Somewhere in the night, a wolf howls. A split second later, another wolf answers it.

  As if on cue, several of the sled dogs begin to bark. More join in, a chorus of howls and bays tearing the tranquility of the night. It’s a discordant melody that raises every nerve on his scalp.

  Hounded by urgency and dread, Taro pulls away from his father and reaches for the other syringes. As he does, another sound rings through the night, one that sends his stomach into his feet: “The prisoners are gone!”

  3

  The Worst is Possible

  Time freezes. Through the trees, Taro sees a man leap from his bedroll. Dogs continue to bark.

  “Intruders!” the man shouts. “Our prisoners—” He cuts off, his head exploding in a shower to red.

  The entire camp bursts into action. Li Yuan rains bullets down from her defensive position in the woods. Taro, cursing, snatches up the syringes, intent on waking Maxwell and Dr. Hom.

  Pain explodes in his shoulder. He stumbles. His father catches him, pausing only long enough to keep him from falling. Then, he snatches both handguns out of Taro’s belt and leaps away.

  The mountain men are in disarray as they stumble out of their furs and into Li Yuan’s barrage of bullets. Aston vaults through the trees, guns blazing. Three mountain men converge on him. He disappears under a mass of furs.

  Taro grits his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, grabbing the next syringe. No question as to it containing adrenaline. He slams it into Maxwell’s shoulder.

  The man’s eyes snap open. He pitches forward onto his knees, gasping.

  “Stop shooting,” a nearby voice shouts. “Don’t shoot or I’ll kill them all!”

  Taro turns, the next syringe poised above Dr. Hom’s neck. A mountain men looms beside him. He has a gun in one hand, a syringe in the other. Taro recognizes him as the one who had tranqed the others.

  He freezes. The mountain man lunges for him. Something stings the base of Taro’s skull.

  An alien heaviness surges through his body. The syringe falls from his fingers. Taro crashes to his knees. The world tips at a crazy angle. He fights to keep his eyes open.

  The last thing he sees is Maxwell. The other man lets loose a string of profanity, grabbing him as he tips over. The world disappears in a rush of darkness.

  *

  One of Taro’s cherished memories is of his mother giving him his first ink pen and sketch pad. He was six or seven years old. Aston had just brought him back from a sparring session. Taro was bruised and aching after being kicked from one end of the training mat to the other. All he wanted to do was crawl under his bed and cry.

  But his mom put an arm around him and drew him aside into the kitchen.

  “The boy’s tough, Sunai,” Aston called after them. “Don’t fret over him. Get him an ice pack if he complains.”

  Sunai didn’t respond. Instead, she squeezed Taro’s shoulders. He pretended it didn’t hurt, even though the slight pressure made his upper arm scream. He wouldn’t do anything to dislodge his mother’s kindness.

  She sat him at their small table and gave him a cup of warm tea. Taro took a sip. The bitter taste of ginger filled his mouth, but again, he didn’t complain. Sunai often made him ginger tea after training sessions with Aston. She claimed it brought relief to achy muscles. Taro liked to believe her, because she always gave it to him with a soft smile, but in truth, he never felt any less achy after drinking it.

  “I brought you a gift, sweetie.” Sunai reached into her skirt pocket. She pulled out two ink pens and a small sketch book. “For you.” She slid them across the table.

  Taro stared at the gifts. His mother always kept a small sketchpad in the pocket of her skirt or sweater so she could sketch. Her favorite spot to draw was on the sofa next to the window. If it was a sunny day, she would sit there for hours. She had dozens and dozens of sketchbooks filled with drawings.

  On days when Aston didn’t drag him off somewhere to train, he liked to curl up on the sofa with Sunai and watch her draw. The sure, steady movements of her hand were hypnotic to watch. They bestowed a sense of peace within him.

  Knowing how important these items were to Sunai left him feeling awed. Now, he had his very own.

  Taro picked them up, reverently turning them over in his hands. Flipping open the sketchbook, he pressed the fresh tip of the pen to the paper.

  A drawing flowed down his arm, into his hand, and onto the sheet. It was nothing as beautiful as Sunai’s drawings, but the act of creation seized him.

  As he drew, the pain from the lumps and bruises disappeared. He forgot all about dodging and blocking Aston’s strikes and punches. He slipped into the act of drawing and found a sense solace.

  He recalled a look he once saw on Aston’s face as he pummeled a punching bag. Sweat poured into his eyes. His jaw clenched from the effort. The muscles of his chest and arms vibrated with every strike.

  But it was his eyes that Taro remembered the most. His dark eyes, engulfed by his task, radiated serenity. It came to him when he hit things.

  Taro finally understood what he saw that day. It was peace. He felt the same thing as he drew.

  He flipped to a second page and began another picture. Sunai, sipping at her tea in easy silence, looked on.

  Drawing, he decided, was his ginger.

  *

  Taro’s mind swims up from the depths of unconsciousness. He struggles to hold onto sleep, to the memory of his mother.

  But the brain-numbing cold slams him into wakefulness. The top of his face is dusted with snow. His eyelids are crusted shut. As he struggles to pry them open, he notices something else: He can’t move. Straining, he feels ropes lashed across his chest, waist, and legs.

  The yap of the dogs registers in his ears, as does the soft hiss of a sled rails against snow and the voices of men.

  He’s been captured and lashed to one of the dog sleds. He feels it gliding along beneath him.

  Taro works his face, trying to open his frozen eyes. The movement finally breaks the crust of ice. Bits of it fall into his eyes. He rocks his head back and forth and blinks to dislodge it.

  At last, he can see. The first thing that greets his eyes is a towering, twelve-foot barbed wire fence. It zips by so fast that he wonders if he really saw it. He cranes his neck, trying to see behind him.

  Yes, there it is, the barbed wire fence. And two hard-eyed, glaring mountain men. They ride on the back of the sled. If looks could kill, he’d be a pile of ash right now.

  Where are the others? He lifts his head a few inches off the sled and looks around.

  Lashed to his sled is Li Yuan. Her eyes are closed, face covered with snow. He spots his companions lashed to the other two sleds. Dr. Hom and Agnus are angled in such a way that he can’t see if either are conscious. Maxwell and Aston are awake, though neither struggles against their bonds. He meets their eyes, exchanging a silent acknowledgment of their situation.

  Once he knows where everyone is, he focuses on his surroundings. The fact that they’ve been allowed to wake up means they’re close to their destination.

  More than a dozen smokestacks pierce the sky. Each one is a different height and diameter. Some are broken and crumpled at the top. They lay dormant, gray megaliths from an extinct time. Part of an old factory. What did they manufacture, back in the Pre-‘Fault days?

  The aurora borealis ripples overhead, banners of red and green light. The dog sleds slide by several enormous, frozen lakes of sludge, heading in the direction of the smokestacks. No doubt that is where Taro and his companions are being taken.

  Why are they even still alive? From what he can see, there aren’t many sledders left. Of the nine still alive, at least two are wounded. Taro’s group decimated their numbers, and yet they’ve been kept alive.

  Which only means something worse than death is in store for them.

  “The worst is always possible,” Aston likes to say. In this instance, he is likely correct.

  One of the mountain men lets out a shrill whistle. An answering whistle comes from the defunct factory. The smokestacks grow in size, becoming taller and more foreboding as they draw near.

  Several sentries come out on snowshoes to meet the dog sleds. All are well armed, just like the sledders.

  “Where are the others?” the foremost of the sentries asks.

  “Gone,” replies one of their captors.

  “Deserters,” scoffs the sentry. He doesn’t sound surprised. “I always pegged Austin for a bolter. But Willis? I thought for sure he was a lifer—”

  “No bolters,” cuts in the other man. “Killed.”

  “Killed?” The sentry screws up his face. “Did the refugees finally wizen up and set an ambush?”

  Silence. The remaining captors fix their hard stares on the sentries.

  The lead sentry furrows his brow. He’s the first to break the silence. “What happened?”

  “We’ll make our report to Leader.” Their captor raises his voice and shouts, “Forward, ho!” The dog sleds lurch back into motion, sliding toward the smokestacks.

  The sky is blotted out. Replacing the ribbons of aurora borealis are cool, dark cement walls.

  As the sleds arrive, people come out of the halls to oogle them. Shouts of greeting ring off the walls. Everyone is dressed in furs and leathers.

  “Stay back!” The lead captor throws up his arms, warding off the men and women. “We have new Drafts. We need more Recruiters down here. At least two dozen. Get them. Now.”

  A group of teenagers breaks off from the main contingent and sprints back into the depth of the factory.

  Their captors make a loose circle around them. All are grimly silent, brandishing their rifles. None are warm to those who have come to greet them. The crowd falls back, hushed by their severity.

  Long minutes pass. Taro takes advantage of the time to study his surroundings.

  The room, wide and deep, looks like it was once a warehouse. There are fifty-foot ceilings supported by rusted steel rafters. The twenty-foot entrance has a pitted roll-up door reinforced with slats of wood. The room is lit intermittently with oil lanterns.

  “We got ‘em!” A teenage girl barrels back into the warehouse, followed by a dozen other teenagers. They’re scruffy with wild hair, all of them dressed in furs. Some of the kids look close to his age.

  A flood of armed men and women follow the teens, all of them armed to the teeth with high quality weapons. Following the directions of the sledders, they unholster their guns and form a loose circle around the sled.

  With two dozen guns trained on them, Taro and the others are cut free. Their arms are left tied behind their backs.

  Taro sits up and shakes out his limbs, numb and half frozen. He locks his knees to keep from stumbling as he stands.

  He and his companions cluster near each other. Agnus is hunched over, uncontrolled shivers shaking her thin form. Coughs wrack her body. Her cheeks and eyes are sunken, lips chapped and bleeding. Li Yuan and Dr. Hom support her on either side. Aston and Maxwell, while both wounded, still look ready to take on half the warehouse.

  Their captors usher them deeper into the room. A flurry of activity follows them, the entourage swelling in size. It’s impossible to see anything past of the sea of bobbing heads.

  “Hail, Leader!” One sledder steps forward, slamming the butt of his rifle against the floor.

  The crowd parts, folding back like the pages of a book. At the far end of the warehouse sits a single figure in a hulking chair. Oil lamps flank the left and right side of the backrest, casting the figure’s face in shadow.

  “Bring forth the Drafts!” bellows the figure.

  Taro and the others are prodded farther forward. Dr. Hom walks with a limp, but holds his back straight. Aston sweeps his gaze back and forth across the room, registering every detail. Maxwell glares at everyone, including Taro when their eyes meet. Li Yuan continues to support Agnus, who looks on the verge of passing out. Her skin is damp and pale, her eyes dilated.

  Their captors halt them fifty yards from what Taro can now see is a throne. The massive chair throne has been welded together from miscellaneous tools and metal parts—pipes, wenches, hammers, nuts, and bolts.

  The figure on the throne rises, sauntering toward them with an open smile. The man is tall and lean with gray-black hair and a handsome face, dressed in black leather accented with silver grommets on the cuffs and collar. In the midst of all the rustic furred clothing, he looks slick and polished.

  “Hello.” He spreads his arms wide, smiling as though welcoming long-lost friends. “Welcome to New Oleum. In this grand community, we—” He falters, eyes growing wide. The expression slips from his face, replaced with one of awed shock.

  His eyes lock on Agnus. Recognition flashes across his features. Agnus licks her chapped lips, staring back.

  No one speaks. The silence stretches, filling the warehouse. People shift, locking onto Leader’s object of interest. A murmur rolls through the crowd.

  At last, the man called Leader speaks. It’s a single word, but it rolls through the warehouse like a prayer. “Agnus?”

  If possible, she goes even paler.

  “Agnus, that is you, isn’t it?” Leader steps toward her.

  Agnus stares at him, mouth hanging open, horror in every line of her body. Then, her eyes roll back in her head. As she collapses, the man rushes forward to catch her. He shoves Li Yuan aside.

  “Agnus!” He scoops up her limp form, cradling her against his chest. Silence falls as the man presses his forehead to the top of Agnus’s snowsuit.

  Taro sees an intense array of emotion flick across his face—adoration, possessiveness, and rage. He squelches them immediately, lifting a face to his people that is smooth and strong.

  “My long lost beloved,” he booms, voice loud enough for all to hear. “At last you have come home to me.”

  Taro, who stands near Maxwell, hears the man whisper, “Hudanus, is that who I think it is?”

  “Yep.” Aston’s whisper could break bones. “Crazy Carson.”

  4

  Anchorage

  The city sits against a backdrop of mountains that pierce a wreath of dark clouds. The high-rises are broken, snaggletoothed buildings blackened around the top edges. Fingers of smoke trail up from the streets, evidence of the people still living in the ruined, once-great city.

  “Do you know your way around Anchorage?” I ask Billy.

  “Yeah. Uncle Zed and I made regular trips here.” He looks back at me from the lead snowmobile, where he sits idling on the edge of the clearing. “We need to hide the snowmobiles before we go in. They attract too much attention. We’ll go into the city on foot.”

  Swinging to the ground, he walks up to an unremarkable tree. He grasps the bark and flips open a hidden control panel. Over the panel is a clear shield with a keypad. “Uncle Zed dug a bunker as a hiding place for the snowmobiles and supplies.”

  Billy punches a code into the clear protective shield. It slides up, leaving the control panel exposed, where he punches in a second code.

  A soft whirring fills the air. A six-by-six-foot hatch swings upward, revealing a dark interior.

  “Grab supplies,” Billy says before ducking into the bunker. “It will take us most of the day to hike into the city. We need to be prepared in case we don’t make it to shelter.”

  Gun and I slide off our snowmobiles. I don’t miss the way he steadies himself with one hand on the handlebars. His skin is pale, fatigue pinching the corners of his eyes and mouth.

  We’ve stopped three times already while he staggered into the bushes to vomit. He looks like he needs to sleep for a week.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look like you should be in bed.”

  Gun ignores me.

  “Are you sick, or is it a side effect of the Skeletex suit?” He already went through one bad withdrawal from the suit; this second sickness came unexpectedly, especially considering the suit was blown up in an explosion.

  “More Skeletex withdrawals,” he replies. “Probably triggered by my prolonged use of the suit. Hard to say for sure. The tech is still in the developmental phase.” Gun grimaces. “I should be taking notes for Dr. Christakos.”

  “You should rest.” I gesture for him to hand me his pack. “You’ll need your strength for the hike.”

  “I’m fine.” As if to prove his point, Gun grabs his pack and disappears into the bunker.

  I know better than to try and make him do something he doesn’t want to do. Sighing, I grab my pack and follow the boys.

  The bunker is lit by a single lightbulb. Along the back wall are tubs filled with supplies. I stick to the essentials: food and weapons. I forego extra clothing to make room for extra magazines.

  “Pack the sleeping bag, Sulan,” Billy says. “Just in case.”

  I make a face and pull out a string of grenades to make room for the sleeping bag.

  Seeing my expression, Billy says, “Those would have been heavy anyway.”

  I decide not to tell him about the explosives and two extra handguns I have in the pack.

  After we finish packing for the journey, we move the snowmobiles into the bunker. Billy closes it using the control panel. We do our best to sweep snow back in place with branches.

  “It’ll get covered later today when the weather turns.” Billy gestures to the dark clouds massing in the sky. “Shouldn’t be long.”

  We strap on snowshoes and begin our hike into Anchorage. Billy leads the way, Gun bringing up the rear. It soon becomes apparent we need to slow our pace for him. He drags his feet as he walks, chin hanging low.

  As Billy and I pause, waiting for Gun to catch up, we exchange looks. We both know Gun needs rest. He’s needed rest for the last two days, but we didn’t dare slow our journey knowing Mr. Winn was after us.

 

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