One month, she’d said.
Glass shattered, and a maddened scream split the air, only distantly recognizable as human.
Jarek hit the pavement in a half-crouch and pushed on without looking back, Fela’s powerful legs pumping beneath him, pounding the ground as he fled the first of the horde with his cargo tightly clutched.
Three weeks ago, the sounds of the shrieks that spread through the streets behind him would’ve curdled his blood and given him a proper case of the heebie-jeebies.
Now, though…
Now that furor hordes seemed to be howling after them wherever they ran. Now that he’d seen more grown men and women tear each other to gory pieces more times than he wanted to count… All he could do was push on. It was all any of them could do right now.
That didn’t stop the heebie-jeebies.
One month of this madness.
He could’ve taken them, of course. In small numbers, their fists and mindless rage weren’t exactly fair matches for Jarek’s armored exo.
In horde quantities, though?
Jarek had tried to avoid putting too much thought into it, but he was pretty sure Fela wouldn’t render him invulnerable to them going Wookie on his ass and pulling him limb from limb if they managed to catch him and swarm him to the pavement.
So he kept moving.
“Talk to me, Mr. Robot. Good news only.”
A deliberate moment’s hesitation.
Then, “That’s quite the lovely sunrise, sir.”
On top of his crisp English accent, Al’s tone was cautious, searching.
Jarek held his tongue, waiting for the digital construct to finish his sweep.
Everything else aside, his friend wasn’t wrong. It was a lovely sunrise. The scrabbling feet and bloodthirsty calls of the horde just put a bit of a dimmer on things.
“No enemy ships detected nearby, sir,” Al said after longer than usual, “though I’ll remind you my eyes aren’t as good as they once were.”
Jarek grimaced and adjusted his cargo, shifting the enormous bag on his back and wrapping the straps of the second half-full duffle tighter around his left hand.
Between the Net inexplicably failing last week and the secondhand sensory array Pryce and Al had cobbled together on Fela’s faceplate after a raknoth warlord had clubbed off the first one, Jarek imagined Al’s senses felt about as unencumbered as he currently did trying to sprint with a giant sword and a couple of oversized duffles awkwardly strapped to his form.
That said, Al’s words at least offered some mild assurance that the rakul themselves weren’t about to drop down on his head. It was something.
Jarek cut left down a wide alleyway, thinking to shake some of his pursuers, and nearly ran headlong into one of the wild-eyed berserkers. The man bared his teeth and sprang forward.
Gently as he reasonably could, Jarek kicked the guy in the chest and sent him sprawling to the pavement ten feet back. As far as he could tell, the berserker’s coughing and sputtering were probably more a matter of mechanical fact than pain or discomfort. Those would come later, when the furor passed and the poor bastard hopefully regained control of his mind.
For now, though, Jarek turned and leapt over a brown picket fence and into a heavily overgrown backyard.
From what he’d seen, Syracuse, like most northern cities, had been largely abandoned for some time now. Ever since the Catastrophe, people had had enough on their plates just to survive without willingly adding contending with the winter cold to their lists.
It was exactly what Jarek had been counting on when he’d ghosted into town at the crack of dawn. He’d even stuck to the outskirts as much as possible, just to be safe.
Canned food. Oil. Batteries. Solar chargers. Anything that might help them survive. He’d stuffed his bags as quickly as he could, determined to not spend a minute longer than necessary in the abandoned ghost town.
A harsh baying from the alleyway gave him an unneeded reminder that Syracuse was hardly abandoned now.
“What say we blow this party and get back to our merry men, buddy?”
Behind, the picket fence rattled with its first thudding blow.
“That seems most advisable, sir.”
Aided by Fela’s considerable strength, Jarek easily hopped the fence on the other side of the yard and took off once again, weaving through crumbling buildings at a hard northwest clip.
The sounds of his frenzied pursuit faded into the distance over the following minutes until the most prominent sounds were his labored breathing and the rhythmic pounding of his armored feet on the asphalt.
Pissed beyond all Earthly reason, they may have been. But, try as they did, the furor victims couldn’t match his Fela-enhanced pace, even encumbered as he was. It was exactly why the group had agreed Jarek should make the run solo when they’d pulled up a few miles outside town in the first hints of the coming daylight. Not that anyone minded sitting out and letting Jarek do the heavy lifting.
No one but Mosen, at least.
That glinty-eyed bastard only saw Jarek’s usefulness as a threat to his authority in the group. Why Mosen cared so damn much about that authority was still a bit perplexing to Jarek.
Maybe the guy had simply spent too much time immersed with the raknoth and their draconian pecking order. Or maybe it was just Mosen’s way of trying to feel in control of the situation.
If it was the latter, then Mosen was even crazier than Jarek had already thought. Out of the many things they collectively were, in control was not on the list.
The rakul had seen to that. And then some.
The three-mile trek back to their temporary hideout fell quickly to Jarek’s amped nerves and racing thoughts. Quickly enough, in fact, that he wondered if they shouldn’t have holed up further out of town. At the very least, he probably should have taken off in a different direction and looped his way back around.
“No pursuit detected, sir,” Al said in his ear, apparently sensing his hesitation as he finished tromping across a field of wild grass that might’ve once been a golf course.
“Thanks, buddy.”
He pushed into the last little woodland divider separating them from the dilapidated apartment building they’d decided to bunk in for the day. A tiny weight tugged at the back of his mind, whispering frightening thoughts and forcing him to glance back over his shoulder, across the grassy expanse.
“Keep an ear out anyway?”
“Of course, sir.”
Jarek closed his eyes, consciously let out a long breath, and forced himself to turn for the apartments. There wasn’t anything left to do now but to load the new supplies, divide the food as best they could afford, and get some rest while they could.
They still didn’t really understand whether there was some pattern to the furors, or exactly what goal the rakul were driving their puppets to pursue—outside of mindless violence. From what Jarek had observed, though, he doubted the horde would track him this far.
Plus, more likely than not, they’d be moving on from the apartments tonight anyway.
For all they knew, the rakul could be orbiting the planet, watching them night and day with technologies Jarek couldn’t comprehend, but logic still dictated that traveling under the cover of night was probably the smart move. Especially for a band of squishy meat sacks like them trying to avoid the notice of the ridiculously powerful intergalactic conquerors that may or may not be currently tracking them like alien bloodhounds.
He ducked under a low-hanging branch, suppressing a shudder at the thought of bloodhounds and the memory it kicked up of the thing that had chased him and Michael out of HQ almost two weeks ago.
As if he’d needed more material for his never-ending vault of nightmare materials.
Along with the thought of their flight from HQ came the sudden and inevitable pang of aching worry, like a glob of churning ice water in his core. It was a sensation he was almost growing used to in a horrible kind of way. The same one he had every time any little thing reminded him of—
No. Not now.
He had hungry soldiers and a not-so-distant horde to worry about right now.
Later, when he could lay down to rest with some degree of certainty he wouldn’t wake up to snarling teeth and wild eyes… then he could have his worry-streaked pitty party.
But until then…
One foot in front of the other.
And again.
And again.
* * *
The ship was still there, right where Al had parked it that morning, under the partial cover of the encroaching tree line. Jarek considered stopping to leave what extra supplies they wouldn’t immediately need inside but decided it wasn’t worth the time or organizational effort right now.
Most of what he’d scavenged had been food anyway, and they weren’t nearly so flush on food as to think today’s haul would last longer than tonight. Turned out, keeping a platoon of hungry men and women fed wasn’t a walk in the park when food was scarce to begin with and a pack of super-monsters had you on the run.
It wasn’t like anyone had had time to pack rations for this lovely little adventure of theirs.
Whether or not the rakul knew it, if the hordes or the beasts themselves didn’t catch and kill their group, the running—and the hunger it was driving them to—might.
A glance at each corner of the apartment building ahead showed that their lookouts were posted and watching him. He hefted the duffel in his left hand and shot a casual salute their way.
The Resistance woman, Chambers, returned a wave and a friendly, maybe even excited, smile.
In contrast, the reaction of the soldiers posted at the other two corners—Mosen’s men—was like an icy slap to the giblets.
They stared at him and his cargo, looking like they’d rather eat him and take his suit than accept his handouts yet again.
So that was a no on the thank yous, then.
Suffice it to say, there was a reason Jarek hadn’t stepped out of his armor in over a week—even after Al had upped the awkward ante and made it crystal clear, just in case any of their assembled forces should have any wild ideas, that Jarek was the only person on Earth the suit would be functioning for anytime soon.
It hadn’t earned him or Al any points with Mosen or the other refugees from Camp Krogoth, but at least no one had tested Fela’s durability with a knife while he slept. Yet.
Jarek stepped into the entryway, pulled the door shut behind him, and paused at the bottom of the rickety old stairs.
“Honey, I’m home,” he called up.
Thanks to Fela’s amplified auditory sensors, he didn’t miss the irritated huff Mosen let out, and he could almost feel the a-hole rolling his eyes.
When Mosen leaned over the banister above, though, his practiced look of smug indifference was fully intact.
“Marvelous. You had me so worried.” The red glint in Mosen’s eyes as he scrutinized the duffels conveyed about as much worry as a hungry alligator closing on its prey. “What do you have for us, sweetheart?”
“Oh, you know”—Jarek slid his helmet faceplate open with a careful thought and started up the stairs—“this and that. Batteries. Bandages. Oil for Al’s squeaky motors.”
“I’m not the one who’s weighing the ship down every day, sir,” Al said out loud through Fela’s speakers. “Or the one who beat it within an inch of scrap metal.”
Jarek might have bantered back, but Mosen had paused from eyeing the duffel to shoot him an expectant, severe look. It kind of ruined the mood.
“And food,” Jarek added, suppressing a sigh as he held the first duffel out.
He had yet to make up his mind on whether or not he, Michael, and the rest of the Resistance soldiers had made a mistake in partying up with Mosen and his faithful Mosenites when they’d unexpectedly crossed paths not far outside of what remained of New York City.
Joining forces had seemed like the smart move. They were all allies in this fight against the rakul, after all, and more soldiers meant more security, more lookouts, less sleepless nights. All objectively good things. But, then again, there were also more mouths to feed—and to listen to.
Mosen snatched the bag from Jarek’s hand, his expression unreadable for a few seconds. Jarek expected him to tromp out, but Mosen hesitated for a second.
“Don’t suppose there’s been any news?” Jarek finally asked.
Mosen showed him a morbid grin. “What? Besides the entire world being fucked out of its mind?”
“Yeah, I don’t particularly need a reminder on that one right now.”
Mosen frowned. “You run into trouble out there?”
Jarek nodded grimly. “Another horde. Or maybe the same one. Shit, I can’t tell.”
Mosen hissed through his teeth. “Well fuck, maybe you could have started with that, Slater.”
“Started with what?” came Michael’s deep voice from the hallway beyond, followed a moment later by his dark, haggard face.
Christ, he wasn’t looking hot.
Not that any of them were, having been on the road for nearly two weeks with little in the way of commodities most of that time.
“Started with the fact that those crazy bastards could’ve followed our Soldier of Charity straight back here,” Mosen growled, shooting a disgusted look at Jarek before whirling for the doorway.
Michael held Mosen’s eyes with a stern expression and took his time in stepping aside to let him pass.
“Mosen,” Jarek said.
“I need to go tell my lookouts,” Mosen said without stopping.
“Seth.”
Mosen froze at Jarek’s use of his first name, then rolled his shoulders and looked back to meet Jarek’s eyes with frosty amusement.
“Yeah, Papa Slater?”
Jarek did his best to keep his expression peaceful as he nodded to the duffel in Mosen’s hand. “See to it everyone gets their fair share?”
Mosen looked between Michael and Jarek, his amusement only growing. “I wonder what it is you two think passes for fair about any of this shit.”
And with that, he left before either of them could say anything more.
Michael looked worriedly from the empty doorway back to Jarek but seemed to relax a bit when he took in the full bag still strapped to Jarek’s back.
He didn’t have to speak his mind. Jarek knew exactly what he was thinking.
It would be an interesting day, to say the least, if—or, more likely, when—they came up short on rations.
“I take it you ran into another furor out there?” Michael asked.
Jarek nodded. “Kinda feels a little too much like it’s following us at this point. I could’ve sworn that town was deserted, and that was a pretty damn big horde that popped up.”
Michael grimaced. “I hate that word.”
Jarek didn’t need to ask about that one either to know Michael was referring to the word, horde. They’d already had a few discussions about the mindless zombie connotations, and Jarek knew Michael could relate a little too much to the feeling of being made a telepathic puppet.
Speaking of which…
“You can go ahead and say it,” Michael said, apparently picking up on the direction of his thoughts.
Jarek hesitated, opened his mouth, hesitated again, and shrugged. “Fine. Are you feeling okay”—he tapped the side of his head and dropped to a conspiratorial whisper—“you know, upstairs?”
Michael rolled his eyes and directed his gaze down the stairway as if the empty space suddenly required his subdued attention.
“You look like shit, Mikey,” Jarek added, not hiding his concern now. “And I can only assume there’s some angry telepathic juju floating around nearby if the…” He hooked a thumb toward town. “You know. I just, uh… Promise you’ll talk to me if anything starts to…”
Michael watched him flounder with exactly what it was that anything might start to do then finally nodded. “I will.”
Jarek was less than convinced. After everything he’d seen Michael go through, he didn’t doubt the big guy was the suffer in silence type.
And if Michael was feeling the telepathic heat right now…
Suffice it to say, Jarek doubted walking around with the guy who was, as far as he understood it, basically a messenger satellite was doing any major favors to their efforts to lay low. But it wouldn’t be the nail in their coffin—he had to believe that. As far as they understood it, Michael’s condition was a one-way arrangement—receiving but not transmitting.
No. It wouldn’t be the nail in their coffin. That blow would more likely fall if anyone decided to press the issue. Mosen had made it more than clear just how little he liked having Michael around, marked as he was. If Mosen or anyone else so much as caught a whiff that anything was awry with Michael… Jarek didn’t want to think about how it would go for their happy little platoon if and when that happened.
So, instead, he unslung the duffel from his back and offered it to Michael. “Dandy. Wanna do the honors, then?”
If Michael thought his connection was putting the group at risk—and Jarek trusted the younger man would know better than him on that one—Michael wouldn’t keep quiet about it. Probably.
It was good enough for now.
Michael took the bag with a slight frown. Ragged as he looked from their travels and, before that, from weeks of intermittent telepathic assaults, his burly frame still had no trouble supporting the hefty load as he slung it over one shoulder. “You’re not coming?”
Jarek waved him on and pointed down the stairs. “Might just go, uh… For a minute.”
Michael’s expression softened, and he clapped a hand to Jarek’s shoulder. “She’s okay out there. Probably better off than we are. I have faith.”
Jarek fought the urge to swallow against the sudden lump in his throat and managed to pull on a mask of mock sternness instead. “You know I don’t approve of the F-word, young man.”
A faint touch of amusement alighted over Michael’s features. “My bad, Papa Slater.”
Jarek shook his head, the title drawing Mosen back to the forefront of his thoughts. “That smug bastard.”
Michael gave a knowing nod, looking thoughtful. “I’ll say this much for him, though. Dude’s loyal to his people.”
That much was hard to argue. Much as he hated to admit it, and much as blind devotion never failed to scare the crap out of him, Jarek was actually pretty impressed by how hard Mosen had proven himself willing to fight for his men—and how faithfully those Mosenites followed him in return.
“Yeah…” Jarek waved at the duffel at Michael’s shoulder. “Well, why don’t you go make sure every hungry mouth in there knows we’re loyal too? I’ll be in soon.”
Michael looked like he had something else he was thinking about saying—a few somethings, maybe—but he finally gave a nod and turned for the doorway.
“Hey, Mikey.”
Michael turned, waiting, and Jarek found he couldn’t quite decide what it was he wanted to ask—could only grasp at general directions, all of which suddenly seemed like topics for another time.
“Uh, make sure who’s-a-what’s-it on lookout gets a bite too.”
Michael cocked his head. “Chambers?”
“Right. Like I said.”
Michael’s look was slightly quizzical, but he gave Jarek a thumbs up and left to go feed the troops without further question.
Jarek stood in silence for some time, his thoughts winding themselves in unpleasant knots. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he should’ve grabbed a can of something before he’d handed the bag over.
“You should eat, sir.”
Al wasn’t wrong. But the thought of stepping into a crowded space right now… Food could wait a little longer.
“Is that what that means, Mr. Robot?” Jarek asked, starting down the stairs. “It gets so confusing sometimes, being a real boy. The rumbles. The pulses. The massive erections. Who can keep track of it all?”
“Would that I could avoid it, sir. Particularly the latter.”
Jarek smiled and stepped outside to take a seat on the building’s front stoop.
“How are you doing, buddy? Still feeling like you’re short a few limbs without the Net?”
“Short a few limbs and locked in a padded room, sir. And with you, no less. Can you imagine?”
Jarek shook his head. “The horror.”
He wanted to say more, wanted to promise Al that they’d see this thing through. That they’d save the planet and eventually restore the Net and, along with it, all of the thousands of petabytes of information and media and other digital distractions his friend no longer had access to. He wanted to promise it to Al as much as he wanted to promise it to himself.
But they’d both know he was talking out of his ass, so, for a long while, he just sat there, trying to enjoy the companionable silence that he and his old friend had so often passed together.
One month, Rachel had said the last time he’d talked to her, just before the Net had cut out and their comms had ceased to function outside of close-range communication.
One month until Haldin and Elise would complete their… was merger the right word? No one seemed to know. Not even the raknoth.
One month until they finished doing whatever the hell it was those two were doing with Alton and Lietha, at least.
One month of surviving this relentless hounding, flying on some blind hope that the product of this apparently unprecedented raknoth-Enochian merger would somehow give them an edge against the rakul. Against the things that were so old and strong that even Drogan, Mr. My-Warrior-Honor-is-Bigger-than-Yours himself, had fled the scene like a frightened child when they’d first arrived in force.
After the run-in Jarek and Michael had had with that giant mutant-wolf-looking bastard back at HQ, though, Jarek couldn’t say he blamed ol’ Stumpy for being afraid of the things.
As for the Enochians…
Jarek didn’t know what to believe.
Whatever happened, whatever shit hit in the end, the only thing Jarek knew for sure was that he wanted—needed—to face it with Rachel at his side.
But first, he had to find her.
