Nighthawks (Children of Nostradamus Book 1) (4 page)

Chapter Four

May 16th, 2032 4:30PM

She
tried not to move; moving made the cuffs cinched around her wrists hurt. The straps crossing her breasts in an “X” kept her from shifting in her seat, but her arms were sore from being restrained for hours. The truck leaned to one side as it made another right turn. She knew where they were going, but she had no idea how close they were to their destination.

The Danger Zone.

As they drove, her skin crawled. She knew it was her imagination, but her skin crawled as if she could feel the radiation penetrating her body. The bomb had been detonated in Portland, Maine, but the fallout spread throughout New England. She could only think back to seeing pictures of Hiroshima as a teenager. The devastation must be immense. As the truck took another turn, she tried to push away the thoughts of her future.

She had been given a choice when they caught her: avoid trial and be banished or potentially receive a death sentence. The blood covering her naked flesh and the knife clutched in her hand had been all the evidence they needed. Before the police arrived, she shifted her ripped blouse in an attempt to cover her bare breasts. As they stormed through the door she began to cry. She made no arguments when they asked her if she was guilty. She had killed the man and wouldn’t hesitate to kill him again. If given the option, she would push the blade slightly to the right, missing his lung; that way she could watch him die slowly.

Her lawyer thought they would be able to plead it down to justified homicide, but she didn’t dare risk spending time behind bars. After living with the man for two years, she decided she would rather take her chances beyond the Danger Zone. Her final years would be her own.

“There’s enough of us,” said the man next to her. “We can take them.”

The man was large. He either spent more time at the gym than not, or his body had been augmented with technology. She couldn’t tell just by looking at him. She could, however, tell that he had been in more than his share of fights. Scars littered his body, down the side of his arm, across his face, and she assumed they continued behind his clothes.

“We’ll fight our way out.”

He reminded her of her dead ex. He was fast to resort to fists. What he lacked in intellect, he made up in muscle. The brute next to her, however, didn’t have any of his charm, which in her eyes made him far less dangerous.
Far more sinister is the bully who can make you smile
, she thought.

“They have guns.”

The conversation continued. She focused on the small slit on the far side of the transport that let her see beyond the confines of the dingy vehicle. The sun shone through, giving the impression there was hope beyond these metal walls. She watched as one of the inmates whispered to his neighbor, pointing with his chin toward another bound man. She turned away from them as they schemed, ignoring their use of the word “freedom.”

Another hour passed as she admired the blue of the sky. There were few clouds hanging in the air as they continued to drive. The sound of the vehicle’s brakes snapped her back to reality, sending the occupants lurching to the side. They whispered furiously, trying to formulate a plan of escape. She tried not to imagine their bodies littering the ground as they attempted to do what had never been successful before.

The back of the vehicle opened and armed guards waited. The belts across her chest clicked and released, leaving her free to stand. She didn’t dare move for fear of being shot. She winced as one inmate stood and took several steps toward the back of the vehicle. He waited patiently as a ramp was pulled from the vehicle, leading out into the brightness of day.

“Single file,” yelled one of the soldiers.

“Any aggressive behavior will be met with deadly force,” announced another.

She waited until the queue built up. She stood and began the shuffle forward. The bright light blinded her, leaving her squinting, trying to make out the world beyond the transport. When they had all stood, the line began to move forward. She watched as each prisoner held up their arms, letting the officer release the cuffs and then continuing forward.

As her eyes adjusted she saw the truck backed up to a gate. Metal wire lined the perimeter of the Danger Zone. Worn metal signs were posted everywhere, the radioactive symbol hanging as a warning to those daring to walk into the wasteland. As the prisoners passed through the gate, they were left on foot to make their way into the chaos left behind by a nuclear bomb.

“Keep moving,” an officer yelled at her.

She stepped forward to the ramp. One of the officers waved his hand over the metal cuffs biting into her wrists and they opened. He threw them into a bin with the others. The fence was massive, twenty feet tall and stretching as far as the eye could see. Every so often there were towers. In the closest one, she could make out the weapons, massive guns pointed directly at her.

The guard gave her a shove forward. She stumbled down the ramp and fell to her knees as she reached the ground. She had expected decaying buildings and nothing but dead earth. She was surprised at the amount of grass beyond the fence, and what few buildings she could make out seemed relatively untouched.

She fell to her knees, the pebbles on the pavement poking through her pants into her skin. She tried to hold back a scream as she saw the ditches just beyond the fence. Her mind tried to process the scene, and then the smell assaulted her nostrils and the stench of rot and decay filled her lungs. She screamed as she realized the ditches were filled with hundreds of bodies in varying stages of decay. Bones poked through the taut flesh of dead bodies. Skeletons of those long since dead were scattered about the ground. She couldn’t fathom the number of bodies—dozens, could be hundreds.

“Move along,” a guard said, pulling her upward to her feet.

As she entered a gateway through the fence, another guard took her arm. She couldn’t focus on him as she stared at the mass graves just beyond the behemoth metal structure. She could only assume they were going to kill her as she took her first steps into the wastelands. What she thought had been her salvation was a death sentence hidden from the general populace.

Electrified metal cables passed through between pillars, buzzing loud enough for her to hear. Tall monoliths reached up to the sky, wires strung through them, creating a barrier between her future home and the life she was leaving behind. Cameras swiveled on the cement structures, documenting the entire process. She couldn’t imagine who was watching this event, watching the mass grave be filled with bodies.

They had told her during orientation she would be allowed to pass through the gate, and if she continued to the closest building, there would be minimal supplies. She would be left to her own devices to survive amongst the dredges of society. Her only companions would be killers, rapists, and those who spoke out against the government. They would be left to die.

A guard grabbed her by the wrist and set her arm on a small pedestal. The top of the device lit up and she hissed as her arm started to burn. As the soldier released her, she could see the number ‘279782’ clearly engraved into her flesh. She looked down at the number on her arm. She was no longer a person. She was an Outlander.

She froze as the yelling began. She was no more than ten feet through the gate when the large, brutish man started barking commands at the other inmates. He incited them with screams of “We can take them!” and “Fight back!” She had barely turned. The first boom of gunfire filled the air. She saw the large man’s head explode. The other dozen inmates rushing back through the gate knocked her to the side. Several ran in different directions, scurrying away from the fighting breaking out.

Gunfire filled the air.
Pop
.
Pop
.
Pop
.

It was precision firing. Each person charging the gate fell to the ground. She felt the spray of blood from a man near her as his torso exploded. As fast as the riot began, silence filled the air. The scurrying survivors ran away from the fence, further into the Danger Zone. Her feet were like cement blocks, anchored in place as the last body fell to the ground.

Nobody spoke. No soldiers dropped their weapons. Each remained ready if she attempted to charge the gate. She spent seconds staring blankly at the guards, but she felt as if hours were passing as she attempted to process the scene in front of her. So many murdered bodies, and she was left without injuries.

“Move along,” came a soldier’s voice.

She lifted her arm and examined the number on her forearm. She had no desire to return to the world she was leaving behind. Left to fend for herself among killers, she felt her chances of survival were better on this side of the fence. She turned around and took her first step toward the nearest building. She imagined the soldiers pushing the new dead into the ditch, a reminder of what would happen if they ever approached the fence again.

She replayed the events leading her to this place, watching her knife sink into her abusive husband. She thought of the blue sky through the slits. Of the smell of dead bodies. As the wind caressed her skin, the situation didn’t feel so dire. She was alive. She was a survivor; this was another test to prove she could overcome any obstacle.

She paused to take a deep breath. Further in the distance, a group of survivors ran toward the building. They would reach any supplies before her. She would be left to do without. The knowledge that she was without shelter, food, or even water didn’t diminish her outlook. She turned her gaze to the beautiful sky filled with red hues. The sun was beginning to set, turning the deep reds into purples.

She squinted for a moment, catching motion in the air. At first she thought it was a giant bird of some sort. Her jaw slowly dropped as she began to make out the person attached to the wings. She had heard rumors from the inmates before they began their transport, but assumed they were a hopeless person’s method of coping. Seeing it flying through the air, she believed a god watched over her.

“It’s true,” she mumbled to herself. “There is an angel in the Outlands.”

***

Conthan
walked down the aisle of the liquor store, checking the inventory. He paused to see what brands of tequila were discounted. The small store’s narrow rows were so close together he had difficulty seeing cheap booze at the bottom. He gave a slight laugh and decided if ever there was a time to splurge, it was now. He reached toward a bottle at eye height and put it in his basket.

He continued browsing through the alcohol and stopped occasionally to see the clerk staring at him. Conthan snickered. He might have a mouth that wouldn’t stop running, but he was probably the least threatening person in the world. He was probably the only person who came into the store today that wouldn’t rob it. He grabbed a couple six-packs of beer and added them to his stash, avoiding eye contact with the clerk.

Conthan reached the cashier and placed the bottles down on an empty space on the counter. As he set the bottles on the glass counter, the register scanned them, spitting out the price. He winced as he saw the price of the tequila. He didn’t dare make a joke about getting robbed. The gruff-looking man behind the counter with three days’ worth of stubble looked annoyed that he wasn’t at home watching his stories.

Conthan placed his thumb down on the counter. A small smiling face appeared on the glass, confirming receipt of his payment. The moment purchase confirmation popped up, the gruff man’s demeanor became more pleasant. He took the tequila, and placed it into a small plastic bag.

“Try it with some orange juice,” he said. “It’s like candy.”

Conthan smiled and took the two bags from the man. He couldn’t imagine working in a place like that, fearful of every person who walked into the store. The half a dozen cameras watching his every movement were more than enough to make him swear he would never have a retail job. Conthan placed the bags in the passenger seat of his car as he pondered the man’s social life. Did he have friends? What were his hobbies?

“Kill me if I become that,” he said out loud.

As he pulled out of the small parking lot, a ringing came from his car speakers. He looked to the passenger side of the windshield to see the word ‘Sculptee’
blinking on the screen. He pulled out into the afternoon traffic leading toward the studio.

“Answer.”

The name disappeared on the windshield, replaced by an audio spectrum of the voice on the other side. “Conthan, where are you, man?”

“I’m heading to the studio. You need to meet me there,” he said.

“Why the studio?”

“Dude.” Conthan’s smile stretched across his face. “The show is happening.”

“You mean with Gretchen?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh man,” said the voice. “Okay, I’m calling everybody. We’ll meet you over there.”

“We’re going to party,” said Conthan, happy Sculptee understood how big a deal the show was going to be.