Darren Wearmouth - Critical Path

The cell door slammed behind him. Augustus’ mask appeared in the small window. “This is Baliska. I believe you have history? You’re cellmates now; isn’t that just a wonderful twist of fate? The gods couldn’t have planned it any better.”

Charlie turned to look at the alien. Dust puffed from the wall as it tried to bust out of the chains again, pure hate burned in its eyes.

The feeling was mutual.

The early afternoon sunshine cut through the orange-tinged clouds, bathing the courtyard in a warm glow.

The heat warmed Gregor’s face as he pulled the last rope over the hover-bike’s seat and tied it off, ensuring the pack of ammo and supplies were secure. The movement made his shoulder sore, tweaking the muscle in a way that he hadn’t experienced for years.

Sleeping at Freetown overnight on their hard beds had taken its toll. His back felt every day of his fifty-six years.

Age crept up on him in the night like a thief, stealing his vitality. He needed another shot of root before they left.

The stuff Alex was harvesting back at his original farm wasn’t as good as it was when the croatoans were working with it—the effects just weren’t as long lasting as before, requiring larger, more frequent doses.

The aliens knew its secrets far better than either he or Alex. When they were refining it, the effects were far greater.

But still, with Layla and the other self-appointed assholes deciding to eradicate it and its use, he couldn’t exactly be choosy about it. Besides, even with the inferior human-made product, it put him in a strong position.

He who could control the flow of root would have a lot of power in this new human order. He did it once to build up his crime empire; he could do it again.

One thing he had learned from those days was that there were always customers for the hard-to-get and the addictive.

With a lack of general medical supplies beyond the basics at the farms, when people got sick, or tired, or just wanted to improve themselves, it would be Gregor Miralos they’d come to.

Beside his bike were two others. Each one took two passengers and had space for luggage. He considered sabotaging Denver’s.

Both he and Layla would be travelling together, and it wouldn’t be such a bad thing for him if both of them were to crash into the forest at full speed.

The thought brought a smile to his face.

They were like bloody twins these days—joined at the hip and speaking for one another. In a way, Gregor was disappointed with Denver. After Charlie did his thing with the bomb, it looked like the kid would find his own mind, but no, instead of playing copycat to Charlie, he now did that with Layla.

It didn’t suit him.

Pain still throbbed in Gregor’s jaw from the kid’s jab. The bruise looked ugly in the mirror—a mix of purple and green that hinted at Gregor’s age and inability to fight as well as he could.

A few years ago, he’d never be beaten to the punch like that.

Still, that aside, Denver rarely showed what he was capable of anymore, preferring to wander Freetown after Layla like a lovesick puppy. Ironic considering his own dog had decided to abandon him and run off to the wild.

Sabotage would certainly be an option—if he could only figure out how to do it. The bike’s internals were well sealed off and the tech so advanced compared to the motorcycles Gregor had worked on in the past that he hadn’t the first clue as to how to go about it. Even the throttle mechanism used digital software controls, and hacking into alien computers wasn’t exactly his forte.

As he thought about what to do, double doors swished open from the complex behind him. He turned. Denver approached in his lanky, loping gait of his. With a few strides, he ate up the ground and joined Gregor by the bikes.

He wore his bug-out kit: camo combat trousers and waist jacket with a dozen pockets containing various tools he and his dear old pa had made, walking boots that looked to have been repaired a dozen times with the hides of various animals, and a near-bald shaved head.

Without his beard he looked like the prototypical American US soldier.

“You’re looking shifty,” Denver said as he placed his backpack on the rear end of the bike. “What are you up to now?”

“You’re a suspicious little shit, aren’t you? Just like your old man. Do you even have your own personality?” Gregor leaned back against his bike and folded his arms across his chest.

Brushing his taunt off with a shrug, Denver quickly and efficiently tied his pack down with a length of rope, using a knot system Gregor hadn’t seen before— probably another one of his old man’s little survival tricks he’d learned out of a National Guard manual.

“What are you even doing here?” Denver asked when he had finished securing his supplies. “You can’t stand the sight of me or my dad, let alone the aliens. Why bother coming with us?”

“You know me, Den, I like a bit of an adventure. Besides, your little happy group needs me. You’re getting soft.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

Smiling made Gregor’s face hurt, but he grinned anyway. He always did enjoy a bit of banter, especially when it made Denver angry. “Fancy going another round, kid? It was kind of a cheap shot yesterday. At least your old pa would fight like a real man. Learning how to fight from Layla now, eh? Or perhaps Mike taught you a few things? His wife perhaps? I heard she’s pretty lethal with that tai chi of hers.”

The fist flew half an inch high as Gregor ducked.

Denver’s long reach caught him off guard, but the boy was definitely slower this morning. Gregor shifted his weight on to his right foot and bobbed under a straight left jab.

Noticing Denver had unbalanced, Gregor launched forward and rammed his shoulder into Denver’s ribs, forcing him back against the edge of the bike.

Denver twisted as he fell away and grabbed hold of Gregor’s denim jacket’s lapels, pulling him to the ground.

The two men hit the hard surface with a thud.

Gregor leaned up and slid his legs over Denver’s beneath him, pinning him to the ground. He grabbed his throat and squeezed, making the younger man choke for breath.

Denver’s long arms pushed up against Gregor’s face, but the Armenian knocked them away with his other hand before slapping Denver hard across the side of the head as his face started to turn purple with the lack of air.

“You’re weak,” Gregor taunted. “Don’t you see what Layla’s done to you? You’re pathetic. Where’s your strength now, eh? You need the root, boy, you know it, and I know it. You want to grow old and infirm like Mike?”

Denver kicked out and twisted beneath Gregor, but the older man continued to squeeze his neck until he stopped struggling.

“You’re right,” Denver gurgled as he became limp, giving up. “I’m weak.”

Gregor had him where he wanted him, and despite not feeling great himself, it appeared that Denver had gone quite some time without the root and was far weaker than even he realized.

Standing up and helping Denver to his feet, Gregor pulled from his jacket pocket a leather wallet with a couple of steel cigar tubes inside. He unscrewed the lid on one and pulled out a syringe full of refined root oil.

Gregor looked over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being watched and, satisfied, turned to face Denver, whose attention was now squarely on the syringe.

The kid’s hands trembled, and Gregor knew it wasn’t just through anger. He’d seen those trembles before in his own hands—the tremble of anticipation.

“You want this, don’t you?” Gregor said, holding the syringe toward Denver, but not giving it up completely.