★★★★★ "Astounding, outstanding and makes the maze runner series in comparison seem like elementary school games."
In 2051, the United States has fallen. The Western Allied States is the new power in North America, and ruthlessly eradicate any threat to the union. Traitors are executed without trial, their children seized for a secret program.
Runaway teenager Liz wants nothing more than a normal life, but the government’s hunters have other plans. Abducted off the streets, she’s spirited away to a facility deep in the Californian mountains. There, Liz wakes in a cage – and she’s not alone.
Beside her, eighteen-year-old Chris stands wrongfully accused of treason. The two are now volunteers in the Genome Project – an experimental program to enhance the human race. Stripped of their rights, they will soon learn the true depths of human cruelty. The two must work together to survive, but even then, their chances are slim. Of course, only the lucky get to die.
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“Another pint, hun?”
Liz grated her teeth as a man’s voice carried from across the room. Sucking in a breath, she forced herself to smile and looked around at the speaker. He sat alone at the table in the corner, a lopsided grin stretching across his unshaven cheeks. Catching her gaze, he waved his empty mug. Keeping the smile fixed on her face, Liz moved across to serve him.
“Just the beer, sir?” she asked as she took the glass. “It’s last call.”
His dark black eyes squinted up at her, as though struggling to understand her words. He was swaying slightly in his chair, and Liz was quite sure he’d already had enough. Unfortunately, the bar’s manager, Andrew, was never one to refuse a paying customer.
Finally, the man belched and waved the glass at her stomach. “What else is on the menu, luv?”
He said the words with a leer that made Liz want to rip the mug from his hand and smash him over the head with it. Instead, she gritted her teeth and smiled sweetly. “Just the usual,” she tried to keep the anger from her voice. “Kitchen is closed though.”
“Not interested in the kitchen.” He leaned forward in his chair, and the stench of garlic and cigarettes wafted over Liz. “Always wanted a taste of something rural.”
Liz’s stomach churned and in a flash of anger she snatched the glass from the man’s grease-stained fingers. Then, stealing herself, she took a breath, and laughed. “Grass Valley Ale it is!”
Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and retreated through the maze of tables. Her neck prickled as she sensed him staring, but she did not look back. Moving behind the bar, she added the mug to the growing stack of dishes she had to tackle after closing and took a fresh one from beneath the bar.
She shuddered as she turned and caught his beady eyes watching her from the corner. The man had to be at least forty – more than twice her own seventeen years of age. Ignoring him, she carefully poured out a fresh pint of Grass Valley Ale.
“Keeping our guests happy I hope, Liz?” She jumped as Andrew’s voice came from beside her.
At six-foot-five with a buzz cut and heavily built shoulders, Andrew towered over Liz’s own five feet and two inches. He had served five years with the Western Allied States military before retiring from active duty and starting his own bar here in Sacramento. Or so he said – it wasn’t like there was any way to verify his story. Even in the city, computers and the internet were only accessible for the rich and privileged. Where she’d grown up, they’d been lucky just to have electricity.
Crossing his tattooed arms, Andrew raised an eyebrow. She quickly flicked off the tap and placed the pint on a serving tray before facing him. “He’s just drunk, Andrew,” she said. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“I didn’t say handle him,” Andrew said coldly. “I said keep him happy.”
Liz swallowed as his cold green eyes stared down at her, but she stood her ground. “That’s what the beer’s for,” she nodded at the mug, taking advantage of the opportunity to break eye contact. “I’d better not keep him waiting.”
Feeling cornered, Liz snatched up the metal tray and raced back out amongst the tables. The other customers ignored her as she made her way between them. Only a few tables were occupied now – it was Tuesday night and most people had already left for their beds. The few who remained were mostly men in their thirties and forties, too young to have fought in the war than had claimed so many of their fathers. Most sported the pale complexions of the urban working class, although a couple had darker tans that matched her own.
“One Grass Valley Ale,” she announced cheerfully as she reached the man’s table and placed the beer in front of him. “Is that the lot for the night?”
Without answering, the man swept up the beer and gulped it down. He let out a long sigh as he placed the mug back on the table and grinned up at her. “I like the taste.” Before she could react, his arm shot out and wrapped around her waist. “Matter of fact, it’s made me hungry for the real thing.” He laughed as he dragged her forward.
Liz’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach as she felt his hand grasping her backside. The awful stench of his breath smothered her. Puckering up his lips, the man tried to drag her in for a kiss. She twisted away, the tray still clutched in one hand, and tried to shove him off. But even drunk, he was twice her size, and too strong to resist in such confined quarters.
“Get off,” she growled, the words grating up from the back of her throat.
“What? You think you’re too good for me, ya little rural tramp?” His other hand came up, going for her breasts. “Come on sweets, you know–”
Whatever he’d been about to say was cut off as Liz gripped her metal serving tray in both hands and brought it down on his head. A satisfying clang echoed through the room as it struck, and the hand around her waist vanished.
The man reeled back in his chair, his hands clutching his face. Blood dribbled from a gash on his forehead, tangling with his greying hair. He lurched to his feet with a roar, sending the table and his freshly poured ale crashing to the ground. The sound of breaking glass was punctuated by his screams as Liz retreated a step, holding the tray in front of her like a shield. Her assailant swung his arms blindly in her direction, but alcohol had dimmed his senses and his blows went nowhere near her. Face beet red and cursing, he staggered in her direction.
“Oy!” Andrew’s voice cut through the man’s shouts like a knife.
Liz glanced back and saw him stepping out from behind the bar, baseball bat in hand.
“What’s going on here?” he growled as he marched towards them. The other patrons watched on, eyes wide, silent.
Still in a drunken rage, the man took another step towards Liz before he seemed to catch himself. His eyes flickered uncertainly at Andrew, then back to her. “The little tramp hit me!”
Anger flickered in Liz’s stomach. Throwing caution to the wind, she drew her lips back in a sneer and stepped towards him. “Why don’t you call me that one more time?” she growled, flourishing the tray.
Before her assailant had a chance to answer, a rough hand caught Liz by the collar and hauled her back. She cried out as the tray slipped from her fingers and landed on her foot. Cursing, she staggered sideways, but before she could regain her balance, Andrew shoved her again, sending her crashing down into an empty table.
“Out!” Andrew screamed, waving his bat around above his head.
Liz scrambled back across the wooden floor, feeling the dried beer sticking to her clothes. Once out of range of his bat, she picked herself up and stood facing him. A wave of heat swept through her. She struggled to keep from shaking as she clenched her fists.
“What?” she ground out the question.
“I said out!” Andrew repeated, pointing the bat at her chest. “I’ve had enough of you. Your lot aren’t worth the trouble.”
Now Liz really was shaking. She opened her mouth to argue, and then snapped it closed again. Glancing around the room, she saw the eyes of everyone watching her. Ice spread through her chest as she looked back at her boss.
“What about my pay?” she tried to keep her voice as calm as possible.
“Consider it compensation for the damages.” Sneering, he took a step towards her, until the bat prodded her in the chest.
Stomach twisting, Liz considered holding her ground. She needed that money – especially after the commotion here. She would have to move again now, would have to pack her things and leave the room she’d already paid a month in advance for. Without that money, she wouldn’t have enough for another.
But she could see this was not a fight she was about to win. Letting out a long breath, she flicked a strand of curly black hair from her eyes and snorted. “Good riddance,” she spat.
Spinning on her heel, she headed for the door. Her face burned as half a dozen eyes followed her. As she passed the last table she paused, then lurched sideways, upending its contents onto the floor. The two men sitting there shouted and jumped to their feet as beer splattered them. But by the time they tried to grab her, Liz had already fled through the door.
Outside, Liz blinked, struggling to see as her eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. The bar had no windows facing the road, and the streetlight out front was broken. Not knowing if anyone was going to come after her, she quickly started off along the street, her hands still trembling with pent-up rage.
“Hope you enjoy cleaning up,” she muttered under her breath.
Inside though, she was cursing herself, even as she tried to work out a plan that didn’t involve sleeping on the streets for the rest of the winter. Staying in this suburb was no longer an option – not after the commotion she’d caused. There would be questions asked, and even though she’d been working off the books, it wouldn’t take long for someone to connect the dots. After that, it was only a matter of time before they found her.
Taking the next street on her right, Liz disappeared into the shadows between the buildings. They were near the outskirts of Sacramento here, where the streets were still relatively quiet, free of the traffic clogging the centre. Even so, she could never quite feel comfortable in the city. The countryside was her home – as everyone here seemed quick to remind her – but there was no work for her there. And while she could get by on what she trapped and scavenged, she couldn’t stand the thought of another winter spent exposed to the icy elements.
So as the winds had begun to change this year, she had packed up her rucksack and headed for Sacramento. It was a long way from her hometown, but she was afraid any city closer would raise suspicions, make it easier for someone to find her. And until now, it had seemed she’d made the right choice. With the pennies she scraped together working at Andrew’s bar, she’d managed to rent what amounted to a closet in the basement of an apartment building. It was cold and damp, containing nothing more than a mouldy mattress, but it was better than being woken up by falling snow. And it was off the books too – safe.
But now Liz had barely made it a month into winter, and she’d already blown it. Her teeth started to chatter as a cold wind blew down the street, and she cursed herself for forgetting to grab her holey coat as she left the bar. There would be no going back for it now. Scowling, she shoved her hands into the tiny pockets of her jeans and did her best to ignore the cold.
Liz glanced around again as she passed beneath a flickering streetlight. The urbanites could say whatever they liked about their wealth – she still felt safer wandering the streets of any rural village than she did here. She’d taken to keeping a knife in her boot at all times. She hadn’t been troubled yet, but it paid to be prepared.
Above, the clouds blocked out the moon and stars, and the next street lamp was a good two hundred yards away. Her heart started to race as the buildings seemed to press in around her. She picked up the pace, even as she berated herself for being paranoid.
Reaching the next corner, Liz began to relax again as she realised it was her lane. She’d lost track of the turns, but somehow had still ended up in the right place. Pulling her hands from her pockets, she powerwalked towards the turnabout at the end of the lane. The apartment building was dark, and the only illumination was flickering streetlight hovering over the turnabout.
Halfway down the lane, Liz caught the faint whisper of movement behind her. Goosebumps shot down her neck, but she looked back slowly, expecting to see a stray dog wandering across the road.
Instead she found the dark shadow of a man towering over her.
Her instincts kicked in as the man lunged for her and she lurched back. She heard a curse as his fist shot past her head, and then the weight of his body crashed into her. But she was ready, already pivoting on her heel, allowing his bulk to slide past her. As the man staggered, she drove her foot into the small of his back and sent him toppling to the ground.
Then she was sprinting past him, eyes fixed on the light at the end of the lane, and the iron door to her apartment building. If she could just make it inside…
Liz barely made it five steps before two men emerged from the shadows ahead of her, cutting off her escape. She staggered to a stop as they started towards her. Neither spoke, but they moved with a deliberate calm, as though they had all the time in the world to catch her.
Ice spread through Liz’s veins as she turned to flee back down the lane, only to find the first attacker back on his feet and barring her way. For an instant she froze, her insides turning to liquid as panic took hold. It only lasted a second though – there was no time for hesitation out on the streets.
Dropping to her knees, she inconspicuously slipped the knife from her boot, and then leapt at the first man. A low growl echoed up from her throat as her anger took light. It had already been a bad night – she wasn’t about to let these thugs make it worse.
The man still hadn’t seen the knife, and was obviously hoping to use his bulk to subdue her. His teeth gleamed as he grinned and opened his arms to catch her. A second later he was staggering backwards, eyes blinking rapidly as he reached for the knife embedded in his chest.
Sneering at his shock, Liz tried to yank the knife back, but he sagged to the ground before she could dislodge it. She cursed, momentarily considered going after it, and then leapt free, only for his thrashing arms to take her legs out from under her. She crashed down hard on the asphalt, her bones jarring at the impact. Fabric tore around her knees as she scrambled clear and leapt to her feet.
She tried to run again, only for a hand to catch her by the hair and yank her back. Screaming, she twisted and swung at her assailant. Her fist went wide as the man leaned back, but her second blow caught him square in the throat. He staggered, but his grip on her hair did not loosen, and Liz shrieked as she was dragged down with him.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she tugged back her head and felt a clump of hair tear free. Something wet and sticky trickled down her skull, but ignoring it she tried to regain her feet – only for the last assailant to tackle her from behind.
The breath rushed from her chest as his weight drove her face first into the ground. Suddenly she found herself unable to breathe. Thrashing beneath her assailant, she tried to break free, to gulp in a mouthful of air, but his weight pinned her to the asphalt. Stars flashed across her vision as she gasped, and finally managed to suck in a breath.
“Doctor,” she heard the man’s voice right above her head, followed by the crackle of a radio. “We have her.”
“On my way, Commander,” a woman’s tinny voice replied from the speakers.
Liz’s blood chilled at the voice. This was no drunken attack, no crime of opportunity. They had been waiting for her. Sucking in another half breath, she managed to croak out a pathetic cry for help. Iron fingers dug into the base of her neck and ground her face into the asphalt.
“Quiet,” her captor growled.
Liz stilled, even as her mind went into overdrive, seeking a way out. Her ears twitched as a distant tap-tapping echoed along the street. It took her a moment to recognise the sound. Her heart soared as she realised they were footsteps. She cried out again, louder now, and received a blow to her head for the effort. Stars swirled again as the strength fled her limbs.
“Enough of that, Commander,” a woman’s voice came from overhead.
For a second Liz thought she was being rescued.
“Yes, doctor,” her captor replied.
Liz’s hope turned to dust in the wind as she realised the footsteps had been the woman on the radio.
“You’re sure she’s the one?” the woman asked.
“Matches the photograph,” came the reply.
“Excellent.”
The sound of shoes scuffling against concrete followed. Cracking open her eyes Liz saw a sleek black pair of high-heeled shoes beside her face. They presumably belonged to the doctor, but all Liz could see of her were the shoes.
“Please,” Liz managed to croak, “you’ve got to help me. You’ve got the wrong girl.”
Neither of her captives spoke a word. And in her heart, Liz knew it was a lie, that her past had finally caught up with her. She’d thought she’d covered her tracks so well, moving around, shifting from town to town, using a fake name, keeping off the records. On her brightest days, she’d thought they might have finally stopped looking, that they’d given up.
How wrong she’d been.
She flinched as something cold and metal pressed against her neck. Gas hissed and she felt a sharp pinch, then the pressure was gone again. But now a strange warmth was spreading slowly down her spine, numbing as it went, and she realised they’d injected her with something.
Liz knew it was hopeless, that it was already too late and the drug would soon render her helpless, but she thrashed all the same. The man holding her swore and his grip on her neck tightened, hurting her. She cursed him, calling them every filthy word she could remember, but it was useless. In close quarters, pinned on her stomach, there was nothing she could do to free herself.
Then suddenly the iron fingers were gone, the weight on her back vanished. Hope swelled in Liz’s chest, and she struggled to sit up, to scramble to her feet and race down the lane – back to the bar, to the cold, to the countryside, anywhere but these men and the doctor.
Instead, she found her limbs twitching uselessly, her body unresponsive, her mind falling away into a swirling darkness.
Too late, she opened her mouth to scream.
Chris let out a long sigh as he settled into the worn-out sofa and then cursed as a broken spring stabbed at his backside. Wriggling sideways to avoid it, he leaned back and reached for the remote, only to realise it had been left beside the television. Muttering under his breath, he climbed back to his feet, retrieved the remote and flicked on the television, then collapsed back into the chair. This time he was careful to avoid the broken springs.
He closed his eyes as the blue glow of the television lit the room. The shriek of the adverts quickly followed, but he barely had the energy to be annoyed. He was still studying full-time, but now his afternoons were taken up by long hours at the construction site. Even then, they were struggling. His only hope was winning a place at the California State University. Otherwise, he would have little choice but to accept the apprenticeship his supervisor was offering.
“Another attack was reported today from the rural town of Julian,” a reporter’s voice broke through the stream of adverts, announcing the start of the six o’clock news.
Chris’s ears perked up and he opened his eyes to look at the television. Images flashed across the screen of an old mining town, its dusty dirt roads and rundown buildings looking like they had not been touched since the 1900s. A row of horse-drawn carriages lined the street, their owners standing beside them.
The sight was a common one in the rural counties of the Western Allied States. In the thirty years since the states of California, Oregon and Washington had declared their independence, the divide between urban and rural communities had grown exponentially. Today there were few citizens in the countryside who could afford luxuries such as cars and televisions.
“We’re just receiving word the police have arrived on the scene,” the reporter continued.
On the television, a black van with the letters SWAT painted on the side had just pulled up. The rear doors swung open, and a squad of black-garbed riot-police leapt out. They gathered around the van and then moved on past the carriages. Dust swirled around them, but they moved without hesitation, the camera following them at a distance.
The image changed as the police moved around a corner into an empty street. The new camera angle looked down at the police from the rooftop of a nearby building. It followed the SWAT unit as they split into two groups and spread out along the street, moving quickly, their rifles at the ready.
Then the camera panned down the street and refocused on the broken window of a grocery store. The image grew as the camera zoomed, revealing the nightmare inside the store.
Chris swallowed as images straight from a horror movie flashed across the screen. The remnants of the store lay scattered across the linoleum floor, the contents of broken cans and bottles staining the ground red. Amongst the wreckage, a dozen people lay motionless, face down in the dark red liquid.
The camera tilted and zoomed again, bringing the figures into sharper focus. Chris’s stomach twisted and he forced himself to look away. But even the brief glimpse had been enough to see the people in the store were dead. Their pale faces stared blankly into space, the blood drained away, their skin marked by jagged streaks of red and patches of purple. Few, if any of the victims were whole. Pieces of humanity lay scattered across the floor, the broken limbs still dripping blood.
Finally turning back to the television, Chris swallowed as the camera panned in on the sole survivor of the carnage. The man stood amidst the wreckage of the store, blood streaking his face and arms, stained his shirt red. His head was bowed, and the only sign of life was the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders. As the camera zoomed on his face, his cold grey eyes were revealed. They stared at the ground, blank and lifeless.
Standing, Chris looked away, struggling to contain the meagre contents of his stomach.
“The Chead is thought to have awakened around sixteen hundred hours,” the reporter started to speak again, drawing Chris back to the screen. “Special forces have cleared the immediate area and are now preparing to engage with the creature.”
“Two hours.” Chris jumped as a woman’s voice came from behind him.
Spinning on his heel, he let out a long breath as his mother walked in from the kitchen. “I thought you had a night class!” he gasped, his heart racing.
His mother shook her head, a slight smile touching her face. “We finished early.” She shrugged, then waved at the television. “They’ve been standing around for two hours. Watching that thing. Some of those people were still alive when it all started. They could have been saved. Would have, if they’d been somebody important.”
Chris pulled himself off the couch and moved across to embrace his mother. Wrapping his arms around her, he kissed her cheek. She returned the gesture, and then they both turned to watch the SWAT team approach the grocery store. The men in black moved with military precision, jogging down the dirt road, sticking close to the buildings. If the Chead came out of its trance, no one wanted to be caught in the open. While the creatures looked human, they possessed a terrifying speed, and had the strength to tear full-grown men limb from limb.
As the scene inside the grocery store demonstrated.
Absently, Chris clutched his mother’s arm tighter. The Chead were almost legend throughout the Western Allied States, a dark shadow left over from the days of the American War. The first whispers of the creatures were believed to have started in 2030, not long after the United States had fallen.
At first they had been dismissed as rumour by a country eager to move on from the decade-long conflict of the American War. The attacks had been blamed on resistance fighters in rural communities, who had never fully supported their severance from the United States. So the government had imposed curfews over rural communities and sent in the military to quell the problem.
Meanwhile, the rest of the young nation had moved forward, and prospered. The pacific coast had boomed as migrants arrived from the allied nations of Mexico and Canada, replacing the thousands of lives lost in the American War.
But through the years, reports of attacks continued, and accounts by survivors eventually filtered through to the media. Each claimed the slaughter had been carried out by one or two individuals – often someone well known in the community. One day, they would be an ordinary neighbour, mother, father, child. The next, they would become the monster now standing in the grocery store.
It was not until one of the creatures was captured, that the government had admitted its mistake. By then, rural communities had suffered almost a decade of terror at the hands of the monstrosities. Newsrooms and government agencies had been beside themselves with the discovery, with blame pointed in every direction from poor rural police-reporting, to secret operations by the Texans to destabilise the Western Allied States.
The government had extended curfews across the entire country and increased military patrols, but the measures had done little to slow the spread of attacks. Last year, in 2050, the first Chead sighting had been reported in Los Angeles, and was quickly followed by attacks in Portland and Seattle. Fortunately, they had yet to reach the streets of San Francisco. Even so, a perpetual State of Emergency had been put into effect.
On the television, the SWAT team had reached the grocery store and were now gathering outside, their rifles trained on the entrance. One lowered his rifle and stepped towards it, the others covering him from behind. Reaching the door, he stretched out an arm and began to pull it open.
The Chead did not make a sound as it tore through the store windows and barrelled into the man. A screech came through the old television speakers as the men scattered before the Chead’s ferocity. With one hand, it grabbed its victim by the throat and hurled him across the street. The thud as he struck the ground was audible over the reporter’s microphone.
The crunch of their companion’s untimely demise seemed to snap the other members of the squadron into action. The first bangs of gunfire echoed over the television speakers, but the Chead was already moving. It tore across the dirt road as bullets raised dust-clouds around it, and smashed into another squad member. A scream echoed up from the street as man and Chead went down, disappearing into a cloud of dust.
Despite the risk of hitting their comrade, the rest of the SWAT team did not stop firing. The chance of survival once a Chead had its hands on you was zero to none, and no one wanted to take the chance it might escape.
With a roar, the Chead reared up from the dust, then spun as a bullet struck it in the shoulder. Blood blossomed from the wound as it staggered backwards, its grey eyes wide, flickering with surprise. It reached up and touched a finger to the hole left by the bullet, its brow creasing with confusion.
Then the rest of the men opened fire, and the battle was over.
Angela Fallow squinted through the rain-streaked windshield, struggling to make out details in the lengthening gloom. A few minutes ago the streetlights had flickered into life, but despite their yellowed light, shadows still hung around the house across the street. Tall hedges marked the boundary with the neighbouring properties, while a white picket fence stood between her car and the old cottage.
Leaning closer to the window, Angela held her breath to keep the glass from fogging, and willed her eyes to pierce the twilight. But beyond the brightly-lit sidewalk, there was no sign of movement. Letting out a long sigh, she sat back in her seat and smiled with quiet satisfaction. There was no sign of anyone outside the house, no silent shadows slipping closer to the warm light streaming from the windows.
At least, none that could be seen.
Berating herself for her nerves, Angela turned her attention to the touchscreen on her dashboard. Its soft glow brightened as she tapped its screen, making her glad for the tinted windows. No one in the house would be able to see the car was occupied.
Angela pursed her lips, studying the charts on the screen one last time. It displayed the driver’s license of a young woman in her early forties. Auburn hair hung around her shoulders and she wore the faintest hint of a smile on her red lips. The smile spread to her cheeks, crinkling the skin around her olive-green eyes.
Margaret Sanders
Beneath the picture was a description of the woman: her height, weight, license number, last known address, school and work history, her current occupation as a college teacher, and marital status. The last was listed as widowed with a single child. Her husband had succumbed to cancer almost a decade previously.
Shaking her head, Angela looked again at the woman’s eyes, wondering what could have driven her to this end. She had a house, a son, solid employment as a teacher. Why would she throw it all away, when she had so much to lose?
Idly, she wondered whether Mrs Sanders would have done things differently if given another chance. The smile lines around her eyes were those of a kind soul, and her alleged support for the resistance fighters seemed out of character. It was a shame the government did not give second chances – especially not with traitors of the state.
Now both mother and son would suffer for her actions.
Tapping the screen, Angela pulled up the son’s file. Christopher Sanders, at eighteen, was the reason she had come tonight. The assault team would handle the mother and any of her associates who might be on the property, but the son had been selected for the Praegressus project. That meant he had to be taken alive and unharmed.
His profile described him as five-foot-eleven, with a weight of 150 pounds – not large by any measure. Her only concern was the black belt listed beneath his credentials, though Angela knew such accomplishments usually meant little in reality. Particularly when the target was unarmed, unsuspecting and outnumbered.
A picture of her target popped onto the screen with another tap, and a flicker of discomfort spread through her stomach. His brunette hair showed traces of his mother’s auburn locks, while the hazel eyes must have descended from a dominant bey2 allele in his father’s chromosome. A hint of light-brown facial hair traced the edges of his jaw, mingling with the last traces of teenage acne. Despite his small size, he had the broad, muscular shoulders of an athlete, and there was little sign of fat on his youthful face.
Sucking in a breath, Angela flicked off the screen. This was not her first assignment, though she hoped it might be her last. For months now she had overseen the collection of subjects for the Praegressus project, and the task had never gotten easier. The faces of the children she had taken haunted her, staring at her when she closed her eyes. Her only consolation was that without her, those children would have suffered the same fate as their parents. At least the research facility gave them a fighting chance.
And looking into the boy’s eyes, she knew he was a fighter.
Angela closed her eyes, shoving aside her doubt, and reached out and pressed a button on the car’s console.
“Are you in position?” she spoke to the empty car.
“Ready when you are, Fallow,” a man replied.
Nodding her head, Fallow reached beneath her seat and retrieved a steel briefcase. Unclipping its restraints, she lifted out a jet injector and held it up to the light. The stainless-steel instrument appeared more like a gun than a piece of medical equipment, but it served its purpose well enough. Once her team had Chris restrained, it would be a simple matter to use the jet injector to anesthetise the young man for transport.
Removing a vial of etorphine from the case, she screwed it into place and pressed a button on the side. A short hiss confirmed it was pressurised. She eyed the clear liquid, hoping the details in the boy’s file were correct. She had prepared the dosage of etorphine earlier for Chris’s age and weight, but a miscalculation could prove fatal.
“Fallow, still waiting on your signal?” the voice came again.
Fallow bit her lip and closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she shivered in the cold of the car.
If not you, then someone else.
She opened her eyes. “Go.”
The screen of the old CRT television flickered to black as Chris’s mother moved across and switched it off. Her face was pale when she turned towards him, and a shiver ran through her as she closed her eyes.
“Your Grandfather would be ashamed, Chris,” she said, shaking her head. “He went to war against the United States because he believed in our freedom. He fought to keep us free, not to spend decades haunted by the ghosts of the past.”
Chris shivered. He’d never met his grandfather, but his mother and grandmother talked of him enough that Chris felt he knew him. When the United States had refused to accept the independence of the Western Allied States, his grandfather had accepted the call to defend their young nation. He had enlisted in the WAS Marines and had shipped off to war. The conflict had quickly expanded to engulf the whole of North America. Only the aid of Canada and Mexico had given the WAS the strength to survive, and eventually prevail against the aggression of the United States.
Unfortunately, his grandfather had not survived to see the world change. He had learned of Chris’s birth while stationed in New Mexico, but had never returned to see his grandson grow. So Chris knew him only from photos, and the stories of his mother and grandmother.
“Things will change soon.” Chris shook his head. “Surely?”
His mother crinkled her nose. “I’ve been saying that for ten years,” she said as she moved towards the kitchen, ruffling Chris’s hair as she passed him, “but things only ever seem to get worse.”
Chris moved after her and pulled out a chair at the wooden table. The kitchen was small, barely big enough for the two of them, but it was all they needed. His mother was already standing at the stove, stirring a pot of stew he recognised as leftovers from the beef shanks of the night before.
“Most don’t seem to care, as long as the attacks are confined to the countryside,” Chris commented.
“Exactly.” His mother turned, emphatically waving the wooden spoon. “They think it doesn’t matter, that our wealth will protect us. Well, it won’t stay that way forever.”
“No.” Chris shook his head. “That one in Seattle…” he shuddered. Over fifty people had been killed by a single Chead in a shopping mall. Police had arrived within ten minutes, but that was all the time it had needed.
Impulsively, he reached up and felt the pocket watch he wore around his neck. His mother had given it to him ten years ago, at his father’s funeral. It held a picture of his parents, smiling on the shore of Lake Washington in Seattle, where they had met. His heart gave a painful throb as he thought of the terror engulfing the city.
Noticing the gesture, his mother abandoned the pot and pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay, Chris. We’ll survive this. We’re a strong people. They’ll come up with a solution, even if we have to march up to parliament’s gates and demand it.”
Chris nodded and was about to speak when a crash came from somewhere in the house. They pushed apart and spun towards the kitchen doorway. Though they lived in the city, when Chris’s father had passed away they had been forced to move closer to the city’s edge. It was not the safest neighbourhood, and it was well past the seven o’clock curfew now. Whoever, or whatever, had made the noise was not likely to be friendly.
Sucking in a breath, Chris moved into the doorway and risked a glance into the lounge. The single incandescent bulb cast shadows across the room, leaving dark patches behind the couch and television. He stared hard into the darkness, searching for signs of movement, and then retreated to the kitchen.
Silently, his mother handed him a kitchen knife. He took it after only a second’s hesitation. She held a second blade in a practiced grip. Looking at her face, Chris swallowed hard. Her eyes were hard, her brow creased in a scowl, but he did not miss the fear there. Together they faced the door, and waited.
The squeak of the loose floorboard in the hall sounded as loud as a gunshot in the silent house. Chris glanced at his mother, and she nodded back. There was no doubt now.
A crash came from the lounge, then the thud of heavy boots as the intruder gave up all pretence of stealth. Chris tensed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the knife handle. He spread his feet into a forward stance, readying himself.
The crack of breaking glass came from their right as the kitchen window exploded inwards, and a black-suited figure tumbled into the room. The man bowled into his mother, sending her tumbling to the ground before she could swing the knife. Chris sprang to the side as another man charged through the doorway to the lounge, then drew back and hurled the knife.
Without pausing to see whether the knife struck home, Chris twisted and leapt, driving his shoulder into the midriff of the intruder standing over his mother. But the man was ready for him, and with his greater bulk brushed Chris off with little effort. Stumbling sideways, Chris clenched his fists and charged again.
The man grinned, raising his arms to catch him. With his attention diverted, Chris’s mother rose up behind him, knife still in hand, and drove the blade deep into the attacker’s hamstring.
Their black-garbed attacker barely had time to scream before Chris’s fist slammed into his windpipe His face paled and his hands went to his neck. He staggered backwards, strangled noises gurgling from his throat, and toppled over the kitchen table.
Chris offered his mother a hand, but before she could take it a creak came from the floorboards behind him. The man from the lounge loomed up, grabbing Chris by the shoulder before he could leap to safety. Still on the ground, his mother rolled away as Chris twisted around, fighting to break the man’s hold. Cursing, he aimed an elbow at the man’s gut, but his arm struck solid body armour and bounced off.
That explains the knife, the thought raced through his mind, before another crash from the window chased it away.
Beside him, his mother surged to her feet as a third man came through the window. Still holding the bloodied knife, she screamed and charged the man. Straining his arms, Chris bucked against his captor’s grip, but there was no breaking the man’s iron hold. Stomach clenched, he watched his mother attack the heavily-armed assailant.
The fresh intruder carried a long steel baton in one hand, and as she swung her knife it flashed out and caught her wrist. His mother screamed and dropped the knife, then retreated across the room cradling her arm. A fourth man appeared through the door to the lounge. Before Chris could shout a warning, he grabbed her from behind.
His mother shrieked and threw back her head, trying to catch the man in the chin, but her blows bounced off his body armour. Her eyes widened as his arm went around her neck, cutting off her breath. Heart hammering in his chest, Chris twisted and kicked at his opponent’s shins, desperate to aid his mother, but the man showed no sign of relenting.
“Mum!” He screamed as her eyes drooped closed.
“Fallow, situation under control. You’re up.” The man from the window spoke into his cuff. He moved across to his fallen comrade, whose face was turning purple. “Hold on, soldier. Medical’s on its way.”
“Who are you?” Chris gasped.
The man ignored him. Instead, he went to work on the fallen man. Removing his belt, he bound it around the man’s leg. The injured man groaned as the speaker worked, his eyes closed and his teeth clenched. A pang of guilt touched Chris, but he crushed it down.
“What the hell happened?” Chris looked up as a woman appeared in the doorway.
The woman was dark-skinned, but the colour rapidly fled her face as her gaze swept over the kitchen. She raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes lingering on the blood, then flicking between the men and their captives. Shock showed in their amber depths, but already it was fading as she reasserted control. Lowering her hand to her side, she pursed her red lips. Her gaze settled on Chris.
A chill went through Chris as he noticed the red emblazoned bear on the front of her black jacket. The symbol marked her as a government employee. These were not random thugs in the night – they were police, and they were here for Chris and his mother.
Taking a breath, the woman nodded to herself, then reached inside her jacket and drew something into the light. The breath went from Chris’s chest as he glimpsed the steel contraption in her hand. For a second he thought it was a pistol, but as she drew closer he realised his mistake. It was some sort of hypodermic gun, some medical contraption he had seen in movies, though in real life it looked far more threatening, more deadly.
“Who are you?” Chris croaked as she paused in front of him.
Her eyes drifted to Chris’s face, but she only shook her head and looked away. She studied the liquid in the vial attached to the gun’s barrel, then at Chris, as though weighing him up.
“Hold him,” she said at last.
“What?” Chris gasped as his captor’s hands pulled his arms behind his back. “What are you doing? Please, you’re making some mistake, we haven’t done anything wrong!”
The woman did not answer as she raised the gun to his neck. Chris struggled to move, but the man only pulled his arms harder, sending a bolt of pain through his shoulders. Biting back a scream, Chris looked up at the woman. Their eyes met, and he thought he saw a flicker of regret in the woman’s eyes.
Then the cold steel of the hypodermic gun touched his neck, followed by a hiss of gas as she pressed the trigger. Metal pinched at Chris’s neck for a second, before the woman stepped back. Holding his breath, Chris stared at the woman, his eyes never leaving hers.
Within seconds the first touch of weariness began to seep through Chris’s body. He blinked as shadows spread around the edges of his vision. Idly, he struggled to free his arms, so he might chase the shadows away. But the man still held him fast. Sucking in a mouthful of air, Chris fought against the exhaustion. Blinking hard, he stared at the woman, willing himself to resist the pull of sleep.
But there was no stopping the warmth spreading through his limbs. His head bobbed and his arms went limp, until the only thing keeping him upright was the strength of his captor.
The woman’s face was the last thing Chris saw as he slipped into the darkness.
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