Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

Darkness crept in through the skylights sooner than he would have liked; but the two of them, climbing up to his nest, lit the lantern, and enjoyed a supper of SpaghettiO’s. Mohammad fell asleep soon after, but was awoken again at some point that night. Pressing his ear to the darkness, he could hear Radia all the way at the other end of the factory. She’d returned to the mezzanine, uncovered the six-string, and was playing his song–perfectly.

T
his was the fifth sunrise since she’d come under Mohamyd’s care. She’d already learned so much from the Fijian, even started picking up on his dialect. Their conversations were of few words, but Raydea was learning more each day.

He continued to train her on his weapons–“rifles,” he called them–along with her own stubbier model, which he’d granted ammunition. Realizing her weapon had been incapable of delivering death, she’d felt her face grow warm again. Mohamyd smiled at her and she had to look away.

And although he did insist she keep it with the others and not on her person, it wasn’t incapable any longer.

She wasn’t incapable.

Mohamyd’s face would become firm at the sound of pale-ones hunting–“humans, men”–their weapons easily distinguishable, even from within the building. Raydea could only guess that each shot fired signified the end of one of her own, of a “hybrid.” But yesterday … yesterday there was no such noise.

He’d let her get the pigeons this morning, same as last morning. So with the rifle slung from her shoulder, spare the row of birds awaiting execution, she had the entire roof to herself.

She would let them live just a while longer, Raydea decided, on account of the lovely day.

Spreading her arms out wide, the morning’s air caressing her face, Raydea placed one foot in front of the other. Narrow was the path she walked, but balancing was one of her stronger suits–lithe and nimble, two traits that had played a vital role in her survival.

She was there to witness the sun’s gleaming edge as it sliced its way out from behind those hills, bringing forth a new day. And for perhaps the first time, Raydea was not filled with dread at the sight of a sunrise. She stood atop one of many metallic shafts; they ran the entire length of the building, close enough for her to walk from one to the next.

The skyline was hers–that plumage of brilliant color, overhanging an entire horizon of gray and lifeless structure. The contrast between earth and sky had never caught her quite as it did on that morning, in such a way that she’d found herself standing between life and death–their unwilling admirer.

Was she the last, the only one left? Raydea hated the thought; still, it was painfully possible. Her family, just a memory.

She jerked her head at the sound of a pale-one’s weapon in the distance. Leaping from her place on the shaft, Raydea ran to that corner of the building. Another weapon discharged–closer this time. And out between structures came a girl, like Raydea. With all her might she ran, when out from behind her came three humans.

But she was faster.

In the clearing she was picking up speed, increasing the distance between them.

Run!
Raydea thought.
Run! Run!

But the clearing …

She was heading for the exact place they killed the other, the one Mohamyd buried. It was the pale-ones. They’d forced her into the clearing, same as before. It was enclosed, perfect. Nowhere left for her to run; she’d never make it over the woven-metal wall in time.

It was a trap.

She was already dead.

Raydea turned and ran toward the clearing-side of the building. She ripped open the door to Mohamyd’s nest and leapt inside. “Mohamyd!”

But he wasn’t there; and there was no time to wait. Swooping up her weapon and slipping it within a case at her hip, she grabbed one of his rifles and a pocket full of projectiles. She tore through the opening and back onto the roof. Tears streaming along her cheeks, Raydea threw herself against the side of the building, dropped the weapon and started inserting its rounds of gold. Her fingers were fluid, steady even beneath the pounding of her heart. Similar to another of Mohamyd’s rifles, it took her just a moment to release its assembly.

The girl was coming–the pale-ones still behind her.

Raydea placed the weapon atop the building’s wall and took aim.

She’d never aimed at anything moving before. It was far more difficult, entirely different. The man’s head would become momentarily visible, then vanish the next. They were closing in on her. The girl made it to the wall of woven metal. It clattered as she tried to climb over it, but two of the men came and ripped her off. The third, weapon in hand, began to walk casually toward her. She was shrieking, those awful screams Raydea heard far too many times.

Raydea saw that pale-one, the way he relished in the moments just before a kill. His eyes were grey, his brown hair matted by the perspiration of his brow, his tongue sliding along his chapped lips, just before parting into a smile. Yes, but he was not the only one relishing these moments.

Raydea pulled the trigger. And nothing.

She shifted the rifle–the man bringing his weapon toward the girl’s head, her continued shrieking.

What did I forget?!

Running its components through her mind, she remembered.

“Hey!” Raydea shouted, yanking back the rifle’s slide- assembly–the sound of it somehow empowering. All three men looked up; yet her concentration was saved for just one.

The recoil of the weapon was violent, spinning her backwards as she landed on the roof’s softened surface. Fighting to her feet, she picked up the rifle and placed it again over the building’s wall. The other two men were already on their way out of the clearing; just one remained, his weapon lying beside him, bits of his head scattered about.

The girl saw Raydea, the two of them looked thoughtfully at one another, but for only a moment. Raydea was gone the next.

No way could she allow the others to leave.

Dropping the rifle, she ran parallel to the wall, dodging metallic shafts and leaping over mounds of debris, as she kept a close eye on the men trying to evade her. She could intercept them before they made it out.

She could hunt them down.

The end of Mohamyd’s rope was tied securely in place; she grabbed the other end and leapt off the building, landing in dirt. Drawing her weapon, she shot one man in the back as he passed. The pale-one fell forward, skidding on his face as the other screamed.

So they can scream.

She shot him twice and he also flopped over, writhing in dust.

Raydea passed the first, a single bullet in his back, ceasing his movements with an additional shot to the skull.

“Raydea!”

She looked up to find Mohamyd, his torso hanging over the roof. She enjoyed the look on his face, the swinging of his open jaw.

She walked to the other man, flipping him over with her foot. He yelped in pain, still alive enough to feel such things. And in his eyes, deeply bloodshot, she found fear. It seemed the pale-ones were capable of more emotion than she’d originally credited them; and Raydea felt honored to be the one to remind this one of that–for it appeared he’d forgotten.

She knelt beside him, tapping herself on the chest. “Raydea,” she said, feeling obligated to introduce herself, despite Mohamyd’s hollering it off the roof. It was a prideful display–she could admit that–wanting him to hear it, that she even had one, that someone cared enough to give it to her.

And lips quivering, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth, he was unable to look away.

She then pressed the weapon to his temple, smiling softly. “You’re Adeamyn,” she whispered.

And pulled the trigger.

He’d come at the sound of his name. It was Radia–she was in a panic. Mohammad heard a shot ring out as he leapt up the stairs to the mezzanine; and no sooner did he reach the roof did he watch Radia jump off the edge of the building, followed by an addition of four shots fired. He didn’t know what horrors might await him on the other side, but certainly not what he’d come to witness.

He never doubted Radia’s hatred for humanity, at least her perception of it; however, he’d hardly considered her ability to exact vengeance, especially with the efficiency of a trained assassin. The body count was rising on his property, and there wasn’t enough time for them to be disposed of properly. Someone could be within blocks, probably on their way to see what all the commotion was about.

“Radia,” Mohammad said sternly. “Get up here.”

She looked up at him, shook her head and pointed toward the shipping area. “Hybrid.”

Shit. Of course
.

Mohammad went to look over the shipping yard. There he found a third body–minus a portion of his head–and the hybrid girl. Radia appeared there, signaling for her to follow.

“Hurry, Radia.”

This was too much attention already. Lots of speculation will be raised at the discovery of these bodies. But the dead aren’t known for talking, so let the living speculate.

Mohammad was a firm believer in maintaining a low profile, but with three bodies at his building, and two hybrids beneath his roof–things were starting to get a bit complicated at the factory.

It makes sense. There’s a man outside with only half a head, and now I’m in over mine
.

Radia climbed the rope with the other on her heels, each passing moment dragging its way through the hourglass of Mohammad’s adrenalin.

“C’mon!” he shouted, yanking it up once both had vaulted over the edge.

Radia led the way, carving the roof until she reached the nest hatch and dove inside. The other and Mohammad followed.

“Dammit, Radia!” he snapped. “What the hell were you think …” But an intense force to his chest cut his words short. Mohammad stumbled backward, lost his footing, and tumbled off the nest. The fourteen-foot drop never came, however, when he managed to catch the edge of the roll. It dangled there below him–the numerous broken bones he would have sustained, had he not grabbed hold at the last second.

She kicked me
, Mohammad realized.
That new hybrid kicked me.

Radia, shoving the girl aside, helped him back up.

“You okay?” she asked.

She’d knocked the wind out of him, so Mohammad found himself fighting for a breath of air. He managed to nod nonetheless.

“Mohammad,” Radia introduced him to the girl. “Friend.”

Rightfully wary, the girl’s skepticism remained present in her luminous irises.

“Friend,” Radia repeated. “Friend.”

T
he herders would go out in groups of two, accompanied by a marker. The marker (or marksman) would be the only of the three with a gun. The herders would weed out the hybrids, either chasing them down, directing them toward the marker, or off into a trap. It was an easy enough job. The hybrids weren’t known for being especially clever, although that seemed to be changing.

Some groups would come back with the report of one kill, and only a few bullets missing from their magazine, while others would come back with no kills and all the bullets missing from their magazine. The latter team would be reprimanded; but this team, this team had been one of his best.

The hunter discovered the herders exactly where he’d been told they’d be, both dead of gunshot wounds–all three shot in the head.

“What do you think, Dad?” Coda was asking him.

“Quiet,” the hunter silenced him. He needed to concentrate.

There were faint tracks in the dirt, probably imperceptible to the others. But the hunter could see them, and each mark told part of a story.

“They chased a girl in here.” He pointed to the ground and along her route to the other side of the building. “Then the marker got shot, the herders came back–got killed right here.”

Coda nodded, because that much was obvious–not the most effective demonstration of what the hunter was truly able to distinguish from the dust.

“But the person who killed these two magically appeared right here.” He pointed to a portion of tussled dirt beside the wall of the factory. “This is where her tracks begin.”

“Her?”

“Yeah, these tracks are small, narrow; and the strides are shorter than a man’s.” He placed his boot beside one of the prints and walked along them. “She walked all the way over here, pulled the trigger, and walked back toward the edge of the building. And see these?” He pointed to a pair of accompanying tracks. “This is where the hybrid they were chasing came to join her.”

“Then what did they do?”

“Vanished.” The hunter snapped his fingers; but Coda looked confused, his brow wrinkling beneath lengthy strands of auburn hair.

The hunter would have to remind himself that others had trouble viewing the world as he was raised to. They were never taught the wispy subtleties of backwoods Louisiana. And the hunter learned early that if he were to return home with anything short of a buck, there would be a switch waiting for him.

“You see this imprint?” The hunter pointed. “This is where she landed when she jumped off the roof–nimble little minx we’re dealing with here.”

Coda looked up. “The fall woulda broken her legs,” he objected.

“It wasn’t a freefall, Codes. She came down with a rope or something, something she could use to get back up.” The hunter rapped his knuckle against the concrete wall. “I wonder how we could get in there.”

“I’ll have the guys take a look around.”

“No.” The hunter shook his head, taking a step toward Coda. “Gather the bodies. We’ll burn them here and leave. Whoever’s up there’s got the upper hand–at least they think they do. Let’s not spook them just yet, or we’ll end up like them.” He motioned toward the herders, still sprawled in their blood-dampened dirt. “Keep your eyes low and don’t inspect the building.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“We’ll give it a few days. They’ll let their guard down.

We’ll come back then.”

Coda did as he requested, keeping the theory of their assailant under wraps for the time being. There was enough excitement already, and the addition of that knowledge would only leave the group salivating over a premature revenge. The hunter was not opposed to revenge, as long as it was thoroughly planned.