This Mortal Coil (6 page)

Willem reached for her shoulder. “Theresa, we don’t have time for this.”

“I know!” she snapped, twisting away from his touch. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

One by one the others filed forth to shake Lucas’s hand, welcoming him into the fold. He thanked them each effusively, and then only Theresa was left. Lucas waited expectantly. Finally, she took his hand, pulling him in close.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she hissed into his ear.

“Not on our lives.” Turning toward the cages, he stared into the biometric scanner. The locks snapped open a moment later, giving the others unfettered access to the arsenal of killing instruments housed within.

“Alright, now we need to move quick, but we need to be disciplined, too,” Willem cautioned as the others traded their bright orange jumpsuits for the camouflaged uniforms of the hunters without a trace of modesty. “Keep your fingers on the trigger guard and the muzzle pointed toward the ground until we make contact with the enemy, understood? Good.”

While Willem and Lucas passed out the rifles, Theresa was in the main room, giving a crash course in their operation. “Once you’ve got it loaded, just point—” She raised the rifle shoulder-high, sighting through the scope at a styrofoam cup left atop one of the rounded tables across the room. With a squeeze of the trigger she sent a barb into the cup, touching off an explosion of foam confetti and stale coffee. “—and click. Simple as that.”

Within ten minutes they had emptied the racks and were ready to roll. The change in their demeanor as they piled out of the building armed to the teeth and uniformed as one was beyond measure. They were empowered, enlivened, the strength and unity of their purpose evident in even the smallest of actions. The measured steps flowing left-right, left-right with rhythmic precision; the sharp eyes casting around every corner for targets of opportunity; the eager fingers ready to drop from trigger guard to trigger at a moment’s notice.

Though they had no way of knowing it, the hunters had officially become the hunted.

After leaving the hunters’ base of operations fully armed and freshly garbed, Willem, Theresa, and the others made a beeline to the site of the airdrop. The more distance they put between themselves and the Hub, the less clustered and claustrophobic their surroundings became. The buildings shrank, becoming shorter and less imposing even as the alleys separating them widened into virtual avenues. There were even plots of green space cropping up here and there—or rather, former green space. Most of the florae had gone to seed, but even so, it was obvious what the plots had once been. If not for the persistent destruction and debris, Willem might have thought they had stepped onto some strange parallel plane. He wasn’t the only one, judging by the look on Theresa’s face. He was just about to remark upon the sudden transformation when her face fell altogether. He saw why a moment later.
 

The bowl of the stadium rose before them ominously. Once upon a time, it had teemed with life and action; now, its skeletal facade sat atop the wounded landscape surrounding it like a broken crown. Standing in its shadow, they traded only the briefest of glances before starting forward resolutely. Together, they helped each other easily clear the unmanned turnstiles and security gates.

Inside, they found the turf stained rust-red in neatly spaced patches, telltale signs the last crowd to fill that stadium had witnessed a spectacle far removed from those it had been built to showcase.

“Jesus,” Grace gasped, she of the unequivocal will to live. “Is that—?”

Theresa nodded. “Blood. Mass execution, probably.”

“Jesus,” Grace said again.

Willem mopped his brow, assessing this unexpected development. Troubling as it was, it didn’t change their objective one way or the other that he could see. “Alright, stay focused. Let’s not forget what we came here to do.”

“He’s right.” Cradling his rifle, Lucas lifted his chin skyward. “And look. We’re right on time.”

The plane appeared overhead, a noiseless beacon cruising high above. In its wake appeared a small blip set against the waning sky. As it descended, it grew from the size of an inky blot to a breadbox to a bathtub; when at last the package landed, settling upfield with a rising whoosh of air, it was roughly the size of an SUV. Still, they waited, the ensuing silence filling their ears as nightfall overtook the field.

The hunters didn’t keep them waiting long, filing quietly onto the field just before sunset. They circled the container like hungry jackals, the alpha male—Team Leader—inching closer and closer as the rest of the pack guarded his approach, their backs turned and rifles aimed outward. This, despite the lack of any obvious challengers. Soon it became clear this was a protocol they obliged without expectation of actual resistance; with each passing revolution the circle became slacker, less defined, the hunters lowering their rifles by slight degrees until they were no longer at the ready. Once he was certain they alone had secured the site, Team Leader fixed two fingers between his lips and whistled loudly. The pack broke ranks at the signal, dropping all pretense of discipline and hooting excitedly as they swarmed the boxy container.

“What do you think is in there?” whispered Grace.

Theresa smirked beneath the moonlit canopy of descending night. “For them to get that worked up? Short of a bunch of whores packed in there, only one thing it can be.”

Shoving aside the parachutes that had cradled the container’s descent, two of the hunters set upon it with crowbars. They cracked open the side and rummaged inside for several seconds until each emerged brandishing bottles of a cloudy, unlabeled substance. The sight was met with a collective cheer, the men jockeying forward quickly to claim their share of the spoils.

“Oh, this is too good to be true.”

Grace tittered alongside her. They watched as the hunters uncorked the first bottles, clinking them together before tipping them to their lips greedily. They watched them toast one another, their leader, even their prey. Each toast was met with louder cheers and longer drinks. Grace could feel Theresa tensing beside her, growling just under her breath.

Team Leader swaggered forward. He waved down the cheers that followed, though the uneven grin curling his lips suggested he drank them up almost as thirstily as the men drank of the liquor that had fallen into their laps. “We had a good day,” he offered. “Briar and his boys would be proud.” The men nodded solemnly. “So, by all means, drink up in their memory. You’ve earned it and then some. Just make sure you’re all good to go for tomorrow. We’ll bivouac here tonight, get an early start in the morning. We may have avenged our fallen comrades, but we’re not done yet, not by a long shot.”

Following his speech, the men carried on and drank as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Clearly they didn’t think much of their prey. Eventually they even exhorted Team Leader to join them in a commemorative toast to the fallen, and then another and another still, until he too was just as staggered and sluggardly as his subordinates.

The time had come to show the hunters exactly what they were capable of.

Willem gave a piercing whistle and the makeshift company surged forward, shouting down any misplaced attempt at resistance with their rifles held firm before them. Team Leader blinked incredulously. He was a stocky man with rough, graying stubble, a cauliflower nose, and beady, uncompromising eyes—eyes as cloudy as the liquor he and his men had been imbibing in great quantities. Slowly, the gravity of the situation dawned upon him. “You motherfuckers. Who the hell do you think you are?!”

Willem smiled wryly. “We’re the motherfuckers who caught you pulling your collective puds. If it helps, though, you can just call me Lucas.”

Recognition flashed like lightning behind the stormy clouds gathered in Team Leader’s eyes. “You son of a bitch.”

“Shut your mouth,” Theresa snapped. “You speak when you’re told.”

“I’ll speak when I god damn well please, you—!”

A swift blow from the stock of her rifle sent him reeling, quickly disabusing him of that notion. Team Leader raised a hand to his rearranged nose, blinking dumbly as it came away crimson.

Willem nodded his approval. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“Now that we have your attention,” he said, stepping forward and addressing himself to the group, “I’m going to need a volunteer from the audience.”

Silence.

“Alright, then.” Narrowing his eyes, Willem scanned the faces of their captives before landing upon the youngest. He had a mousy, boyish face with downcast eyes and a patchy excuse for a beard that looked to have grown in as fully as it ever would. “You. Yes, you. C’mon now, don’t be shy.”

The young man flinched, awkwardly climbing to his feet like a newborn foal. “W-What do you w-want?”

“Your name would be a good start.”

“P-P-Paolo.” His eyes shimmered wetly, flicking back and forth over the unsympathetic faces of his captors and comrades. “Please, d-don’t kill me. We were just following orders.”

“Then you don’t have anything to worry about, do you, Paolo?”

Paolo shook his head hopefully.
 

“Good. Now, take that knife on your belt and cut the rigging off that container. Then cut it into lengths of about three feet.”

Paolo did as he was told, separating the rigging into the prescribed lengths of cord. When he finished, Willem gestured with a nod to the kneeling hunters. “Tie them up.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” he said. “Tie. Them. Up. Starting with him.” He pointed to Team Leader.

Paolo crept anxiously toward his sneering commander, a length of cord held between his hands. “Sorry, sir,” he said meekly.

Without warning, Team Leader shoveled a fist into Paolo’s groin. Leaping to his feet, he snatched the knife from the boyish hunter’s belt and deployed the blade. With one arm around Paolo’s neck and another brandishing the knife to his throat, he grinned maniacally. “Your move,” he told Willem. “I’ll kill him. I don’t give a good god-damn. But you need hostages, don’t you? Otherwise you would have killed us already. Shit, I bet those rifles aren’t even loaded—”

Theresa and Grace stepped forward, thumping darts into the both of them. Paolo and Team Leader crumpled into a tangled, lifeless heap a split-second later.

Willem fought back a grimace. The display was a necessary one, he knew, but it was no more palatable a sight to behold for that knowledge. “Anyone else think they’re not loaded?” When no one answered, he nodded. “Good. That said, it looks like we’re going to need another volunteer.”

Team Leader’s second lifted a hand from the back of his head. “That’ll be me, then,” the man said with an even, almost sleepy drawl. “They’re my men now.”

“Hand over your knife. The rest of you lie flat on your stomachs and stay put. We don’t need hostages but we’re not looking to make more bodies, either.”

“Maybe you aren’t,” Theresa murmured. Willem shot her a glare she held for several seconds before relenting with a roll of her eyes. She turned to the others. “Someone help me search these pigs.”

With Theresa and Grace searching the hunters, Willem turned his attention to their new boss. “What’s your name?” he asked the man.

“The men call me Mack,” he said evenly. Even under duress, this one was cool and collected, a stark contrast to the man who now lay just feet away, his life’s essence staining the turf, like so many others before.

“Alright, Mack. Why are you hunting us?”

“We were hired to test some new tech.”

“Who by?”

“Someone with money. You know what they say. Makes the world go round.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“We’ve got something here,” Theresa called back to him.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Willem quipped, leaving Lucas and a reedy young man named Joss in charge of the prisoners while he went to see what had Theresa so intrigued. “What’s up?”

“This.” She dropped an aluminum cylinder the size of a soup can into his hands. “It looks like some kind of shell or grenade.”

Willem turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight shift and tumble as he considered it. “Could be, I suppose. Find anything else?”

“Pretty much just that. There’s some water and food—nothing all that appetizing—but as far as hardware, that’s it.”

“Huh.” Willem shifted the object from hand to hand and back again. “Let’s see what our new friend has to say about it.” He handed it back to Theresa.

“I think I can manage that.” Theresa marched over to where they were holding Mack. Taking him by the scruff of his neck, she shoved the cylindrical mystery before his face with the other. “What the hell is this?”

“Couldn’t say. Never seen it before.” Mack shifted, trying unsuccessfully to wriggle free of Theresa’s grasp. He looked over her shoulder at Willem. “Hey, you wanna get her the fuck off of me?”

“Not really.” Eyeing Mack thoughtfully, Willem took back the object from Theresa. “Why would they send you out with something you didn’t know what to do with, Mack? That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, now does it?”

“It’s a puzzle,” he agreed. “Maybe Stone knew. Never could tell what he might have been holding back. You saw the man. Madder than a bag of snakes, especially when he got into the hooch.”