J. Mitchell - Midnight City

Mira looked around at the campsite. Most of it had been thrown into disarray when the ship crashed, but she saw Holt’s cot a few feet away. Her pack was no longer under it. Instead, it had been knocked closer by the impact, and she could see the red δ just out of reach of her feet.

Or was it?

If she could reach it while the dynamic duo was busy being eaten inside the ship, she might be able to make this whole thing play to her advantage.

Mira reached out with her feet, the only part of her the bounty hunter hadn’t tied to the tree. His mistake, she thought.

Her shoe stopped just a few inches from the bag, almost there. But it wasn’t enough.

Mira grimaced. She pulled against her bonds… and could feel the ropes give around her waist, only to feel them tighten against her arms, pulling them harder against the tree.

If she strained hard, she might be able to loosen the ropes around her legs enough to reach the bag… at the expense of what little circulation she had left in her arms.

It would be well worth it.

She pulled against the ropes with all the strength she had. And then groaned in pain as they tightened hard against her arms, the sharp bark of the tree digging into her skin.

But her legs were looser now. Mira reached for the pack again…

…and this time she looped one of the straps around her ankle and quickly pulled it to her. She had to hurry—who knew when the bounty hunter and his smelly dog would reappear.

With her leg, she tossed the pack backwards. It landed on the right side of the tree, just barely in reach of her hand. While Holt had tied her upper arms against the tree, he’d left her forearms free. She worked one of them out of the tight ropes, just enough to bend it.

When she did, she reached for the pack and flipped through it with her right hand. The first thing she looked for was the cylinder. After a moment, she felt its cool, glass shape inside among all the other objects and artifacts, and breathed a sigh of relief. Good, he’d brought it with them. All wasn’t lost.

She rifled quickly through the other contents with her hand as it explored the pack’s interior.

After a moment, she found what she was looking for, recognized the cold, metallic, angular shape. She grabbed it, pulled it out—an aging, rusted Zippo lighter—and smiled at the sight.

With her hand, she closed the pack, then grabbed one of its straps. With what little leverage she had while tied to the tree, Mira threw the whole thing forward through the air. It landed even farther than where she had originally grabbed it from, closer to Holt’s cot.

She looked at the Zippo in her hand, closed her fist around it. She couldn’t wait to see the look on his face. He’d be sorry he ever saw her wanted poster.

THE SMOKE WAS THICK and everything was dark. Holt could barely see the end of the shotgun. Max shadowed him as he moved, a gray blue blur below him. He was just a dog, probably no match for whatever was waiting in the smoke… but it made Holt feel better having him there.

The ship’s interior, like its hull, was round. Hulking husks along the walls marked what probably had been control panels. Now they were singed beyond recognition. A few of them still clung to life, spraying the odd spark here and there.

Holt pushed farther in, sighting down the barrel, finger on the trigger.

The smoke was so thick, it was almost impossible to see. He coughed, dropped low, hoping the air was clearer closer to the floor. It was. He could see a little better, too, more of the ship’s insides.

More fried circuitry, more splits in the ship’s hull, some sort of fallen equipment rack, its contents in pieces all over the floor. But there was no sign of survivors, of whatever had made the noises he heard. He was running out of time. The Assembly would be here in minutes, maybe seconds. He should get out now, he told himself, it wasn’t worth—

Movement, a shuffling from just ahead. He heard coughing.

Coughing? Did the Assembly cough? Did they even have lungs?

Steeling himself, Holt crawled ahead, shotgun ready, pushing through the curtains of—

Something long and thin and metallic materialized from the smoke, wrapped around his leg, and started to pull.

“Son of a—!” Holt jumped in fright, scrambled back. Whatever it was withdrew, fading into the smoke and dark.

He fired his shotgun after it.

Sparks sprayed from the opposite wall. There was an electronic-sounding screech, like something crying out through a broken speaker.

And… whispers. Hissings. Something almost like language, but not. Holt couldn’t be sure if he was hearing it… or if it was in his head.

Shadows moved all around him, coming to life in the smoke. Max barked frantically, alarmed and ready to fight. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all….

Holt pushed himself back against the closest wall, raising the shotgun, trying to keep low enough to see anything advancing on him.

The shadows continued to pulse and move. The whispering grew louder in his head, harsher, more frightening. Was this what the Tone sounded like? Is this what the Succumbed heard in their heads?

Holt flinched as the horrible screech came again. Louder this time, grating, ripping his ears. Something sprung for him. Something big. The whispers again, louder, angry…

The Ithaca exploded to life. It was a combat shotgun—it could fire shells one after the other if he needed it to, and right now, he did.

The shotgun fired again and again, blasting the huge shadow backwards. It wailed its strange electronic cry… and then went silent, fading into the dark.

For a moment, there was no movement. No sound. Max whined next to him.

And then a shuddering. That was the only way Holt could describe it. As if the air all around him trembled. The sensation grew stronger, more powerful.

A surge of light erupted from the dark in front of him—so bright, it almost blinded him. Wavering, beautiful, golden light like a churning cloud of energy formed and hovered before him.

Holt couldn’t open his eyes, it was too bright. The whispering returned. The hissing sounds. They cut into Holt’s consciousness like a razor. They were much louder now, overpowering. They were so loud, it seemed the ship (or maybe just Holt’s skull) might burst.

He tried to push away from it, gritting his teeth, unnerved. His hands went to his head, trying to seal out the sounds. Max howled in pain next to him.

And then the light receded. Floated out like a bright, pulsating cloud of color into the air beyond the ship… and disappeared.

The whispering was gone. So was the sensation of fear and dread. Holt exhaled deeply, breathing hard, his pulse a beating drum in his ears. The light. He’d seen it before, a few times. A field of energy that lifted up and out of Assembly craft when they were destroyed, but he had never been this close to one before. Never heard… those sounds…

“Hello?” a voice came from the dark. Holt jumped, stunned. “Help…” The voice was human.

Holt got to his feet, pushed through the smoke toward the voice at the other end of the ship. Max followed quickly after him.

Ahead emerged a metallic chair of sorts. A figure was strapped to it, held secure like a prisoner. As Holt reached it, the smoke cleared a little and he could see more. A little girl, no more than eight or nine. Her face was covered in soot, and she coughed in the smoke, trying to breathe. But beyond that, she seemed unhurt. As he emerged from the smoke, she looked at him with wild eyes full of fear. Holt didn’t blame her.

“Hold on, kid, I got you.” Holt reached for the straps holding the little girl to the chair. They weren’t metal; they were made of something thin but resilient. Some sort of carbon fiber maybe? They wouldn’t loosen.