The Pursuit of Truth Read online

  Standing, Sam moved to the edge of the platform. He still held the transmitter, its long cord stretching out behind him. “On second thought, it’s a beautiful morning here in San Fran. Why don’t you make a start to the day instead? There’s a lot of people here in Independence Square who’ve had a hard night’s sleep—come down and see for yourself! Or are you still listening to our noble dictator’s wild tales of covert operatives and foreign spies?”

  Sam sighed audibly into the microphone. “Yeah, thought so. Sad to think we’ve all become such suspicious creatures. Time was a madman could claim he’d build a 2000-mile-long wall and we’d believe him. Maybe I should ask the President for an interview…think he’d let me talk this time? Haven’t you wondered why I never said anything, standing there beside him with my wings out, like some pet chimp?”

  He paused, remembering that day on the stage, the crowds thronging the streets around Fisherman’s Wharf. What if he’d said something then? If he’d stepped forward and told them all it was all a scam?

  Don’t look back. He took a breath and forged on.

  “I was in Independence Square too, when the attack went down. But I wasn’t fighting for the government. I took a bullet fighting off their soldiers, protecting the widows of our veterans. Just come down and ask the Madwomen, they’ll tell you the truth.”

  Releasing the transmit button, he chuckled to himself. No doubt he was coming off as stark-raving-mad to anyone listening. “Still not convinced? How about if I told you the government was behind the Chead? That they created them twenty years ago, and have been using them to control us ever since? What’s that? You think I’m crazy? That I should be locked up in a mental asylum?”

  He paused to take a breath before continuing: “Too bad, budget cuts got rid of ‘em all. Guess a shift in Alcatraz will have to do. Maybe I’ll fly over and hand myself in. That’s right, I have wings remember?”

  Taking a break, Sam leaned out over the edge. A touch of vertigo swept through him, despite the wings sprouting from his back. His lips tightened as the Madwomen continued their march. Sadness touched him as he counted their numbers and noted several more absentees. He shook his head, wondering where they got their courage.

  The fact that the Director couldn’t act openly against them had only slowed her crusade. Over the past four weeks, dozens of the Madwomen had gone missing. At first they’d thought the women had merely given up. But when their houses were found empty, it became clear something more sinister was behind their disappearances.

  Yet still the marches continued. Some had taken refuge in safehouses dotted throughout the city, but most refused to be driven from their homes. They stood in open defiance against the threat of violence—and paid for it with their lives.

  Sam bit his lip as he lifted the microphone again, taking on a more serious tone. “Look, I know you have no reason to believe a disembodied voice on the radio. Heck, a few months ago I would have been at the head of the queue baying for my blood. But I’m telling you, every word I’ve said is true. I know you don’t want to believe it, that you want to stay safe in your own little world, ignoring the voices outside screaming for help. But it won’t work. They’re coming for us, for all of us, and whether you stay in your bubble or not, one day it’ll be your turn. So come down to Independence Square, look at what’s happening here. Speak to the Madwomen, listen to their stories. And decide for yourself what the truth is.”

  Sam sucked in a long breath and switched off the short-wave. Exhausted by his outburst, he sat down too quickly and almost slid off the side of the pyramid. Recovering, he leaned forward and placed his head in his hands, feeling the oil in his long brown hair. He needed a haircut, but there had been no time to keep up with things like personal grooming. His palms brushed the soft fuzz of his beard, and he wondered what Ashley would have thought of it.

  Lying on his back, he rested his head against the cold stone and closed his eyes. Despite his weariness, he fought the pull of sleep. It wasn’t safe to stay here—not in daylight. He had to leave, had to return to the safehouse before it got any brighter. Even so, he was loath to desert his friends below.

  His ears twitched, catching the faint whisper of wings from overhead. Opening his eyes, he watched as Mira’s small form settled down beside him. Her mismatched blue and green eyes watched him closely as she folded her slate-grey wings behind her back. The wind gusted around her, lashing at her grey hair until she reached up and pushed it to the side.

  “What are you doing here, Mira?” Sam asked, sitting up. “You could have been spotted.”

  Mira stood on the edge of the obelisk and looked down at the crowd. “They don’t see good,” she commented. “What are you doing…up here?”

  Sam sighed. “Thinking. Watching.” He forced a smile. “What about you, Mira? To what do I owe the honor?”

  “Honor?” Mira’s brow creased as she returned and seated herself beside him. “What do you mean, honor?”

  Sam sighed. “Never mind. I just meant, what brings you up here? My captivating radio show?”

  Mira wrinkled her nose. “Liz is more fun.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Just because she spends her nights beating up soldiers…” He trailed off as he saw the glimmer in Mira’s eyes. He scowled as a mischievous smile spread across the girl’s face. “Okay, troublemaker, what’s the news?”

  “Not supposed to say.” Smiling, she lay back and looked at the sky. “Secret.”

  “So what are you doing here?” he sighed. Talking with the strange girl was like conversing with a brick wall.

  Mira had lifted her legs until they were perpendicular to her hips, but now they flicked back down, her wings extending at the same time, propelling her to her feet. Sam raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response.

  Instead, she wandered back to the edge of the obelisk. “You have to promise…not to get mad,” she said, glancing back at him, “that’s what Jasmine said.”

  Groaning, Sam lifted himself to his feet. “I promise.”

  “Good.” Mira smiled, her face lighting up like Christmas. “Let’s go.”

  She stretched her wings and crouched at the edge of the obelisk, but before she could take off something below caught her attention. “Oh,” she murmured, casting a sheepish glance over her shoulder. “I think…they’ve seen us now.”

  Sam muttered a choice curse under his breath as the first shout carried up to them. Stepping up beside Mira, he shook his head. The soldiers at the edge of the square were gesturing up at them. Several began pushing their way through the crowd towards the obelisk, as though that would somehow bring them closer to the winged fugitives seven hundred feet above them.

  Scowling, Sam glanced at Mira. “Brat,” he muttered.

  She only grinned back at him. “Shall we go?

  Chapter 2

  Mike’s head whipped back with an audible thud as the guard’s fist slammed into his forehead. He slumped forward in the chair, blood dripping from his cracked lips, a faint moan escaping his emaciated chest. Before he could recover, the guard swung again, a left hook that sent the imprisoned Texan reeling sideways. Only the steel shackles strapping Mike to his chair kept him from falling.

  Chris watched on, silent spectator to the Texan’s torture. A steel helmet with a full-faced visor concealed Chris’s features, and the skintight polyester uniform he wore made him a clone to the other guards standing around the room. Only the wings sprouting from his back gave him away. Those, and the steel collar strapped tight around his neck.

  On the other side of the room, Ashley stood in a matching outfit. The sleek black material clung to her figure, leaving little to the imagination. Red hair tumbled down from the back of her helmet, and her wings were half-spread, the slightest of tremors running through her white feathers. Around her neck, the collar shone in the harsh glow of the overhead lights.

  Mike coughed blood as the guard drove a punch into his stomach. Chris’s heart went out for the man. In the four weeks since their
capture, he had watched Mike wilt before his eyes. His bronzed Texan skin had faded to grey, and it seemed now that a man in his sixties sat in the chair. There was little left of the man who had bounded around the safehouse back in San Francisco.

  Chris made no move to aid him as the beating continued. He had learned during his first week it was every man for himself here. Even while his wing and ribs were still healing, the Director had brooked no disobedience. No transgression, however small, went unpunished. And while she lacked Doctor Halt’s deranged taste for violence, she was well-versed in the art of breaking men—mind and body.

  She stood beside Chris now, arms folded, watching the Texan with a disinterested frown. As the guard stepped up to continue his assault, she lifted a hand to stop him, then strode forward to stand in front of the Texan. Her thin frame moved with an overt confidence, her authority over the room unquestionable. Hazel eyes stared down at Mike, her short blond hair carefully dyed and styled to mask her age. Crouching beside the chair, she took a handkerchief from her pocket and gently dabbed at the blood dribbling down the Texan’s bearded chin.

  Groaning, Mike lifted his head. Uncertainty flickered through his eyes when he saw her. “What do…you want?” he croaked.

  The Director smiled. She dropped the handkerchief in his lap and stroked his cheek.

  “We only want the truth, Mike…” she said softly. “Where have they gone, these renegades of yours? We know you’re hiding them.”

  “Please…” Mike sobbed, his eyes rolling around in his skull as though searching for a way out, “I already told you…where they are.”

  Chris shivered. He had—after a week of enhanced interrogation had left Mike a broken man. The Director had ordered the house raided and everyone inside killed. Chris had tried to stop her. It had been the last time he tested the Director’s patience. Thankfully, the house had been empty when the soldiers arrived.

  Yet the Texan’s interrogation continued. Once he had been left in this windowless cell for almost a week. They’d given him a bottle of water, and one meal a day, but otherwise he’d been alone in the darkness. Chris still shuddered at the thought of the blubbering creature who’d emerged at the end.

  By now, Mike had nothing left. No lingering secrets, no hidden safehouses. Nothing, that is, but the pride of his nation.

  “That’s right,” the Director murmured, her hand still caressing the Texan’s cheek. “How could I have forgotten? Such a good boy. But you were too slow, Mike. You betrayed us!” Her voice turned hard as she gripped Mike by the hair and pulled back his head.

  She moved behind the chair, still holding Mike by his long hair, forcing him to stare into the bright fluorescent lights.

  “No, no, please,” Mike croaked, his voice half-mad with terror.

  The Director leaned down until her lips were an inch from Mike’s ear. “You must confess, Mike,” she whispered. “It’s the only way to redeem yourself, to save yourself.”

  Tears ran down Mike’s face. “No…”

  Abruptly, the Director released her captive’s hair and stepped away, nodding to the guard as she did so. The man’s face revealed no emotion as he drew a baton from his belt.

  “No, no, no, please!” Mike screamed, but still strapped to the chair, he had nowhere to go.

  The baton descended again and again, smashing into his shin, his elbow, his jaw. Chris closed his eyes, unable to watch any longer, but there was no hiding from the sounds. A sharp crack marked each blow, followed by the Texan’s shrieks.

  When the guard finally ceased, all Mike could do was slump in his chair and sob. Across the room, Ashley stood as tense as an iron rod, fists clenched at her side. She looked on the brink of mutiny, though they both knew there was nothing they could do for the Texan. One step out of line would see them crumple to the floor in agony—and that would only be the beginning.

  “Come now, Mike,” the Director was speaking again, “be reasonable. We know you were behind the attack in Independence Square. We know you’re here as a spy, infecting our food supplies with your vile virus.”

  Slumped in the chair, Mike lifted his head to look at her.

  “Do you really think my confession will make a difference?” His eyes were bloodshot and his jaw swollen, but there was a surprising clarity to his voice. “You think it will save you? That it’ll stop the vultures from circling?”

  The Director slammed her fist into his face. His head whipped back in the chair, but she retreated, cursing under her breath as she cradled her hand. Thin as her arms were, it was likely she’d hurt her wrist. Chris smiled beneath his visor.

  When she’d finally finished swearing, the Director swung on the nearest guard. “Give him a good workover,” she said through clenched teeth, “then throw him in the hole again for a couple of days.”

  “No!” Mike strained against his bindings, his eyes wide with panic. “No, please, not again!”

  But the Director was already walking away. A guard opened the door, and Chris quickly stepped after her. Ashley was a second behind him, her head still half-turned to watch the Texan. Chris nudged her, nodding at the retreating back of the Director. They hurried to catch up, all too aware what would happen if she saw them hesitating.

  The Director was halfway through the door when Mike screamed again.

  “I did it!”

  She froze in the doorway, before slowly turning to look at the hapless prisoner. “Keep going.”

  Mike slumped forward, gasping great lungfuls of air, as though with those three words he’d scaled a mountain. Finally, he lifted his head. Chris saw the darkness of self-loathing in his eyes as he spat out the words.

  “I did it. I conspired with Texas. I brought the Chead here. I killed the Madwomen.”

  A grin spread across the Director’s face as she stepped back into the room. “Very good, Mike. You’ve earned a reprieve.” She looked at the guards. “Skip the beating. Throw him straight in the hole. He can spend some time in the dark while we get things ready,” she said, before addressing Mike again: “Wouldn’t want you having second thoughts before your big debut.”

  The Texan seemed to wilt at the Director’s words. He shook his head, face ashen, but his pleas were ignored.

  Chris’s legs trembled as he followed the Director outside. Ashley fell into step beside him, and silently he reached out and took her hand. He squeezed her fingers, the only reassurance he could offer, then released her again.

  Together they followed the Director down the long corridors of the facility.

  Continue reading in…

  The Way the World Ends