The Minus Faction, Episode One: Breakout (6 page)

John lost his mother in seventh grade. She'd been sick for months. When the men with the sad looks showed up in English class to take him home, he ran. He ran like his coach had shown him, pushing past the strangers and sprinting down the hall and running out the door and across the parking lot and through the football field and four miles down the road to the elementary school where his brother and sister were waiting. He cried the whole way. But as he hugged them in the parking lot, he put it away forever. For them. Their dad wasn't a strong man. So John would be. Always.

John hadn't cried in the caves. He was too worried about surviving. He hadn't cried on the flight home. He was too happy to be free. He hadn't cried in the hospital. There were always people around, especially at first.

Do you want anything? More pills? More water? Another blanket? Can I help you wash? Help you into bed? Help?

And there were so many other patients in pain. Some with families, some without. Some with friends, some without. John did what he could. He told stories. He smiled. He made the rounds in his motorized chair. He didn't have to say it. His appearance was enough.

If I can make it, so can you.

If I can make it.

John sat in his dark hospital room and looked down at his legs, limp and bent, barely fitting in the space between the seat and the footrest. He was a big man, always had been.

They had come, finally. The eyeless suits. The bastards. They were going to take it away. The tiny bit he had left.

He looked at his legs, then at his burned and mottled skin.

He scowled and made a fist and punched himself with his good arm. He punched his legs as hard as he could. He heard the sound, but he felt nothing.

A tear came.

John Michael Regent held up his one good hand in a ball. It shook in silent fury. He bared his teeth as teardrops fell from his lips. He wanted to scream. But then everyone would come. He wanted to yell. But they'd just look at him with those eyes.

He clenched his own shut. He was so tired. Of everything.

This would've been a night for a run. He always went at night. Nobody was likely to see and no body was likely to be missed.

His first few times he just ran and ran and ran, two firm legs striking the pavement in even strides, some other man's heart pounding. Even a woman's once. John had to take what he could get.

That was the night he happened on a mugging. It was an accident, a wrong turn at 3 a.m. He taught the jerk a lesson and handed the scared man on the pavement his wallet back. The guy just stared up at the strange woman in the hood and dark sunglasses—sunglasses, at night—who had leapt down from a roof and beat the shit out of his attacker.

"Those were some moves," he said on his back, wide-eyed.

The woman had bent the mugger's leg at the knee and roundhoused him into the wall. Right in the balls. Then she popped him straight up the jaw with the palm of her hand, knocked him out.

She didn't respond. She just dropped the wallet and ran away.

The next week, John went looking for trouble. That was how he justified it. Taking the bodies. Taking what wasn't his. Stealing them. Stealing tiny bits of someone else's life.
They're not using it,
he told himself. Like an idle computer or a fallow plot of earth.
And I can do some good with it. I
should
do some good with it.

So John ran and ran and ran all over the city and all through the night. It felt good. On his fourth patrol, John stopped a backseat rape. Last month he helped a wounded pedestrian, a victim of a drunk hit-and-run, make it to a hospital. Two weeks ago he was tutoring a parkour group in basic self-defense. They were already in great shape. They knew how to move. He was just organizing them, teaching them tactics, things to consider when you happen upon a crime.

He pushed it that night. He stayed out too long. He watched the dawn come up from the roof of a five-story building. The little stretch of city before him hung on the outskirts of Philly and was full of working-class ethnic neighborhoods and strip malls. He was starting to think of it as his responsibility.

From what he could tell, the police weren't looking for anyone, or at least not for anyone in particular. All anyone knew was that there were some helpful citizens about, and the only things they had in common were the hoodie and the sunglasses.

But the attack on the drug den would bring them to the hospital. Sooner or later, someone would put the pieces together, find the connection. They'd all been patients at the fancy new VA. They'd all used advanced hand-to-hand, like what a soldier would know. Regent couldn't stay. It was too much of a risk now. If he ever wanted to run again, he had to get away. It was already on the news.

But in trying to leave, he had aroused his shadowy pursuers. John knew how it worked. "Ayn" was just the first wave. It was her job to keep him on the reservation long enough for the others to arrive. As his file was chewed by the system, as it triggered automatic flags and warnings, as numbered bureaucrats sipped soy lattes and processed it—processed
him
—each in tiny chunks, they would summon the dragons.

Men like John.

It didn't matter if he had done anything. He was on a list. And to any lanyard-wearing case worker who didn't know him from a hole in the ground, it was always better to be safe than sorry. That's how they got people to give up their freedoms and to take other people's away. Make it about safety, and never ask for more than a tiny bit at a time.

Advance file to next stage.

So this was it. The beginning of the end of a long, legless run. They'd get him. He knew. It was just a matter of time. But John was ready.

Almost.

He had one last mission. One final objective. And he was going to see it through. John Regent always completed the mission.

No excuses.

John wiped his face with his good hand. He took a deep breath and put it away. For the unborn.

T Minus: 050 Days 15 Hours 31 Minutes 36 Seconds

Esmeralda Gonzales was more pregnant than any woman had a right to be. She carried a baby and a load of bad news and bore both with grace and good deal of pride. She was going to be a mother, and she was going to be happy, even if she had to do it alone.

She sat in the bright foyer of the hospital and watched John Regent approach from a bank of elevators. Angled glass stretched to the height of four floors overhead and cast the sunlight in all directions. It was like being inside a giant sculpture of a waterfall.

Esme waved as he passed the information desk. She had only met Captain John once before, but she felt she knew him well. Her husband hadn't shut up about his new friend. She'd heard all Regent's stories secondhand.

"Captain John." She smiled. She struggled to rise from the waiting room chair.

"Don't get up." Regent raised his hand as he stopped and took Esme's grasp in a firm but awkward finger-shake. "You look tired."

Esme gave a look as if to say
it's expected
. She wore the clothes of a woman who cleaned floors for a living. She had dark hair, a plump face, and broad shoulders that reminded John of a wide river, wise and strong. But she was worried.

"Thank you for coming down." She spoke with the spice of a lifelong bilingual.

The TV on the wall switched from scrolling weather forecasts to footage of the Chinese nuclear disaster. Smoke rose from a city near the coast. When the plume reached the clouds, it bent like a broken limb as the prevailing winds carried radioactive dust out over the mainland. No one knew how bad it would be.

Esme saw John looking. "It's horrible what happened. Those poor people."

John nodded. "Gabe's checked himself back in."

Esmeralda turned from the disaster. "He called, said he was being admitted, but I didn't believe him."

"That's understandable. After everything."

"I want him to get help." Esme felt her stomach.

"How's the baby?"

The young mother smiled. "So good. I went for a checkup this morning. The doctor says another two weeks. I don't think I will make it!"

"You're gonna do great."

Esme kept her smile but the rim of her eyes froze in a panic as she turned her gaze to the side. "I'm not ready yet. We've been so busy. Dealing. And work. I have to put the baby first now."

John knew what that meant. He waited for the rest.

"Will you look after him?"

"I may not be around for very long, but I'll do what I can."

"He needs help, Captain John. I told him I can't be with him anymore. Not until he's better. Not now that the baby's here."

John nodded. Esmeralda Gonzales had been patient enough. Gabe was a lucky man.

Esme rubbed her belly. She gave Regent a weak smile. "I just wanted to thank you. In person."

"It's no problem. I didn't do much."

"Yes, you did. I don't know how, but you brought him back." Esme looked at Regent with her head tilted to the side. "Thank you. So, so much. Thank you."

"Am I interrupting?"

The voice came from behind him, but John knew it. He'd seen her around. Ayn.

"No." Esme looked up.

Ayn stood behind the captain with one hand on his chair.

"I have to go to work. I just wanted to say thank you. That was all. I think Gabe wishes he was more like you."

John wanted to help her up, but she was on her feet before he could move his chair. "Take care of yourself. That's precious cargo."

"Thank you. Goodbye, Captain John." Esme smiled again and walked to the sliding doors at the front of the hospital.

Regent looked at the TV. Some scientist was explaining the dust was likely to reach into central Asia. Everyone was worried about what would happen to the rice crop and whether it would be able to feed a few billion people. One disaster breeding another.

Ayn walked around to face the soldier. She was holding a thin file.

"Captain, I'm--"

"I know who you are. What do you want?"

"I thought it was time we had a chat."

John didn't respond.

"I went to your room but you weren't there." Ayn waited for a moment, but John didn't extend an invitation. "Fine. We can do it here. Mind if I sit down?" She sat in Esme's chair without waiting for a response. "John Michael Regent. Army code name Nomad. That's right, isn't it?"

"Not anymore."

"You have family coming to get you."

Regent watched through the windows as Esme waddled down the sidewalk toward the parking garage next to the main building.

"Dr. Zabora hasn't discharged you yet."

"Nope."

"Your dad's retired, is that right? He could always come later."

"What's your point?"

"It's a long drive from Fort Washington. Wouldn't want him to come all that way for nothing. Or are you counting on your stepmother?"

"What about her?"

"According to Dr. Zabora's notes, there was some conflict between you and her. When you were a teenager. The doc seems to think that's why you joined the army instead of accepting that athletic scholarship—so you didn't have to go home for the summer or on holidays."

"We don't get along so well."

"And yet, here you're ready to pick up and go live with her again. Why is that?"

"That's where Pops lives."

A group of people, including two doctors, laughed on the far side of the bright room. Must be good news. John watched them smiling.

"You have a younger sister in Delaware. Thirty-seven, divorced, two kids. Works at Walmart and rents a two-bedroom apartment. No room, I take it? Did you even ask?"

John didn't answer.

"Your little brother is out West. But you cut ties with him years ago. He got involved with a gang, is that right?"

Regent was stoic. He stared at the smiling faces.

"According to Dr. Zabora's notes, you gave him an ultimatum. Get out of the gang or leave the family. How'd that work out?"

John looked back. "My stepmom isn't a healthy person. He's the youngest, so she took things out on him longer. When he grew up, he acted out. For a long time, I thought I was responsible for him, for what happened. But I'm not. He's responsible for himself."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning it worked out as best as it ever could."

"We both know why I'm here, Captain. I've spent the last few days becoming an expert on you. You'll be happy to know the staff here has nothing but good things to say. Seems you're one helluva guy. Every single one mentioned you like to tell stories. I got to hear a couple. I liked the one about the dead cat."

"I'm so happy."

"What happened to that guy?"

John squinted at the light coming in through the high glass. He was getting a headache. "Just say what you gotta say."

"I don't have many stories, not that I can share anyway, but I think my new favorite has to be good ol' Private Millard. Do you know him?"