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DON’S JUST PLAYING the part. Amos tried to reassure himself, clinging to the handgrip above his seat. He glanced over his shoulder into the rear seat, and saw Jane also hanging on for dear life. He’s driving like a typical Hoarder—fast, reckless and with zero regard for anything. Or anyone.
“When Don’s behind the wheel, ‘hidden in plain sight’ looks a little different.” His lame joke was for Jane’s benefit. His forced laugh was cut off as the truck hit a rough patch, slewing sideways before Don wrestled it back under control.
“Just so long as we don’t end up ‘buried in plain sight’,” Jane shot back, one hand braced against the roof for support. “I forgot how good Don is at faking Hoarder driving habits.”
She caught her breath as the truck bounced hard, twice. “I think he enjoys it.”
“Blame it on the potholes.” Don grinned devilishly at Jane in the rear-view mirror. “Highway maintenance isn’t much of a priority for the Hoarders these days. Why waste their precious money on anything outside Hoarderville?”
Amos watched out the front window, smiling at Don’s caustic nick-name for the Hoarders’ fortified Enclave. He’s got a point. I’ll bet living inside an Enclave is nothing like what’s left out here.
Don flexed his hands on the steering wheel, his grin fading. “The sooner we rendezvous with the others, the better. I want to be there, if and when they catch up to the Runners. Or Trackers find them.”
“Then by all means, drive like a Hoarder.” Jane braced herself against the back of Amos’s seat. “My spine and I forgive you in advance.”
Their hasty journey to the City’s outskirts passed without incident. It was common enough for Hoarders to travel the countryside, although no-one knew whether it was for sport or just to reassert their dominance. Don managed to avoid striking any pedestrians, but he was careful to make it look accidental. Hoarders never missed an opportunity to strike terror into the lower classes.
The long-dead traffic lights, coupled with the Hoarders’ sense of entitlement, had forever changed driving patterns in the City. Doc Simon was perhaps the only person in their Hub old enough to remember when the traffic lights still functioned.
“Checkpoint coming up.” Jane pointed out the obvious. They’d been watching for it since leaving the outskirts of the City, but there was a palpable rise in tension as the guardhouse came into view.
“Switch seats, you two.” Don glanced at Amos, taking his eyes off the road. “Jane and I will keep the guard’s attention up front. Amos, I need you to watch for a Tracker.”
“Got it.” The memory of their last encounter at a checkpoint still vivid in Amos’s mind. He tightened his grasp on the handgrip as he unbuckled his seatbelt, trying to time his next move in concert with the truck’s rollicking gait.
He twisted his body and launched himself into the rear seat, nearly landing on Jane. He braced himself against the roof as she ducked between the front seats, seizing the handgrip as she fumbled for her seatbelt.
They fell silent as the checkpoint loomed closer.
Amos steeled himself, unable to quell his sense of foreboding. Our fake permits aren’t a guarantee. Let’s hope there’s no Tracker this time.
His hand unconsciously traced the scar from his Implant. The ragged wound had healed well under Doc’s efficient care, but it was still tender to the touch. He looked at Jane, only to find she was already watching him. She’d seen his instinctive motion.
“You cut your Implant out already,” she said with her usual bluntness. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Just the permits, me hearties,” Don interrupted cheerfully, his expression light and relaxed. He was playing his part. “Everybody shift into arrogant mode. We’re typical Hoarders: smug, entitled, and having zero patience for our inferiors.”
He caught Amos’s eye in the mirror as he decelerated, grinning as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He’s got the right of it. Hidden in plain sight.
The checkpoint guards—two of them—approached the truck as it rolled to a stop at the barricade. Amos felt his muscles knot.
“Here goes nothing.” Jane composed her face into a neutral expression. “Let’s hope these guys aren’t too picky about our paperwork.”
“Two of them, three of us.” Don winked at her, unflappable. “I like our chances.”
“Be careful.” Amos voiced his caution from the rear seat. “Our window tint is pretty dark, but that doesn’t mean they can’t see us.”
Jane squeezed in one last sarcastic comment. “I doubt lip-reading is a typical Hoarder hobby.”
Don lowered his window, his grin fading as if it had never existed. His look was one of bored tolerance as he inclined his head toward the nearest guard, not looking directly at him.
“Good welcome, Citizens.” There was no readable expression on the guard’s face. “Your permits, please.”
Amos saw Jane’s right hand, hidden from the guard’s view, inching nearer the underside of her seat.
Easy, Jane, stay in character. Amos tensed, unable to voice a warning. Let them make the first move.
Don pulled their permits out of the console, and handed them to the guard, still refusing to meet his gaze. He sighed with impatience as he glared at the barricade blocking their way. A Hoarder in a hurry.
Amos leaned back in his seat, affecting the same restless and uncaring posture as Don. His eyes wandered over to the guardhouse. Scanning for a Tracker. How’s that for ironic?
A sharp rap at Jane’s window startled everyone. The second guard had crossed behind their truck and was knocking on the side window with his riot stick.
Jane reacted swiftly, the hand reaching below her seat surging upward with incredible swiftness. Amos lurched forward, poised to restrain Jane before the situation escalated. She’s all rusty nails and broken glass.
To his relief, there was no weapon in her hand. She rolled her window down and confronted the second guard. “You got a problem, buddy? Get back to the other side of the road where you belong.”
Her voice had the effect of cracking a whip. The second guard took an involuntary step back, his face turning white. He was just a kid—to all appearances barely out of training.
“S-s-sorry, ma’am.” He cringed noticeably, knocked off-balance by Jane’s hot-tempered challenge. “I was . . . I was just—”
“Do we care?” Don’s roar erupted from the driver’s seat, all his attention now on the second guard, who turned even paler. “What is this—the training shift? You talk to me or you don’t talk at all. You got that?”
The kid swallowed hard and retreated, cowed.
The first guard, standing outside Don’s open window, maintained his composure. Amos was instantly suspicious. The guard hadn’t reacted when his comrade knocked on Jane’s window, nor did her vociferous reaction appear to bother him.
While Don was distracted, the first guard feigned interest in their travel documents, all the while surreptitiously glancing around the interior of the truck.
For a brief moment, his eyes fastened on Amos in the rear seat. Unlike his junior co-worker, he didn’t avert his gaze. His eyes were unreadable behind his opaque sunglasses as he studied Amos.
Hoarders don’t intimidate him. A jolt of adrenaline lanced through Amos’s body. He’s not scared of us. Not in the slightest.
The first guard broke eye contact and cleared his throat to get Don’s attention. Amos continued to stare, perplexed, and wasn’t surprised to see—over the guard’s shoulder—a shadowy figure lurking inside the guardhouse.
Gotcha. Tracker on site.
“Everything appears to be in order,” the guard said. Nice weather we’re having. He handed the permits through the window as the second guard crossed in front of the truck, standing at attention next to the guardhouse door. His action suggested he was shielding the Tracker from view, unaware Amos had already spotted it.
Scan us all you want. You’re wasting your time.
But Amos was still uneasy. The second guard’s actions were out of order, an uncharacteristic deviation from normal protocol. Hoarders were not to be trifled with or harassed. The young recruit’s hasty retreat was more typical.
The first guard wasn’t nervous, maintaining only a polite façade of the usual deference paid to Hoarders. His actions were no less troublesome than those of his younger counterpart.
The Tracker remained where it was, partially hidden by the shadows inside the guardhouse. The second guard appeared rattled, but held his position in front of the doorway.
Something’s not right. Sure, Jane scared him away, but who put him up to it in the first place?
Don accepted their permits from the guard, handing them to Jane without looking at her. He stared straight ahead for a long moment, flexing his grip on the steering wheel, a Hoarder whose sense of propriety had been offended.
At last, with studied deliberation, he fixed his gaze on the guard, his eyes cold and hard.
“Your puppy isn’t house-broken.” His drawl was low and condescending. The guard didn’t flinch. His younger companion stared at his feet, stricken. “You might want to improve your potty-training before the next time we come through.”
“There won’t be a next time, sir.” The guard’s lack of subservience raised Amos’s suspicions anew. Wait—was that a threat? “We serve all Citizens of the Enclave with honor and respect.”
He’s parroting Hoarder propaganda. Amos averted his eyes. He’s playing a part, just like we are. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jane’s hand drop casually to her side again, drifting closer to whatever she’d hidden under the front seat.
Don gave the guard a withering look, before pointedly averting his gaze to indicate the closed barricade. The second guard scrambled to raise the barrier. Don revved the engine, a Hoarder whose patience had been tested by his inferiors.
“I bid you all a pleasant journey, Citizens.” The first guard spoke again, still standing close to Don’s window.
Speaking without being spoken to. Amos’s inner voice pointed out the obvious. As if he’s having a conversation with an equal. Would Hoarders tolerate that kind of insolence?
Don played his part to the end. He refused to dignify the guard’s farewell with a response, not deigning to look in his direction. He took his foot off the brake, and the truck rolled forward.
At the last second, almost as an afterthought, he leaned out his window and casually spat on the second guard’s boots. Without a backward glance, he dropped the truck into gear and roared away, peppering the checkpoint with a thick cloud of dust and gravel.
Amos kept his eyes on the Tracker throughout the entire exchange. The creature hadn’t changed position, its presence betrayed only by the glint of red light inside the shadowy guardhouse. Amos didn’t dare turn to look as the truck accelerated.
My Implant is still hidden in the cave. There’s nothing for it to scan. The Tracker’s presence is a coincidence, nothing more.
His inner voice wasn’t convinced.