Jay Posey - Three

Three sat on an overturned plasticrate in the supply room, rocked back on one edge with his feet up on a low shelf. Methodically, meticulously, he ran a gritstone along an edge of an eight-inch piece of scrap metal he’d found on some dusty shelf. Shaping it. Sharpening it. His hands moved with practiced precision.

Three small piles lay neatly arranged on the floor: supplies collected and carefully assessed for their weight, durability, and usefulness. He’d taken only what they’d need. Inwardly, he chuckled humorlessly. This wasn’t his way. Hopelessly entangled with the weak and wounded. He’d already done what he could for the woman. Another day or two, and she’d be strong enough to walk. And he’d done what he’d said he’d do. He’d gotten them safely out of the enclave, away from the crew that was chasing them. For now.

He looked at the back wall, where the hidden pressure plates waited. So simple. Stand up, walk down those stairs, move on. On to the next thing. Like always. This wasn’t his way.

He set the gritstone and scrap metal on the shelf behind him and stood. Silently moved to the main room, crept to the bed, stood over the woman and boy. Her color was better, her breathing steady. Both lay on their sides, the mother with a protective arm draped over the son. Peaceful.

They’d have everything they needed. He moved back to the supply room, quietly packed a harness with a few traveling essentials: water, food, an extra chemlight or two. As was the custom, honor code of travelers, he’d exchanged some of his own valuables for those he took. Not one, but two of his shells. Exorbitant for what he’d taken for himself, but he felt it only right to pay for the woman and her kid. He’d brought them in, after all. That left him three in the cylinder, one in the pocket. Three shook his head. He’d have to do something about that soon.

He leaned his head to the side, left ear almost touching his shoulder, and cracked his neck out of habit. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. In his gut, he already knew he’d made his decision. With a full exhalation, he reached down and picked up the harness, slung the straps over each shoulder, adjusted the weight of the two broad pockets that rested on either hip.

Move on. To the next thing. He’d done enough.

Three strode to the shelf at the back wall, fingered the secret plates, stepped back as the floor opened up and offered his escape. The blackness beneath him seemed inviting. His chance to return to a life in the background, in the shadows, without notice. And he stared into it. What was he waiting for?

He glanced back at the door to the supply room. Listened. Heard the deep and steady breath of Cass and Wren. A woman and a boy. Just some other people trapped in the same dying world.

With a silent and half-hearted goodbye, Three slipped like a wraith into the darkness below, and disappeared.

Cass stirred, shifted awake, let her eyes float open slowly, watched as they focused the haze into clarity. The first thing she noticed was Wren’s absence. The blanket was still compressed and rumpled from where he’d been curled next to her, but he was nowhere to be seen. She lay still for a moment longer, listening for the usual sounds of her son. Though there was no obvious reason to think so, she knew with a cold certainty that something was very wrong.

She rolled herself up silently, slipped her feet to the floor, tested her strength. About fifty percent. Quietly she stood, and crept stiffly around the wayhouse.

When Cass found him, he was standing in the supply room towards the back, in the dark, hand nearly to his face. Fist tightly balled. Staring. She’d seen him that way before; terror seized her.

“Wren?”

Blood ran freely from his palm, down to the elbow, where it dripped in a spatter on the concrete. He didn’t seem to notice her. She rushed to him, swept him into her arms, felt his hair damp with clammy sweat.

“Wren, baby, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Tears welled in her eyes. Still cradling him against her, Cass seized his hand, pried its stiff fingers open to reveal a blade, gently curved, one solid piece: a length of scrap metal crafted into a deadly thing. Cass took it and placed it on the ground, then reached for a nearby garment from a shelf and tore it, fashioning a makeshift bandage. Wren just stood, injured hand limp in hers, never looking to her.

Finally, as Cass tied off the bandage, Wren rasped, barely audible.

“He’s gone.”

Cass stopped, tried to absorb that.

“And they’re here.”

Terror and despair collided, with Cass caught in between. She felt her breath escape, her heart icy cold as it leapt and pounded in her chest. She squeezed him tighter still.

Somehow, by some unholy miracle, they had found her. Asher, or at least some of his crew, prowled somewhere just above them, undoubtedly searching for a way in, and most certainly capable of finding it. It was just a matter of time, and not much at that.

Her mind raced, tried to find an explanation. Maybe Three had sold them out. Kept them here until Asher could reach them. It made some sense, but not much. Her nightmare flashed back. Asher, grinning over her. It clicked. In her fevered torment, her digital mask had cracked. He had found her signal.

A grinding sound pulled her out of her paralyzed thought. Down the corridor, towards the entrance from the street. They were coming.

“Come on, baby. Quiet as you can.”

Cass noted the piles of supplies on the floor, hastily scraped them into a backpack. Wren remained motionless, unblinking. Staring into nothingness. Or seeing something beyond sight.

Cass slung the backpack over her shoulders, took Wren’s hand, and gently pulled him towards the back corner of the supply room. She searched the wall, found the signpost cracks, felt for the pressure plates. The instant before she pressed into them, Wren’s hand tightened on hers, unnaturally strong, painful. She flinched, but his eyes stopped her dead.

Terror.

“Not that way, Mama.”

He was with her now. Frightened, but lucid. She nodded, understanding. They were coming from both sides. Cass bent down, nose to nose with her son. Whispering.

“The other way, the secret you found. Can you open it again?”

“I’m not sure… I… I don’t think so.”

“Let’s just try.”

Cass swung Wren up in her arms. He felt so much heavier than she remembered. Her legs trembled at the extra weight. A few steps outside the supply room, she placed him on his own feet. The grinding continued, faint but relentless.

“Go ahead, baby. Just see what you can do.”

Wren nodded, uncertain, shoulders sagging with a lack of confidence. He closed his eyes, stretched out a hand, touched the wall.

The grinding continued. Cass thought she caught the trace of a deep rumbling voice floating from the supply room, muffled through the concrete.

Wren raised his head, opened his eyes. Crying.

“I’m sorry, Mama, I can’t.”

“Yes you can, sweetheart, you’ve done this same thing a hundred times. You can do it.”

“No, it’s different. They’re always different, Mama.”

“Try again, Wren. Just try.”

Wren lowered his head, stared at his feet. Defeated. He shook his head. He was just a child, Cass thought. A child with a gift he didn’t understand, frustrated by his own incapability to control it. What more could she ask of him?

“Just try, baby, OK? For me?”

“I can’t,” he murmured. “I can’t feel this one, I can’t.”

It was the recent near-death experience, perhaps, or maybe the sheer anger at the circumstance, the futility, or the helplessness she felt; whatever the reason, Cass did something she had never done in her entire life.