Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2) (27 page)

"No ... not exactly." She paused, fearing her following statement: "More like ... alien intervention."

"You smack your skull today, Vic?"

"I know it sounds crazy, but it's not like we haven't seen them in person, not like when people used to laugh because you believed. And the more I think about it, the more it makes sense ... even the bogeyman." It felt good to hear the words outside of herself, to put a voice to the theory. "And today, when they were firing at us ... something came to stand between me and them."

"I was there, Victoria." He shook his head. "And I saw nothing."

"It was invisible."

"Oh, how convenient," he chuckled.

"I could only see it when it got hit. The thing would glow for a split second." She wanted to mention the fact that it actually spoke to her, but knew there was little she could do to change his opinion.

"Let's say you're right," he allotted her. "Why would they kill Maddox and the others, let us get overrun by Jackals, then help the three of us escape? It makes no sense."

"I don't know." She placed her head in her palms. "But something was there. I'm sure if it."

"Well, it's a fascinating theory." He kicked his feet up on the recliner. "I'll give you that."

Mohammad stepped over piles of dead, many of their limbs intertwined, eyes open and glossy. It was a morbid curiosity that brought him back to the sight, similar to the way people used to ride their brakes while passing a car wreck.

He stood over them, observing their killers as they looted what remained of the merchandise. But like the Mongol Empire, they didn't seem interested in leaving–would rather claim the establishment as their own, taken from an enemy far from prepared for battle. It was a slaughter; Mohammad practically handing it to them on a silver platter.

And from beneath the veil of his invisibility, Mohammad witnessed a new form of evil–blackened rifles hanging loose at their sides, devilish grins splitting their lips. Ungodly men, a devolved form of his former race ... and he would leave them be, not his enemy, no longer his fight with Victoria safe.

Still he ventured further into the store, weaving assailants as they walked the aisles, his curiosity continuing to tug him deeper.

He triggered the emerald city, witnessing the large number of red specks at the store's front as the healthy violets moved about or huddled in numbers ... all but one.

Away, in a room to his right, one violet was left motionless and alone.

Possible prisoner.

Diminishing the hologram, Mohammad headed for that space, discovering the unmistakeable fragrance of fecal matter along the way. And through the windows of that room, Mohammad found a familiar face within.

The hunter's son.

He looked to still be in decent shape, his eyes open and alert as he scanned the darkness with enlarged pupils.

Mohammad would have thought them the
take no prisoners
kind of pirates, but this either proved them more humane than previously thought, or only that they harbored an ulterior motive for keeping the young man alive. His bet was on the latter, but again, not his business. He created a hyper-wall where he stood, selected the destination, and went to step through when his foot caught a peculiar item and it rolled up against the locked door. He knelt to examine it, deciding quickly that he'd be taking the item with him. For like him, it, too, had a purpose to serve.

Victoria found herself falling victim to sleep. She jerked awake, discovering John's grin as he watched her.

"You might as well take a snooze, too. Hazel's only been out for maybe a half hour."

"No, I'm fine," she said, straightening herself. Call it women's intuition, but the feel of his eyes upon her was similar to the sensation of slurping fried snails. It just made her skin crawl.

"Nothing wrong with a little shut-eye." It was possible that he cared legitimately for her state of mind, but she still couldn't help but feel like a woman waving away the offer of a compromised beverage.

"Really, I'm fine," she said more sternly.

"Suit yourself." He appeared to get the hint, returning to the magazine in his lap. "Stock market looks terrible right now." He slapped the page with the back of his hand. "Who knew?"

She laughed half-heartedly. How could he make jokes right now?

"So, this is what I'm thinking." He folded the magazine and placed it beside him. "We stay here tonight, and move early morning. Get as far away from this place as possible. I think we'll have better luck toward the edge of the city."

"What's at the edge of the city?"

"Less people. Less problems. And we gotta find some place that will sustain us, keep us safe."

"And you think there's still a place like that? Everything's taken."

"We might find someone willing to take us in. Point is we gotta try; and we can't stay here. Jackals own this area now."

She nodded. He was right. They needed to get Hazel away ... far away.

"And if you're correct," he continued, "then we've got our own extraterrestrial floating over us, like some kinda personal bodyguard."

Just then they heard Hazel's soft giggle from the other room, as if experiencing a humorous dream.

"I'll check on her," Victoria said, rising.

"I'm sure she's fine."

"Just to pull up her covers, let her know we're still here." She stepped into the hallway and pressed open the door, slipping silently into the girl's room. Victoria knelt beside Hazel, who still had a toothy grin as she slept. "What's funny, Sweetheart?" she asked.

"That man," Hazel whispered, her eyes still closed.

"In your dreams? What did he say?"

"A joke ... about a bumble bee." Hazel shifted to her side, bringing her hands toward her face as Victoria nearly yelped at what the girl was holding. She fell back, swallowing a scream, her heart racing instantly within her chest.

And there, tucked cozily beneath the girl's chin, Gray Bunny had miraculously returned to her place beside the child.

She'd awoken slightly as he put the stuffed animal beneath her arm, her eyes opening to just a sliver of blue. But she could only look through him before they closed again, her little face reminding Mohammad of Nilasha, back when the two were only children.

What was that stupid joke she told, the one that made milk spew from his nose?

"What do you call a bumblebee that can't stop eating?" he remembered. "A chub bee."

And although he'd barely whispered it, she actually laughed, his voice infiltrating her dream, where she was able to outwardly express her satisfaction.

He returned her smile, the warmth of it disjointing and out of place, her innocence a priceless relic. But there was a shuffle beyond the door–someone coming to check on her. Mohammad stood, backing against the open closet, where he turned to quickly assemble a new door. Victoria entered just then, coming to kneel beside the child, as Mohammad stepped through and out onto a stretch of deserted road.

Sure, it wasn't essential to the mission, but he felt great about returning the little girl's stuffed animal. He couldn't imagine how important it must have been to her–that last slice of warm and fuzzy home. And since Victoria, more than likely, had an inkling of his existence, it was also a gesture of his goodwill. For although the bogeyman did kill four of her men (that she knew of), he really wasn't someone she needed to fear ... there was something immensely hard to swallow about that statement, however. Still, he would try to believe it wasn't such an illogical desire, for her not to regard him as a monster, for him to possibly be someone she could place her faith in.

The feel of the outer-city upon his skin was something entirely different, the debris of the past becoming more scarce, the blacktop before him still glistening like obsidian, the orange paint splitting its center like golden cheddar beneath the afternoon sun.

He'd have a half mile hike to the junkyard, where he knew he'd find the man working beneath the rays of the sun. In his pocket, Mohammad still held the item for barter, something to help gain his trust.

He could see it on the horizon, the palace of rusted metal, a fortress of destitute compared to the compound that was his castle corrugate. The only reason Alice had survived so long was out of sheer luck, he was sure of it–possibly even some intervening on Gabriel's part. To place the hybrid underground was to give up all advantage, were they to be discovered–Miles' logic of survival entirely backwards.

Still, he was alive ... and so was she, which was more than he could say for himself. But luck would only serve them so much longer. To keep them alive, Mohammad would have his work cut out for him.

Multiple impacts of a heavy-swung hammer reached him as he approached the surrounding fence, the man's back to him.

"Hello again," Mohammad greeted, his empty palms opened at his sides.

The man spun, sweat dripping from his brow, as he left the piece of sheet metal he appeared to be flattening. "Oh," he said. "It's you."

"I have your item," Mohammad smiled, "as requested."

"Bullshit." The man fixed him with sharp, green eyes. "Show me."

He reached into his pocket, extracting it.

Miles looked at it, his eyes narrowing. "That wax?"

"No," Mohammad laughed, "it's real." He tossed it over the fence and into Miles' hands, the weight and feel of the item surely proving its authenticity, the shine if its red skin beneath the grime of his fingers.

"You got an orchard or something?"

"Or something." Mohammad nodded.

"What do you want for it, then?"

Mohammad thought for a moment. "I could use a small pair of channel-locks, if you got 'em."

"An apple for channel-locks?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Not exactly a fair trade in my book."

"Apples have seeds, don't they?" Mohammad reminded. "In essence, I'm trading you a tree."

"You really think I'm gonna grow a tree here? This looks like healthy earth to you?" He tossed the apple back over. "Three for a pair of channel-locks, no less."

Mohammad caught it again, stunned by the sudden change in negotiation. "Three apples?"

"Unless you got bananas."

"Not exactly the right continent."

"Fine, bring me three apples and you got yourself a pair of channel-locks."

"Deal." Mohammad tossed the apple back over. "Consider it a down payment, then. I'll bring you another two in a few days."

"Fine." He accepted the fruit, placed it beside him and returned to his work. "You hear that, Snyder?!" he called out to his imaginary sniper. "He's coming back! Try not to make him perforated!"

Mohammad fought back a grin. This Snyder character was entirely fictitious. The body display clearly showed only two people living there. Perhaps the sniper routine might work on other passer-byes, but certainly not him.

He raised his hands nonetheless, humoring the charade. “Yes, Snyder, a friend, and you’re welcome to an apple as well.” Mohammad waited a moment for a reply from the imaginary man, then asked, “Don’t talk much, does he?”

Miles shook his head. “Strong, silent type, that guy.”

“I see.”

“Better get to movin’ before the big man decides he doesn’t like apples.”

He nodded. “Point taken.”

"Do you believe me now?!"

"She must've had it tucked away somewhere."

"Don't try and explain this away!" Victoria snapped. "Something came in here, gave it back to her; and told her a fucking bumble bee joke when it did!"

"She was dreaming."

"Bullshit! You know she didn't have it with her!" Victoria reached the point where she felt justified to start throwing things around the living room, like she were locked in a mental ward, her sanity in question.

But John only wore that same sideways grin, not swayed by her emotion, but rather amused by it. No flaws could weigh a man down more than pride accompanied by a thick skull. Even Rick would have believed her by now. Sure he'd made her skin crawl, but at least ... at least ...

A warmth fell upon Victoria in that moment, the heat spreading to her cheeks.

"You okay?"

No ... Rick had wanted her, would have loved the opportunity to share her bed, his perversion abundant in his stares, the way they made her feel slimy.

Now he was dead, but not before planning an assassination, one that was arguably over her. Still, his plans were foiled, several bullets placed within him, only to have the boogeyman come and do what he couldn't–kill the man she loved and admired, the man she was with the night he stood over them as they slept.

A chill then crawled the length of her spine, her arms going prickly.

Why had he killed them, then protected her? Why go to all that trouble, and even return Gray Bunny to Hazel? It didn't make any sense ... until now.

"He's jealous," Victoria mumbled, barely audible. "Just like Rick."

"What?"

"The bogeyman," she answered. "He did what you and Rick couldn't ... and it's all because of me."

John’s confusion hung on his face for a moment, slackening only upon his apparent understanding. "Well. Well." He ran a hand along his chin. "Ain't you a regular Helen of Troy."

Victoria's looks gained her the attention of a great many men over the span of her twenty eight years; and she'd always prized herself on the ability to turn a head–the same ability that kept her from ever having to purchase a drink in her whole life. Potential suitors were not at all a precious commodity; and her presence on one man's arm would always spark the jealousy of another. It was her life.

But now people were dying over it.

Helen of Troy, by God a viable comparison.

"You know the nice thing about your space alien with a crush theory?" John began, pulling out the handcuffs. "It's easy enough to test."

"No," she said, standing. "No offense, but I'll kick you in the face if you come near me with those things."

"Don't flatter yourself, Sweetheart," he chuckled. "It would only be in the name of science, after all." He put them away.