Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2) (6 page)

He was a man caught within the detail of things. Following the prints of their former prey, the hunter crossed a set of train tracks leading directly into the building. There was a massive freight door above them, large enough for the entry of an industrial locomotive. The door had been sealed shut.

The hunter then came to a generous splotch of dried blood–around it, the speckled hearts of feline paw prints. The blood mark, he gathered, was left over from a previous hunt. A few of the three-man groups were getting into the habit of burning the bodies after gathering their hands. It was a neater practice and the hunter encouraged them to do so. Even in death, the hybrids were an unwelcomed travesty–best to rid the world of them entirely. The hunter followed the blood mark, where he could see the body had been dragged, and came upon a mound of slightly risen earth.

He slid his boot across it.

This one was buried.

It was definitely an act no member of his group was keen on. This one was shown compassion in death, an honor for which they were unworthy. Realizing that the eyes of the caretaker might be upon him, the hunter spent little time looming over the hybrid grave. He continued across the building’s shipping yard instead, feasting on the surroundings. And as they went to gather the half-headed marker, the hunter noted the angle of his blood splatter. The shooter had been on the roof–possibly the very same woman who killed the herders.

The hunter didn’t look at the building, as he’d instructed Coda–didn’t want an onlooker to realize they were onto them.

Could be some kinda hybrid preserve in there.

A sudden flutter of excitement welled in his chest. He loved a challenge. There was sport in the hunting of hybrids, but the thought of infiltrating an entire enclosure was simply intoxicating. And within these walls dwelled a woman, a woman who’s hunting skills seemed to rival his own.

This must be what General Zaroff felt like, confronted with a quarry worthy enough of his time and energy.

He had the men stack pallets and lay the bodies on top.

“Anyone have anything to say?” he offered them; but only silence hung in the still afternoon air.

“They were good men.”

The hunter nodded to Coda, who then began trickling the corpses with gasoline.

“Lucky to be free of this place.”

They went up in a flash of blue, then cooled to flames of a blood-orange tip. Engulfed in fire, smoke soon began to seep from the crest of their pillar, reaching lazily for the heavens. The hunter turned his back to them, making his way toward the street. He heard the footsteps of his men as they trailed behind, Coda coming to his side.

The hunter would break the news to his crew within the week, then send scouts out to check for a breach in the complex. Once inside, they could take the place over–find that girl. Yes, revenge would be served soon. The hunter would see to that.

“Finally,” Mohammad mumbled to himself. The group, after an awkward pyrotechnic funeral, was on their way out. He’d practically been holding his breath during their entire tromp through the shipping area. One man in particular seemed to be bearing the lead. Flattening himself atop a row of ducting and peering through the break between, Mohammad had a vantage point that made him all but imperceptible to the men below.

The sun sent its coarseness through the air as Mohammad slid his tongue over dry lips. He didn’t like the way that man placed his boot atop the hybrid’s grave, then called no attention to it. He obviously knew her body was in there–followed her blood right to it–and then did nothing but pretend to overlook it. A younger man, maybe early twenties, would rush occasionally to his side, informing him of various things.

The two of them were definitely related–same cleft chin, same complexion, same stature–most probably father and son.

T
he new hybrid didn’t seem to be taking too kindly to the Fijian. Similar to Radia, she shared her reddish skin and raven-black hair; but the differences could be found in the sculpting of their features. She was taller than Radia, her face longer, more slender. Mohammad would not be having an issue telling the two apart.

To him it was night and day.

And Radia pressed him to give this new one a name, to which he obliged.

Lumin, he’d called her.

Based on Radia’s recent impact on the surrounding community, Mohammad insisted upon retrieving breakfast the next few mornings. He wanted her safe inside, should they come back to investigate–which they surely would. But several days passed without anyone so much as stepping foot on his property. Odd, considering the deaths that occurred, and the fashion in which they were dealt.

But the calm hung ominously over him, his nerves resisting the temptation to relax. He would not be caught off guard. No amount of time would justify becoming comfortable with two hybrids under his roof. He must remain sharp, vigilant.

He cooked the pigeons beneath the usual circle of skylight and handed Radia her share.

She accepted it. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome.”

She put her hand on his forearm, giving it a squeeze, and looked thoughtfully at him. “Thank you.”

She wasn’t just thanking him for the birds, he realized, but for everything else, as well.

He placed his hand on hers. “It is my absolute pleasure, Radia.” He then handed her Lumin’s share, to which she shook her head.

“Your turn.”

Mohammad squinted. “My turn?”

Radia nodded.

He never delivered Lumin’s breakfast. He’d hardly seen her since she arrived a few days before.

“It will be good,” Radia offered.

Mohammad felt his guts beginning to twist. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Radia smiled. “We will see.”

He began his journey to where he knew the hybrid to reside. The remnants of steam left its scent throughout various pipes and regulators, its musk well-detected by Mohammad as he made his way toward the boiler room. Lumin had taken an instant liking to the overhead steam and feed water piping–her presence there best identified by the shiny pigeon bones peppering the ground beneath her.

“Lumin?” he called in. “I have breakfast for you.”

He surveyed the maze of overhead piping, looking for a glimpse of her reddish skin above him. But that wasn’t what caught his eye. Within a pocket of shadow he’d found her glaring down at him, her irises aglow.

Mohammad suddenly felt a bit like an animal care-taker, coming to leave food for a wild jaguar. He looked up at her, offering a kind smile, to which she retreated farther into shadow.

“Very well.” Mohammad shrugged. “I’ll leave it here for you then.” He placed her food atop a feed water pump, where she could see it. “It’s here when you want it, okay?”

She leaned forward, baring her teeth, and sent a hiss in his direction. As she moved, an object dislodged beside her and came crashing down. It sounded of metal–unmistakably familiar.

It was one of Mohammad’s rifles, the scope badly damaged from the fall.

Bitch!
“You took my rifle?!”

She hissed again.

“That’s what keeps us safe! That’s what saved your life!”

Mohammad stormed from the boiler room, and ascended to his nest, discovering multiple weapons missing.

“Radia!”

She came in a hurry, her lips still moist from breakfast. “What?”

“Lumin took some rifles into the boiler room. I need them back.”

Radia’s eyes widened. “I will get them.” She disappeared down the pillars of paper, returning with the weapons the following minute.

“That can’t happen again, Radia,” Mohammad huffed, snatching them from her.

“It won’t.”

“If it does, she’s gone.”

Radia’s emerald eyes narrowed, but she nodded in under-standing.

Mohammad flung a rifle over his shoulder and placed a boot on the first rung. “I’ll be back in a minute.” The act of thrusting open the nest hatch seemed to help alleviate some of his anger, letting the outside air cool him off.

Lumin. More like Loose Cannon.

She was obviously suffering from an extreme case of post traumatic stress. And who could blame her? All she ever knew was terror at the hands of men. But they couldn’t continue to aid hybrids if Lumin almost killed him the second she arrived–simple as that. And now she was stealing his weapons? This was his home. He’d opened it to Radia–only Radia. The rest, sadly enough, were on their own.

He checked first the roofs of the few buildings surrounding the factory, none of which quite as tall. All of them seemed clear of any activity. It was not uncommon to hear voices off in the distance. It wasn’t until he could distinguish actual words that Mohammad became wary.

Still, the place was deathly quiet. Something was very wrong.

He could feel it in his bones, the way his skin tightened along the back of his skull. He would have been less anxious staring down at an angry, torch-wielding mob. The silence was far more unsettling–simply torture in such a catastrophic world.

Mohammad peered down into the shipping area, greeted again by those familiar blotches of darkening crimson and the pile of burnt pallets, the skeletal remains of three atop it.

“Come on, you bastards,” he whispered. “I’m waiting for you.”

A
s the night filled itself with the crinkling of bags being torn open, no one seemed to care that some of the potato chips were slightly expired. The hunter watched with marked amusement as his men, along with what remained of their families and friends, came to enjoy the festivities for which he’d called them all together.

Many were gathered around the metallic trash can, its center ablaze with a healthy flame, as the scent of goldening marshmallows lingered just above it. The hunter had delivered to them a snack food feast that would surely come to rival their fondest holiday memories. For this was a celebration, and one worthy of a speech on his behalf.

He climbed atop the wooden table, looking upon his congregation. There the hunter found the faces of men, women and youth alike. Smiles and laughter adorned his audience, precious commodities in times like these. With lips wrapped around glistening s’mores, beer bottles, and candied treasures, a hush of silence soon fell upon the crowd–and all eyes upon him.

The hunter cleared his throat and nodded in appreciation. “I thank you all for coming tonight.” He lifted his bottle in the air. “This is a party, so don’t be shy. There’s plenty to go around.”

He allowed a break for a momentary cheer on their part. “You might be wondering why I’ve called you all here tonight. Well, I’m going to answer that for you.”

He took a swig of ale and wiped his mouth with a weathered hand. “We’ve all witnessed horrors of one kind or another … we’ve all lost loved ones. And I’m … ”

Distracted, he met the eyes of a young girl as she was hoisted atop her father’s shoulders, bettering her curious view. The hunter smiled thoughtfully at her and she smiled back. No older than five, her blonde hair was in a frenzy, a place where no comb had dared to venture in quite some time. Hazel was her name.

“And I’m afraid we’re all that’s left of humanity,” he continued. “But let that be our fate. Whether we thrive or die, begin or end, let it be ours.” He thrust his index finger toward the night sky. “We did not ask for their assistance. We did not ask for their pity. We did not ask for those things!”

He earned himself a lengthy applause. “Which brings me to why we are here tonight … It’s been a week to the day since those men lost their lives outside that box plant.”

He scanned their illuminated faces, many of them hardening at his mention of the incident. “And I’ve asked you to stay away from that place, to hunt elsewhere, and you’ve respected my wishes.”

There were many nods–grumbles of understanding.

“You know, someone once asked me, ‘Do you really think hybrids deserve to die?’ Well, the answer is no. They don’t deserve to die … because they never deserved to live. Death is a privilege for which even they are unworthy.”

He knelt, inching closer to his audience. “But no one’s come to me for a five-finger discount in more than forty eight hours, people,” he whispered, silence hanging in the wake of his remark. “Which means, together, we’ve sent the demons back to hell!” And along with cries of stuffed-mouth satisfaction, there came an instant eruption of thunderous applause. “So enjoy this night!” he bellowed. “And know that it is ours!”

He left them to cheer as he stepped down from the table, earning himself a few heavy pats on the back and shoulders. The speech seemed sincere enough. The bulk of it was true, only he believed there to be perhaps just a few more hybrids left for the killing.

But this party was more of a Trojan horse than an actual act of hospitality.

He turned and entered their establishment through the glass door, his son beside him. Jackson and Rick were waiting there, weapons in hand.

“Nice speech, Boss.” Jackson’s teeth glimmered in the outside firelight.

“Yeah,” Rick agreed. “Moved me like Ex-lax.”

They both chuckled.

The hunter squinted at them. “You boys find anything?”

“Same as before.” Jackson shook his head. “Place is im-penetrable.”

“Nothing is impenetrable.”

“Damn-near, then.”

“Good,” the hunter said. “I can work with damn-near. The place will be fortified. You can bet on that.”

“All doors are locked, probably barricaded.” Rick crossed his arms. “There is a silo at the front of the building; but it stands about fifteen feet from the wall, if you’re thinking about getting on the roof.”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Gotta be thirty feet tall,” Jackson stated.

“Whoever’s there is using a rope. The roof is the only way in or out of that place.”

“Gotta do it the old fashioned way, then,” Rick said.

“Fine. So who’s comin’?”

“You know I’m in, Boss.” Jackson grinned.

“Fuck yeah.”