
Amos dragged the barn door back into place. Careful, don’t use your injured hand. You know how Trackers and blood are.
Sheila strode back to the edge of the property, closing the threadbare remains of the gate. Amos watched as she swept the ground with a branch, obscuring their tracks, complementing Stephen’s efforts.
She tossed her branch over the fence, and came to stand beside him, arms crossed, a dark frown on her face. Amos didn’t need to ask. She was still angry at him for leaving his Implant in the hills—even though it would’ve betrayed them if he still carried it.
He opened his mouth to explain, uncomfortable with her unspoken rebuke, but decided against it. Leave it be. There’ll be time to talk later. I don’t want to have to tell the story more than once.
Don whistled as he exited the barn, the soft sound drawing their attention. He led them behind the ruined farmhouse into the underbrush, arriving at an abandoned storm shelter.
He pried open the shelter’s door, a further twenty meters beyond the remains of the homestead. They followed his unspoken lead, ducking below ground, into the damp gloom and earthy smell of the shelter.
Stephen crouched at the top of the stairs, a sentry post he would refuse to relinquish until the twilight permitted them to continue their journey.
Don upended the large metal pail he’d brought from the barn, and stuffed his grease-covered jacket into it. There was a brief hiss and spit as he lit the contents of the bucket on fire, shielding its glow from the doorway with his large bulk.
Amos wadded up the impractical Hoarder jacket and dropped it into the bucket. Sheila stood by, the metal lid for the pail in one hand, as she tossed their forged permits into the flames.
She kept an appraising eye on the bucket’s contents, handing the lid to Don once she was satisfied the permits were melted beyond recognition. Don eased the lid into place, snuffing out the greasy fire before it filled their underground refuge with noxious smoke.
“No point in leaving our documents intact.” He waved a massive hand to clear the air. “Forged or not, the more we can muddle our back-trail, the better.”
Amos watched the entire drama with detached interest, admiring the professionalism with which his companions went about their tasks. Keeping their guard up for the next few hours would be just as crucial. Privately, though, he was more astonished at how easily the group had been reunited.
I told Don the Story, so he knew roughly where the cave is. Still, I’m lucky they found me. It’ll be harder to find the others, assuming anyone else survived the attack on the Mission.
His inner voice was prompt with its ridicule. Unless you’re just gathering them all for another slaughter.
He realized Don and Sheila were staring at him, their expressions dark and troubled. Even the occasional glance Stephen sent his way—crazy, mischievous, good-natured Stephen—was full of barely-contained questioning.
His insides twisted into a knot. All eyes are on me. I guess this is as good a time as any.
Don spoke first, his drawl as calm and confident as always, but there was no mistaking he expected a straight answer. “Amos, we’ve done everything we can, until the sun sets and we can sneak into town. We stole a Hoarder’s truck, forged the permits, ran the gauntlet of the mountain road on the off-chance you’d gone in that direction, and risked everything at the checkpoint. You owe us an explanation.”
They were all watching him now.
“You said you left your Implant hidden up in the hills.” Don built his case point by point. “At the checkpoint, I—we—assumed you had it with you.”
Amos interrupted him. “Removing an Implant from its host body is a lot less complicated than we thought.”
There. He’d said it. Short, simple, and blunt.
He took another deep breath and plunged on. “You’ve got no idea what it’s like to actually see one with your own eyes, knowing what it’s capable of doing, what it’s capable of forcing you to do . . . I almost destroyed it, but I figured it’d be better to hang on to it, let Doc try and figure out how it works.”
Sheila took a step closer, bewildered. “What are you saying, Amos? Doc told me it couldn’t be removed from the living. If Doc made that kind of break-through, she would’ve said something.”
She’d figure it out, if she’d slow down and think instead of reacting. Amos unbuckled his hunting belt, dropping it to the ground beside him. Next, off came his jacket, folded roughly and tossed next to the knife.
He turned his back to them, lifting his shirt and easing the bandage aside to expose the wound.
The ragged gash ran parallel to, and just below, the line of the lowest rib on his right side. Sheila’s stifled gasp told him it was visible even in the shelter’s filtered twilight. She’d figured it out. Most of it, anyway.
“That’s going to get infected.” Sheila delivered her blunt assessment, squinting at the jagged stitching. “You need to get that looked at, as soon as possible.”
“But how?” Stephen spoke from the top of the wooden steps. “Implants are never in the same place for any two people. Doc said so.”
Here it is, Amos. His inner voice sneered at him. Now they find out what you did. Now they learn what kind of person they risked their lives for.
His guilt threatened to overwhelm him, but he knew he couldn’t conceal his responsibility for everything leading to this moment.
“It’s my fault the Mission was compromised,” he said, his voice almost inaudible. “The Trackers found it because of me. Everyone who died—that’s on me.”
A stunned silence followed his admission. That’s the last thing they expected to hear.
He was tempted to stop there, but having begun, he needed to lay it all out. They deserved to know—Sheila was right about that.
“A few days ago, a Tracker scanned me.” He launched into his explanation, the words tumbling out as his bottled-up trauma fought for expression. “I don’t know how it found me, but it did. I managed to lure it into an abandoned building. I was planning to ambush it, maybe disable it, but then something backfired. I mean, it literally backfired. Maybe it was a bad fuse—I don’t know how a Tracker works. There was a ton of sparks, and it shut down.”
His voice faltered for a moment. “But its scanner was still intact, so I brought it to the Mission. I thought Doc could study it. I knew she’d be thrilled for our Hub to have its own scanner . . .”
He gestured helplessly, at a loss for words as he felt the guilt expanding in his chest.
“You used the scanner on yourself,” Don said succinctly, connecting the dots. “You didn’t bother to wait for Doc’s go-ahead. You wanted to know the exact location of your Implant.”
Amos shivered, ducking his head. “Yeah, that’s it. I didn’t stop to think. It never occurred to me that simply activating the scanner could draw other Trackers.”
His voice trailed off as remorse filled him, clouding his mind. He couldn’t see their faces in the twilight of the shelter, but he was certain he heard Sheila stifle a sob.
People had died because of him. Gone. Because he’d thoughtlessly, selfishly taken matters into his own hands.
Don broke the silence. His analytical mind had raced beyond the bare facts, strategizing for the future. “There’s no way you could’ve known, Amos. Other Hubs have used scanners—what few we have—and nothing went wrong. There’s no way to know why it was different this time.”
Don spread his arms, glancing at his companions. “Nobody at the Mission suspected it. Not even Doc made the connection. I know my saying that doesn’t help much, but I’m saying it anyway, because it’s the truth.”
He stepped closer to Amos, probing deeper. “You’ve answered my question by telling me a story which doesn’t fully answer my question. Put aside your guilt. We can’t afford it. There’s too much at stake.”
Amos nodded, comprehending but still shaken. Now that he’d come clean, he’d hoped the heavy weight inside his chest would lift. There was no change. For once, his accusing inner voice had nothing to add.
“You’ve hidden your Implant somewhere in the forest.” Don’s summary was slow and precise. “Fine. I can understand why you’d want to keep its location secret. But if anything happens to you, it’s lost.
He crossed his arms, his gaze unwavering. “Last time we spoke—Doc wasn’t satisfied she’d developed a foolproof technique for extractions. She was worried about triggering the Implant by accident, or worse, giving our location away to the Trackers. So, tell me what changed? Why did Doc decide it was safe to remove your Implant?”
“She didn’t.” Amos cut him off in a flash guilt and anger.
This is it. The final nail in the coffin. Why I’m to blame for everyone who died.
“I was desperate. I begged her to extract it, but Doc wanted to wait and run more tests.” Amos hung his head as he spoke, unable to look any of them in the eye. “I’d just escaped from a Tracker, and it was only dumb luck it short-circuited before it caught me. I thought Trackers were closing in on me, so when Doc was called away from the infirmary . . .”
He paused for another breath, his foot nudging the belted knife. It made a whispery scrape on the rough-hewn floorboards.
“I cut it out myself.”