| |
KEEP MOVING. PEOPLE are counting on you.
Amos stood in the middle of the sidewalk, pivoting in a slow circle. He eyed the high-rise apartments, and tried to ignore his nagging inner voice.
His dash up the stairs left him breathless, chest heaving as he paused just beyond the subway’s entrance. He clutched his knife in one fist, his prod in the other, adrenaline surging.
Reconnaissance. That was his role to play in the rapidly unfolding drama. He needed a better vantage point—above street level—to spy out their best escape route.
Urgency gnawed at him. An unknown number of Trackers were in the area. The killing machines were a gauntlet they’d be forced to run.
Twilight was already upon them. A full moon floated just above the horizon, bathing the streets in its ghostly glow. The streetlights, as could be expected in the abandoned city core, remained dark and lifeless.
Amos made his decision, choosing an apartment building at random, and sprinted for the entrance. Adrenaline provided the energy he thought he’d already depleted. He pried the uncooperative doors apart, squeezing between them, alert for telltale circles of red light.
He found a fire-escape near the front corner of the foyer, dashing up two flights of exterior stairs before re-entering the building. He kicked opened the first door he came to, hurrying through the musty apartment, and stepped onto a balcony overlooking the street.
His new vantage point gave him a much clearer view of the streets, alleys, and even a portion of the plaza where they’d abandoned the truck. Amos hesitated, tempted by the reminder of their vehicle, just around the corner.
Too easy to trace. Amos shook his head, rejecting his half-formed plan. We can’t be sure whether that Tracker sent a message to the Hoarders. If it did, the Hoarders will be on the alert for a truck with a Tracker-shaped dent in its grill. Not exactly hidden in plain sight.
The first explosion came from his right, in the opposite direction of the plaza. Amos threw himself to the balcony floor, shielding his head. Several long seconds passed as the echoes of the detonation faded.
His luck was holding. The shrapnel hadn’t reached him. He was outside the blast radius.
He edged closer to the balcony rail, staying low to present as small a target as possible. He spied a scorched patch on the pavement, but little else to confirm the source of the explosion.
Garr said there were three Runners. He peered down the street, a sinking feeling in his gut. The body in the plaza, the kid in the subway—was the last one just killed by a suicidal Tracker?
A second explosion sounded, and then a third. Amos ducked, squirming around on his belly, trying to ascertain the origin of the attacks.
As he spun from right to left, he caught sight of a Tracker, skulking down an alley opposite his position. True to form, the stealthy killers were difficult to detect, unless they were in hunting mode.
They pass as humans most of the time. His grip tightened on his knife and prod. Except for that little red circle of light. Did it scan me?
The question was half-formed in his mind when the next explosion went off. Amos instinctively squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding detonation.
When his eyesight cleared, the Tracker in the alley had vanished. A grisly smattering of body parts encircled a seared mark on the concrete.
Amos had all the answers he needed.
More explosions sounded nearby, echoing up and down the streets. He caught a brief glimpse of the flashes here and there. Some came from inside the vacant buildings, others in the streets and alleys.
The Trackers are self-detonating. His eyes widened as the realization sunk in. They’re gambling on blind luck to catch a Runner in the blast radius.
His heartbeat quickened. A nervous laugh escaped his lips as he watched, hardly daring to believe.
Across the street, diagonal to his position, the outer wall of a fourth-floor office blew out. Flames licked at the blackened window frame as the curtains caught fire.
Amos propped himself up on his elbows, craning his neck to see. Are all the Trackers blowing themselves up?
In hindsight, he should've realized something was wrong. But in the exhilaration of the moment, it didn’t occur to him.
He wracked his brain, trying to calculate how many explosions he’d witnessed. Each one meant another Tracker was out of commission and no longer a threat. He scrambled to his feet, leaning recklessly over the balcony rail as he surveyed the area.
Nothing moved. No circles of red light returned his gaze. Smoke issued from the burning office down the street, silent. The faint odor of charred flesh wafted up from the scorched patch on the pavement.
He was alone.
He exited the apartment, descending the stairs two at a time. They can’t track us if they’re all dead.
He felt lighter than he had in weeks.