Strangers in the Night (24 page)

“ ‘Come along’?”

“You were on my shortlist, actually.”

Mitts felt his heart give a gentle beat.

The blood rose all the way to the tips of his ears.

He stared back out over the water, as if it might prevent Samantha from seeing his reaction. “What about Luca?”

“Sure,” Samantha replied. “She can come too—
everybody’s
welcome.”

Despite ‘everybody being welcome’, he noted the lack of enthusiasm in Samantha’s tone when he mentioned Luca.

“What about Dag?”

“Dag . . .
Dag
,” Samantha said, as if she was scouring her memory—as if she had forgotten who he was. “Well, if he really wants to, I don’t see why not.”

Several beats of silence followed.

Mitts felt himself itching from the inside.

There was still the unanswered mystery.

The one which nobody had thought prudent to ask after so far.

Mitts asked after it now.

Samantha remained quiet for a long few moments.

She stared into the distance.

Over the water. To the other side.

Maybe she was staring at the vehicle waiting there.

Waiting to take them away.

Finally, she explained. “It was just a . . . I don’t know . . .” She averted his gaze, looked beyond him, back to the Village. “A silly plan, not even that, really. I saw an opportunity—an opportunity to finish with Dag. And, well, I . . . I decided to take it.”

“Then it’s true. You
did
shoot Dag?”

Samantha nodded.

She met his eye briefly then looked away.

“I thought it’d be the perfect cover,” she said. “The mist was rolling in. The sound of gunfire all around.” She shrugged. “Mistakes happen under those circumstances. Friendly fire.”

“But he caught you,” Mitts replied. “He saw what you were up to.”

Samantha turned her hand over.

Gazed at her fingernails.

“I think I hit him in the leg. The ricochet caught his eye, too, I guess. And still he managed to grab my gun. To wrestle it off me.” She smirked. “He’s one wily customer, that Dag.”

She looked back directly into Mitts’s eyes.

The smirk disappeared.

Mitts felt a swirling sensation in his stomach.

It was one thing for her to be looking at him with those crystalline, blue eyes of hers.

Quite another for him to have imagined her
dead
.

. . . And yet, here she was,
re-animated
.

Standing before him.

“I told him to do it,” she continued. “I told him to
shoot me
while he still could. With my own gun. But even though he had the opportunity, he didn’t do it. He just shook his head. Told me to go.” She jabbed her tongue hard into the side of her cheek. “I just did what he said.” She pointed out into the water. “He told you I swam, didn’t he? That I escaped by
swimming
?”

“Yes,” Mitts replied, “we went out there, looking . . . but we couldn’t find you. We only found your boots.”

A long silence hung over the pair of them.

Mitts felt his chest tighten.

And then Samantha said, “Wanna know a secret—a tip that’ll serve you well?”

“All right.”

“Don’t trudge about these hills in only your socks.”

Mitts let out a laugh.

It sounded so unreal—so
alien
.

He almost choked on it.

* * *

On the way back through the Village gates, Mitts gazed upward.

To the rampart.

He caught sight of Dag again.

But this time Dag didn’t acknowledge Mitts.

He appeared to be fixated on something in his hands. Perhaps one of the torches they used out on the Patrol. Although Dag no longer went out on Patrol, he remained a vital component; maintaining their gear, fixing things that, inevitably, got broken.

Mitts scolded himself for what he had thought following Samantha’s disappearance.

How he had fooled himself that there was more to the story.

That
Dag
had been the one to take the opportunity to kill her.

As Mitts walked with Samantha through the Village, she asked about his life. About how things had been going. Mitts found it odd to reflect on how little had changed.

Nothing
visible
, in any case.

Nothing
Samantha
might’ve noticed.

He wasn’t going to go into details of the fight he’d had with Luca that morning.

How she had finally turned him out onto the street.

Mitts asked after Samantha.

He wanted to know how she’d got involved with the armed men who’d shown up with her.

How they’d arrived by boat.

She told him about how she’d walked for days.

Trudging along the water’s edge.

She had wanted to get the Village out of sight.

She explained how she had felt stifled. How she had felt that she could no longer live in the same place as Dag. That it would tear her apart if things went on the same way.

She
needed to be in charge.

She went on to tell him that she had come across a dirt track.

She had followed it.

Wanting to see where it headed.

She told him how the hard, unruly ground had bruised her socked feet.

After a few hours, she had tossed her socks away. They’d become soaked in blood and sweat.

Walking barefoot, she told him, was easier than walking in socks.

Sometime later, she had heard an engine. Out in the darkness.

She had hidden from the sound.

Thrown herself into a ditch at the side of the track.

She had held herself still.

Sinking into the mud.

It was only when she heard car doors slamming directly above that she realised she had sunk into the mud up to her chest. And that she couldn’t pull herself out.

She had no choice but to call out for help.

She went on to explain, in excruciating detail, how a pair of spotlights had blinked on.

How they had shone so brightly.

A pair of guards had helped her out of the ditch.

They had helped her into their truck.

Taken her away with them.

As they walked through the Village, many people came up to Samantha.

Some were happy, smiling at her.

Others clapped her on the shoulder. Glad to have her back.

More still clung to the edges of the street, not so much as wishing to cross paths with her.

Whether it was reverence, or fear, Mitts wasn’t certain.

Perhaps a mixture of both.

Mitts pressed Samantha for further details on where she was living now.

But she remained coy.

All she would say was that he would ‘see for himself’ if he came with her.

Mitts noted—only too presciently—her tone of voice.

There was a subtle implication which suggested that—if Mitts
did
agree to come—the responsibility for the decision would be his and his alone.

Mitts didn’t know how to feel about that.

So he made no response.

He refused to commit.

They approached the Station.

Samantha’s escorts awaited her, chatting among themselves.

Their semi-automatics looked just as frightening simply hanging about their necks.

Both turned to Samantha, gave her a nod.

A slight smile.

As they trudged into the Station, Samantha soon found herself surrounded by her former companions, and she promised Mitts that they would speak later.

At that precise moment, the bomb went off.

The scientist brushes her red hair out of her lab coat collar.

She reaches across the glass capsule where—
prostrate
—-the creature lies.

Lifeless.

A chunk of matter.

Nothing more.

From a nearby shelf, she produces a clear vial, filled with a light-green liquid. She reaches past the vial to a disposable syringe. She shunts the syringe through the vial’s seal.

She sucks the plunger upward, drawing out the light-green liquid.

That done, the measurement made, she replaces the vial on the shelf where it once was.

Then she turns her attention downward.

Onto the specimen.

She breathes in deeply. Her shoulders arch back.

The pulse in her throat beats hard.

She leans over the creature, then sinks the syringe into its body.

The light-green liquid disappears within its dark-purple veins.

So much like
human
veins.

She pulls back, drops the syringe into a metal bin.

She stares long and hard at the creature.

Waiting.

EVERYTHING CHANGED

T
he ringing
in Mitts’s
ears was too much to bear.

He crunched his eyelids shut, trying to get shot of the noise in his head.

But it only made it worse.

He reached out about him.

Realised he was lying on the floor.

On the Station floor.

He could feel skin—
soft
skin
.

He cracked an eyelid open.

Saw that it was Samantha.

She lay on her back.

Her chest rose and fell with troubled breathing.

Before Mitts knew it, he was up on his feet.

The world was a silent macabre spectacle.

Scattered bodies all around.

None of them moving.

No sound.

Mitts reached out. Took hold of Samantha’s shoulders. He gave her a shake. He spoke to her.

But his voice never even reached his own ears.

He heard only ringing.

Burning . . . he could smell burning.

He breathed in.

Felt ash lining his throat.

He had to get out.

He had to get himself and Samantha out.

A muted crunching sound behind him.

Mitts turned to look.

A large beam which supported the ceiling.

Wilting beneath its own weight.

There was no time.

Soon it would collapse.

Mitts grabbed hold of Samantha’s fingers. Entwined them with his own.

He dragged her toward the exit.

When he reached the doorway, he felt Samantha struggling against his hold.

He bent down to her. Spoke to her. Tried to get her to understand him.

But her eyes remained closed.

Her muscles resisted him.

He needed help.

He couldn’t do this alone.

He released her. Trod away.

Outside, dust hung in the air.

Thick, grey clouds.

Everything flattened by the blast.

All he saw were bodies. Strewn through the streets.

The dainty, sallow plaster walls of the cottages crumbled.

They were covered in black dust.

When he looked down, he saw the faces of the two men who had escorted Samantha.

Their faces were peaceful.

Their eyes shut tight.

They continued to hold their rifles close to their chests.

Mitts walked on.

Several times, he stumbled.

But he kept himself upright.

He needed to get assistance . . . to save Samantha.

On his way out of the Village, Mitts felt a pang.

At the back of his head.

He turned his attention to a particular pile of rubble.

Déjà vu.

Familiar.

Yes, he had seen this before.

. . . Perhaps in a dream?

Mitts stood stock still. Hypnotised by the pile of rubble.

He stared long and hard.

Unable to believe.

There—beneath the rubble—he was
certain
he would find himself.

He crouched down.

Dug with his hands.

Brought one piece up.

Cast it away.

Another.

Then another.

Finally, he uncovered the person below.

Constantly rising black smoke dimmed the overcast daylight.

He removed another scrap.

Another.

And then he saw the face.

Her
face.

Luca.

Her eyes lolled downward in their sockets.

Her lips were slightly parted.

Dusted with ash.

Lifeless.

The colour in her cheeks—
that glow
—was gone.

Replaced by a grey-purple colour.

The colour of
their
skin.

Mitts’s breath shuddered out of him.

He stepped away.

She had been right.

Her
dream had been right.

He broke into a run.

Headed out through the gates.

Away from the Village.

Away from the destruction.

As the ringing in his ears grew louder, he thought about his frustration this morning.

Hadn’t he
wanted
to know what that dream had meant?

Well, now he did . . .

* * *

Outside the Village, Mitts faced off with one of Samantha’s escorts.

Like the others, he bore a semi-automatic rifle.

Mitts stared into his eyes.

He sunk to his knees.

Held his hands up then clasped them behind his head.

In the near distance, Mitts made out another escort.

Ready to assist.

Mitts felt stabbing pains in his temples.

He closed his eyes.

The ringing in his ears was too much.