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THE CITY’S INNER CORE always felt desolate and empty, no matter when Amos saw it. The empty skyscrapers, windows blindly overlooking the crumbling streets, stood as mute testimony to hard times after the Hoarders abandoned society in favor of their Enclaves.
The business center of the City had collapsed soon after, its luxury accommodations forsaken. The outer fringe of the city, more residential in make-up, survived in their own fashion, but the downtown core was long-abandoned and derelict.
Like a skeleton after the vultures pick off its flesh, Amos thought, watching block after desolate block pass by. Let’s hope we find the new Runners before the Trackers do.
Don slowed his reckless pace, partly in deference to the road conditions. Amos and Jane watched for any trace of Garr’s team. They hadn’t seen any Trackers—not yet, anyway—but a sense of morbid foreboding gnawed at Amos’s insides.
“I hate this place.” Jane leaned between the front seats to peer out the windshield. “It’s even more depressing than living in the tunnels. It gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ghost town.”
Don grunted in agreement. He took his foot off the gas, slowing until the truck was barely crawling forward. “We’re here for as long as it’s necessary, and not a second more. I’m with Jane on this one. This place gives me the creeps.”
“Where, exactly, are we hoping to find Garr’s team?” Amos peered down a wide boulevard as they crossed yet another intersection. “They’ve got the scanner, which leaves us looking for three needles in a haystack.”
“There’s a plaza in the center of the financial district,” Don replied. “It was in Garr’s notes. Our first priority is the Runners, but without a scanner, we’re handicapped.”
Amos nodded without turning to look. “If Garr shows up with the new Runners in tow, we’re going to have to make a run for it.”
Jane squinted past the looming high-rises, gauging the angle of the sun.
“It’ll be dark in an hour or so.” She gave her prediction with a mixture of confidence and relief. “Better than being exposed in broad daylight.”
The city blocks rolled past, each one indistinguishable from the others. The relentless monotony added another layer to the tension.
“Stay in character, Don,” Amos said, suddenly alarmed. “Hoarders don’t drive this slow anywhere, even in this part of the City.”
“Hoarders don’t drive in this part of the City, period,” Don corrected him amiably, his voice betraying no tension. He could have been remarking on the weather. “We’re way beyond hidden in plain sight, just by being here.”
Amos shrugged, conceding the point. He’s right. Hoarders lost interest in the inner city a long time ago.
Their truck, so well-suited for their earlier mission, was now a mechanical beacon to any watchful eyes. A shiny metallic anomaly, creeping down the middle of a deserted street.
“Nobody lives around here anymore.” Jane’s grip tightened on the back of the driver’s seat, the tendons in her hand visible. “If we see anybody wandering the streets, chances are it’s one of the Runners.”
Don continued his slow advance, nursing the truck forward. They came upon a wide concrete plaza, surrounded on all sides by the empty, decaying buildings.
“This is the place.” He eased his foot off the gas pedal, allowing the vehicle to roll forward by its own momentum.
He leaned back in his seat as he answered Jane. “If we see Trackers in the area, circling in, it could also mean we’re close to the Runners, too.”
Their vehicle coasted to a stop, engine idling as they surveyed the wide, artificial expanse. Amos reached under his seat to retrieve the binoculars, hopping out of the truck for an unobstructed look.
The buildings on the far side of the plaza leaped into focus as he trained the lenses on them. Amos moved in a slow pan from left to right, reducing the magnification for a panoramic view.
He caught sight of the weathered lettering over the entrance of one building: City Hall. His breath caught in his throat as he panned across the front steps. He lowered the binoculars, sickened.
“Over there.” He gestured to the far side of the plaza as he climbed into the truck. They followed his pointing finger, and saw a dark shape lying prone, near the cracked steps of City Hall.
The truck accelerated awkwardly as Don nudged the gas pedal with his foot.
They pulled up beside the body, sprawled face-down at the foot of the stairs. The ragged hole between the Runner’s shoulder blades told the story with wordless eloquence. Death had already claimed its prize.
Tracker kill. A hollow feeling grew in Amos’s chest. I hope it was over quick.
Don rolled his window down, leaning out to scrutinize the remains. Jane edged forward in her seat, looking over Don’s shoulder.
“The blood’s still fresh,” she said, pointing to the glistening wetness staining the victim’s jacket. “This didn’t happen too long ago.”
The truck lurched forward, tires squealing. Don accelerated, careening across the side of the plaza and into the street beyond. Jane’s voice rang out in a startled cry, and Amos was about to protest until he spied the object of Don’s wrath.
A dark figure in the middle of the street whirled to face them, the glowing red circle around its eye a malevolent beacon.
A wordless roar burst from Don’s throat as he closed in on the Tracker. Amos knew what was coming, but—in an odd, detached way—felt nothing.
The Tracker stood its ground, its scanning eye transfixed on their truck. It’s scanning us. Amos shook his head, incredulous. One final scan before . . .
The impact was sharp and final. Don slammed on the brakes and the truck skidded to a stop. Amos imagined—just before the final moment—he’d seen a frightened look on the Tracker’s face. Just my imagination. Those things aren’t even human.
The silence inside the truck was absolute. Amos stared straight ahead. Jane spoke first, her voice low and seething.
“Mercy killing,” she said, scoffing. “We put it out of its misery. Good riddance.” It was impossible to tell if the words for were their benefit, or her own.
Don gripped the steering wheel with both hands, knuckles white. His hardened expression didn’t change, but when he spoke, his voice held its usual light-hearted tone.
“One less toy for the Hoarders to play with.” He rolled his window down, spitting in the general vicinity of the Tracker. “I hope it scanned its fate back to its masters.”
Jane seized on his last comment. “What if it did? Send a message to the Hoarders, I mean? They’ll know exactly where to find us.” Her voice lost some of its earlier confidence.
Amos pulled his knife from its sheath, reaching for his door handle. “We could use another scanner, if it’s not damaged.”
He slipped out of the truck, hesitating as he heard Don’s door open. “I can do this myself, Don.”
But Don was already down on one massive knee, prying the Tracker’s hands open, one at a time. He exhaled in frustration after completing his quick inspection, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the body in the plaza.
“There’s no Implant. This isn’t the same Tracker that killed the Runner back there.”
Jane grasped Don’s shoulder with a firm, insistent grip. “We’ve got company. Look up there.”
She nodded her head to indicate the skyscrapers just a few blocks ahead.
Amos followed her gaze, and in a shadowed window above them, he saw the circle of red light. Two floors above, he spied another. How many are there? They’ve never hunted in packs before, have they?
Don got to his feet, eyes intent on the red circlets staring back at them. “If they’ve scanned us, they know we don’t have Implants. But with so many Trackers around, the Runners must be close.”
He retreated to the truck, taking Jane with him, his last instruction to Amos thrown tersely over his shoulder.
“Make it quick.”