112.
The crew’s van passes industrial buildings and parks beside grimy parking lot barricades. Sarge, Heoh, Milly, Trip, and the Twins trek on foot down a moonlit footpath sandwiched between rusting warehouses. Ajax perches above Trip’s shoulder. Galen flies top cover, orbiting high overhead.
Three men await at the intersection of a weed-speckled sidewalk near a cross-shaped wooden pier.
The groups meet.
Thin warehouse walls pass easily. More men lie in wait within, covered under strange gray blankets and hidden in shadows beneath cracked rooftops. Oh no!
Milly shivers.
One man of the three steps forward. “You have the package?”
Heoh nods. “What happened? Why here?”
The man shrugs. “Change of plans.”
Those hidden men rise. Inner fabric linings sparkle as blankets crumple to the ground.
Trip startles. “Galen has something on thermals!”
The drone noticed. Is it too late?
Metal doors creak open. From shadows, armed men in gray armor approach.
Six — nine — a dozen?
One speaks, helmet resonating. “You’re coming with us.”
Heoh shakes his head, slow and cool. “Not the deal.”
The Twins raise rifles.
The gray-armored man raises his. “New deal.” His gun light flashes blue.
The crew’s gun lights still blink red. Lethal.
Sarge taps his helmet. “Looks like you boys brought rocks to a gunfight.” He jerks his rifle to his shoulder.
Bullets fly.
Trip clenches his fist; Ajax fires guns on full auto. A flash bolts in from the shadows, striking Ajax in midair. The drone drops, clattering aground like a wayward shopping cart, bristling with static yet intact. Trip collapses, groaning, gripping his head.
One Twin takes fire; impacts pepper his helmet and armor. With a resounding thunk, the other Twin gets hit mid-torso. Shockwaves shimmer. Both stagger; both fall.
Heoh pats Milly on the belly. “Run!”
She sprints back toward their vehicle.
As Sarge and Heoh glance at each other, a spherical object rolls between them.
A blinding flash and thunderclap.
Where’s Milly?
At the top of the path, near the crew’s vehicle, two men in gray stand watch. Milly rounds a corner, running towards them. Both raise rifles. She veers left, yanks open a door, and dashes inside a building. She glances wildly: dusty chairs, broken desks, boxes, and an interior door …
A way through?
Milly twists the doorknob. Locked. She slams her shoulder, pulls again, then kicks frantically.
The door outside opens behind her. Something bounces in —clack, clink, clack — sliding upon concrete beside her. Grenade.
A white flash.
But if I’m still here, she’s alive.
Choppy images come next: smoke, the floor, a vehicle, blurry hallways, a bright room, and doctors.
Doctors: I never trusted them. I should have. Father used fear against me. Everything was too much to cope with back then without my medication. If I’d only known what I must endure now because of my choice then, and what Father truly was.
If only I’d known what Milly must endure regardless, I might have tried escaping the Homestead with her — or even stayed. I can’t say more. But now there’s just my role — and what little energy remains when she wakes.