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DOCTOR SIMON PACKED away her instruments, meticulously wrapping each item in linen that was as sterile as she could hope to make it. She worked in a steady rhythm, a practiced routine, readying herself for potential relocation.
Does everything around here fit into a backpack? Aubrey couldn’t help but wonder as she watched Doc’s preparations. These people live like fugitives, in tunnels and hidey-holes and who-knows-where-else. And ready or not, I’ve been adopted into the tribe.
Sheila sat at the nearby workbench, finally relaxed after fretting over the small collection of prods. Everything was still guesswork, trial-and-error. Sheila’s assortment of tools lay to one side, next to an open toolbox awaiting their return.
“Where are you going, if you’re not coming with us?” Aubrey couldn’t resist asking as Doc finished packing the last of her instruments. She gestured to the assortment of rucksacks lined up on the workbench. “And how will you carry all of that?”
“Who says we’re going anywhere?” Doc countered with a knowing wink. “It’s part of the ‘new normal’ you’ll have to get used to. We’re always ready to move at a moment’s notice. Complacency is as great an enemy as the Trackers. We don’t dare become lackadaisical.”
“Now, there’s an old-fashioned word.” Sheila roused herself to teased the doctor, who rolled her eyes in response. “What she means to say, Aubrey, is we can’t get sloppy. You never know when things will go sideways.”
We’ve had weeks of peace while I’ve been recovering. Aubrey decided not to mention it. The blockaded staircase flashed into her mind. There’s a good reason you haven’t seen sunlight for a while, Aubs.
Sheila gathered up her collection of prods. She’d heard the approaching footsteps from the nondescript hallway. The other members of the Hub appeared in the doorway.
Only Garr entered, and Sheila handed him a couple of prods, as well as a small package. Without a word, he gave the extras to Don, as well as the small mystery package.
“Your permits, and the location of your vehicle,” Garr said without further elaboration. “Make it double-time, but be careful.”
Don accepted the proffered items, distributing the new weapons among his teammates. Jane gave Garr a hard look as she strapped on her prod, but she kept her opinion to herself, shouldering past her companions. The three of them left as abruptly as they’d arrived.
Sheila nudged Aubrey, handing her one of the remaining prods and buckling one to her own belt. Aubrey hefted the odd weapon, surprised by how little it weighed. It feels so flimsy. What if it breaks the first time I try to use it?
“Aubrey, Sheila, you’re with me,” Garr said as he attached a prod to his belt. It hung like a short dagger next to his knife. “We’ll rendezvous with the others later. We’re heading deeper into the City.”
Don reappeared without warning, leaning into the room as he pointed at the remaining four inside.
“Make sure you’ve got each other’s backs,” he said gruffly, favoring each of them with a stern look. “I don’t have the time or the patience to break in new recruits. I expect you all alive and well by the time we rendezvous, got it?”
With that, he was gone, disappearing down the tunnel.
Garr hoisted a rucksack over his shoulders, adjusting the straps until it fit snugly against his spine. “Saddle up, you two. But remember, we’re going into the heart of the City. Stay focused and be aware of your surroundings at all times.”
A sudden feeling of dread washed over Aubrey. “”Why do we have prods? I know the others are going after Amos’s Implant, but why do we need them?”
“There’s at least three Runners,” Sheila said, confirming Aubrey’s intuition. “And we know Trackers are after them. If we deactivate their Implants first, the Trackers will lose the scent. Otherwise, they’re as good as dead.”
Garr paused in the doorway, addressing Aubrey over his shoulder. “Don’t forget this, either. These Runners aren’t our allies. They’ll kill us if they get the chance, unless we short out their Implants first. There’s no question it’s already in their blood.”
He grasped the straps of his rucksack with both hands, shifting its weight on his shoulders. “We want to observe them and, if possible, learn more about the Hoarders’ endgame. But they’re not expendable. This is still a rescue mission, but it’s nothing like when Jane found you. Both sides—Trackers and Runners—will kill us if they can.”
Steady, Aubs, you’re readier than they give you credit for. Aubrey awkwardly donned her rucksack. She knew she looked uncoordinated as she tried to sling her arms through the straps. She wasn’t used to these things at the best of times, and her damaged arm was still prone to stiffening without warning.
Good thing Snake Lady’s not here to comment.
She buckled on her belt, adjusting the position of the prod next to her hunting knife. The touch of the knife’s handle under her palm evoked a small shiver of adrenaline.
I still can’t remember what happened in the tunnel. Maybe I don’t want to.
Garr stepped into the passageway, Sheila close behind. Aubrey moved to follow, but felt a hand on her arm, urging her to stay. She paused in the doorway, looking over her shoulder. Doc leaned close, a worried look on her face.
“Stay close to them both,” she said, her voice strained. “The further west you go in the City, the more deserted it is. It’s not safe at the best of times, and before the day is over, each of you may owe your lives to the other.”
Aubrey paused for a moment, studying the medic’s concerned expression. If there’s anyone I owe anything to, it’s Doc. Sheila’s been helpful, too, but Doc’s the one who invested so much in my recovery.
Unplanned, she heard herself saying, “Thanks, Doctor Simon. For everything.”
Doc patted her on the shoulder. “My pleasure, Aubrey. Please, be careful.”
Why does it feel like I may never see her again? Aubrey shook her head to clear her morbid thoughts. She imagined she heard Jane’s caustic voice, telling her to hurry up. I’ve got Garr’s back, Snake Lady. For your sake, you’d better hope Amos has yours.
She gave Doc one last smile—one she hoped was reassuring—and trotted into the gloomy passage, not wanting to be left behind.