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THERE WAS A TRAPDOOR at the top the stairs, now declared off-limits by mutual consent. Shortly after their return to the Hub, Don and Garr had risked entering the wreckage of the Mission from street level, under the cover of night.
They verified the trapdoor leading into the sub-basement was buried under a pile of debris, shielding it from view.
Under Garr’s supervision, they’d painstakingly barricaded the trapdoor from below. Not willing to take any unnecessary chances, Sheila suggested the cracks around the opening be stuffed with strips torn from blankets.
“That should just about do it.” Don eyed their handiwork as he crammed one last segment of cloth into the makeshift blockage. “But I’ll miss the short-cut through the Mission’s basement.”
Garr held his lantern higher as he inspected their work. “We barely used it anyway.” He nodded with satisfaction as he descended the short staircase. “It was never intended to be more than an emergency exit in the first place.”
Amos took the lantern from Garr, turning it up and bathing the room in a soft glow. They’d long ago made the strategic decision to use electricity only when it couldn’t be avoided. The risk of discovery would rise drastically if the City’s power grid was accessed too often. Especially in a building that was, to all outward appearances, closed for renovations.
“How soon do you think they’ll re-open the Mission?” Don asked, joining them at the foot of the stairs. “There’s a lot of hungry people topside with nowhere else to go.”
Garr glanced over his shoulder at the sealed portal. He seemed troubled.
“This may sound cold-hearted,” he said, “but we’ve got to leave the rebuilding to John and the Mission’s staff. We’ve got our own set of problems, which they can’t help with, either.”
“Our newest Runner, you mean?” Amos asked as they trudged down the short hall into the room serving as a mess hall.
“She’ll be waking up soon.” Sheila broke her self-imposed silence. She’d helped them build the barrier, but had been uncharacteristically quiet. The lantern’s dancing light gave her face a strange glow. Despite her weariness, her dark eyes reflected some of their old fiery spark. “Doc’s keeping an eye on her. We’ll need to run more tests later.”
Garr winced as he sat down at the long table dominating the mess hall. “After all she’s been through, I don’t like the idea of treating her like a guinea pig.”
Sheila bristled. “I said we need to run more tests. I’m not suggesting we experiment on her.”
Garr held up his hands, acknowledging his unfortunate choice of words. “You’re right, Sheila. I apologize. We’re lucky to have this opportunity. We’d be fools to not take full advantage of it. But still . . .”
He shook his head, his gaze toward the floor.
“The Hoarders have been butchering us for too long,” Amos said, his voice tinged with dark emotion. “I don’t like it, either, but if we can learn anything about the Implants, it’s worth it.”
That could’ve been me, lying in the infirmary instead of Aubrey. With that hellish tech poisoning me from the inside out.
“Just let me get my hands around a Hoarder’s throat.” Don seated himself at the table. “I’ll drag them down here and give them a taste of their own tech. Then they can play guinea pig.”
Amos set the lantern on the counter, next to the cooking unit. His companions appeared, as he scanned their faces, as if they’d been stretched about as far as their nerves would allow. They were all exhausted, irritable, and on edge.
He and Don had been forced to return from their expedition empty-handed. In light of the recent assault on the Mission, they’d left the now-active Implant in the cave. Amos returned it to the tiny alcove, scrupulously avoiding the microscopic needles, still performing their danse macabre.
That was inside me, just a few days ago. He repressed a shudder at the thought. On their return, Doc had given him some topical medicine for his incision—aloe vera, she’d called it—and a clean bandage. I’m lucky my Implant didn’t activate any sooner.
Sheila spoke up, arms crossed. “It’s not the same thing, Don. Aubrey’s not a guinea pig, but her experience gives us another opportunity to study the Implants. Maybe even learn how to deactivate them.”
“We already know what Implants do,” Amos replied, refusing to budge. “We also know what has to be done once it begins.”
He lowered his voice. Jane wasn’t in the room, but he didn’t want to risk her overhearing. “Once it gets into the blood, it’s too late. There’s no turning back. I know that sounds heartless, but we can’t make exceptions.”
Don lurched out of his chair, his voice a warning growl. “Go easy, Amos. Her name’s Aubrey, remember?”
Sheila pushed away from the doorframe, her dark eyes flashing. “That’s right, Amos, her name is Aubrey. She’s not a thing, or a piece of equipment we just throw away if it’s damaged.”
She aimed her last comment at Garr. “Or experiment on like she’s a lab rat.”
“I know what her name is.” Amos was prepared to argue. He looked from Sheila, to Garr, to Don, and back again. “And I know it was in her blood. The Hoarders probably activated Aubrey’s Implant the same time as mine. So, let’s be brutally honest here. Do any of you doubt it got into her blood?”
His challenge fell into a deep well of silence. Garr answered for all of them. “There’s no question about it. Aubrey’s Implant was alive and functioning.”
He kept his voice down, his gaze straying to the door. “We’ve seen it before, but we’re still in the dark about the Implant’s ultimate purpose.”
Sheila exhaled heavily, leaning against the doorframe. “Garr’s right, we don’t know enough about how they work. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
She gestured helplessly. “Why do the Hoarders Implant random people, and then send Trackers to hunt them down and kill them? It makes no sense. There’s no logic to it. Is this just a sick game they’re playing?”
Don snorted in derision. “Hoarders are always playing their little power games, even after they commandeered all the resources. Hoarder against Hoarder, fighting over who’s going to be the king of the hill . . . Who cares why they’re doing it? They’re using innocent people as their pawns, and sending out Trackers whenever they feel like it. It’s got to stop.”
A sudden image of Trey’s murder flashed through Amos’s thoughts. “I’m with Don on this one. Hoarders can kill and maim each other until they’ve annihilated themselves, for all I care.”
He struggled to control his emotions. “But leave us out of it. I won’t be a pawn in their political games. And neither should anyone else.”
“Do we know that?” Garr’s voice cut through the tension, all the more arresting because of his quiet delivery. “The only thing we know for sure is that some people have been Implanted. Are they chosen at random, or is there strategy involved? And, eventually, the Implants are activated—to what end?”
Don crossed his arms over his barrel chest, frowning as he leaned against the counter. “I get your point, Garr. We’ve only seen it happen a few times. At first, they get unstable and aggressive, acting out of character. Then they disappear to who-knows-where, for reasons unknown.”
“And kill anybody who gets in their way.” Amos’s words landed with the force of a blunt object. “No mercy for anyone. Anyone. Jane was lucky she pulled the trigger first.”
Garr leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I haven’t forgotten. But let’s be clear. We still know next to nothing about why the Implants exist, why Trackers are sent to exterminate them, or what the Hoarders’ end game is.”
He paused for emphasis, looking each of them in the eye. “We’ve got to be careful about jumping to conclusions. That means we’ll give Doc time to do more tests with Aubrey.”
Sheila stepped away from the door, her eyes stormy. “I wouldn’t try telling Jane she was ‘lucky’ to shoot first, Amos, if I were you.”
I know what happened to Jane. He opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. I know what it cost her. Why she is the way she is.
Still, he had to concede to Garr’s wisdom. They’d managed to cobble together bits and pieces of information, but there were still far too many unanswered questions. That’s why we need Aubrey, even if having her around is risky. One simple rescue mission has become much more complicated.
The door swung open behind Sheila, almost bumping her out of the way. She stepped to one side, allowing the newcomer to enter. It was Jane. She looked haggard and drawn, but seemed unaware they’d been talking about her.
“Doc says to come to the infirmary,” she said without inflection, her eyes roving over the group around the table. “Aubrey’s waking up.”
Amos noted the increased tension with a small feeling of satisfaction. Don’s hand had sought the handle of his hunting knife when he’d heard the news.
You do realize where your hand is, don’t you, Amos? His inner voice jeered at his hypocrisy. He looked down, realizing he’d had the same instinctive reaction.
But at least we agree Aubrey’s a potential threat.
They followed Jane as she led the way down the hall. The next few minutes would make all the difference, now that Aubrey was conscious again.
Amos frowned as a new suspicion crossed his mind. Assuming she’s still Aubrey.
Jane called over her shoulder, “By the way, Doc says she’s cured. There’s no trace of it in her blood.” Her words stopped Amos and Garr in their tracks, and Sheila gasped out loud.
“That’s impossible!” Don’s booming voice raised echoes in the hallway. “Once it’s in the blood, there’s no turning back.”
Jane eyed him coolly.
Amos recognized the look on her face. Jane doesn’t like to be contradicted. She’s never been the same, but some of the old fire is still in there.
“No?” Jane smirked at Don, although her eyes still held a distant, haunted look. “Then I’ll let Doc explain it to you, using small words you can understand.”
She pivoted on her heel, stalking the few remaining steps to the infirmary. “Come and see for yourselves.”