The Pursuit of Truth Read online

  Chris staggered as he stepped off the bus, his legs almost giving way. The trip had passed by in a blur of anger and grief, the long hours trickling away with every lurching mile. The journey had extended through the night and most of the next day. Now, almost twenty-four hours after they’d first stepped aboard the steel contraption, they had finally reached San Francisco.

  Blinking in the fading light, Chris struggled to take in his surroundings. They were on the edge of downtown San Francisco, somewhere amidst the cramped jumble of buildings that was the National Bus Station. People crowded the sidewalks and asphalt, racing between the lumbering buses, struggling to find their way through the packed space.

  Since the end of the American War, the population of San Francisco had exploded. Land downtown had quickly dried up, forcing the National Bus Service to cram the last twenty years of growth into the eighty-year-old station. Now the facility was bursting at the seams. Their bus had taken an hour just to maneuver its way through the lines of buses waiting outside.

  Chris sucked in a breath of cool air, unable to summon the energy to care about the bodies pressing in around him. Without checking to see whether the others followed, he moved off through the station. A dull emptiness swelled within him, a lonely gulf that sucked away all emotion, leaving him alone, stranded amidst his sorrow.

  Threading his way through the garbage littering the sidewalk, Chris scanned the crowds, searching for an exit. Concrete walls surrounded the boarding area in a U shape, with a narrow entranceway for the buses on the opposite side of the station. But there were numerous doorways through which passengers could enter and exit. Spotting one nearby, Chris made for it, wrinkling his nose as he stepped over a puddle that smelled distinctly of urine.

  The doorway led him indoors, where the press of people became even denser. Without fans or air conditioning, the heat inside was stifling, despite the fresh breeze outside. His frustration growing, Chris shoved his way through the crowd and made his way towards a glowing blue sign that read ‘exit’.

  Outside, the crowds thinned a little, though the sidewalks were still a mess of human refuse. Before he could go any further, someone grabbed him by the arm, and a voice called his name.

  “Chris…” He found Liz staring up at him as he turned, pain shining from her crystal eyes.

  Looking down at the girl, Chris searched for the emotions she’d only recently ignited within him. The pit in his chest twisted, and something flickered inside him. Then it was gone. He shuddered as the sense of loss spread. In its place was a desire to run, to escape.

  He tore his hand from her grip and spun away. She called after him, but on the noisy street he didn’t hear her words. His feet carried him quickly down the sidewalk, away from the others, away from his grief.

  A host of makeshift market stalls had been erected on the sidewalks nearest the station, though many were beginning to pack away their wares for the night. Steel braziers burned on the street corners, hotdogs and hamburger patties charring on the blackened grills. Beggars sat beneath their piles of rags, squeezing in amongst the host of humanity. Some held out hands in silent beseechment, but most just sat staring into space, their eyes devoid of hope, of life.

  Chris moved on in silence, head down, refusing to meet the eyes of those he encountered. A woman tried to step into his path, pushing some jeweled necklaces at him, but he shoved his way past. The woman staggered backwards into an overflowing garbage can. Screams of abuse carried after him, but Chris was too consumed to hear her anger.

  His own rage was far greater.

  As he made his way through the tangled streets, darkness continued its descent over the city. He left behind the bustling marketplace, moving onto quieter sidewalks, to silent streets. The only pedestrians now went quickly about their business, eager to be home. Chris knew the neighborhood’s reputation, knew it wasn’t safe. At nightfall, only the boldest would dare to be outside.

  Footsteps came from behind Chris as the others struggled to keep pace with him. Soft voices called after him, but still he did not turn back. Overhead, the streetlights flickered on, but half of their bulbs were broken and they did little to illuminate the darkness.

  “Chris!” Liz’s voice was insistent now. “Chris stop! We need to get off the streets, before—”

  Liz broke off as a scream came from ahead. Chris paused mid-stride, the high-pitched shriek cutting through his thoughts, lifting him momentarily from the spiral of despair. He looked up as it came again, recognizably female now.

  A need rose in Chris’s chest—to act, to fight, to do something. His mother was dead, publicly executed as part of some sick New Year’s celebration, and he had been powerless to stop it.

  But he was powerless no longer.

  Fists clenched, Chris began to run.

  He leapt over a pile of garbage, his keen eyes scanning the sidewalk, picking a path through the refuse. Ahead, he glimpsed an alleyway. The scream came again, echoing from the shadows of the alley.

  As he turned the corner, Chris took in the scene without breaking stride. In the shadows, a young girl lay sprawled on the ground, her eyes wide with terror, two men standing over her. A gash marked her forehead, and her long brown hair lay in tangles across her face. Her coat was torn, its copper buttons lying scattered on the concrete.

  She looked up as Chris appeared, her mouth opening to scream again. Before she could, one of the men slammed a boot into her stomach. She crumpled beneath the blow, gasping against the filthy ground.

  A low growl rose from Chris’s chest. His boot brushed against a can as he moved, sending it rattling down the alleyway. The men spun at the sound, their eyes finding Chris in the shadows.

  Chris hesitated as he saw the police badges shining on their chests, the blue uniforms stretched over their muscular frames. One held a baton casually in his hand, and both wore guns holstered on their belts.

  The one who had kicked the girl rested a hand on his gun and shouted: “You’d best head back to wherever you came from, kid.”

  The other moved towards the girl as the speaker stared Chris down. Chris bit his lip, measuring the distance between himself and the attackers. Only ten feet separated them—he could cross that distance in a second. He smiled.

  The policeman’s eyes widened as Chris leapt. His hand tensed, hesitating a second before pulling the weapon from its holster. To Chris, he might as well have been moving in slow motion. By the time the gun slid free, Chris had already closed the distance. His hand flashed out, catching the man by the wrist.

  The gunman cursed, struggling to break Chris’s hold. He quickly discovered he was no match for Chris’s mutated strength. Grinning, Chris squeezed. A satisfying crack came from his foe’s wrist. The gun dropped uselessly to the ground as the man screamed.

  Chris caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw the other policeman draw his gun. Chris grasped the first man by the collar and hurled him at the other officer. The man flew through the air, his arms windmilling, and landed on his colleague with an audible thud.

  Wearing a smile on his lips, Chris strode towards them. The two tripped over themselves trying to get back to their feet. He laughed at the terror he saw in their eyes. Gone were his days of running away, of hiding and sulking while his tormentors enjoyed their privileged lives. The President was right about one thing—he had nothing left to lose. He would act, would watch the government and all its members burn if he could.

  The second man still had his gun, and he pointed it at Chris from the ground. Chris sprang sideways as the barrel flashed, heard the crack as lead struck the brick wall. He kept moving as the man fired again, then he dove forward and kicked out at the gun. It went off one last time before his boot sent it flying sideways into the wall.

  A sharp pain sliced through Chris’s arm and he reeled back. Anger took light in his chest, boiling up from within, and the pain faded. Red stained his vision as he looked at his enemies. The man whose wrist he’d broken was o
n his feet again. With a cry, he swung his baton at Chris’s face.

  Snarling, Chris caught the baton mid-swing. The man paled, but Chris gave him no time to retreat. Grabbing his arm in an iron grip, Chris dragged him forward into a crunching headbutt. The blow staggered him, but Chris wasn’t finished. Catching the man, he swung him around, hurling him headfirst into the wall.

  A sickening crunch came from the man’s skull as he struck. He slid down the wall and lay unmoving on the ground, a dark stain spreading out around him.

  Ecstasy swept through Chris as he turned on the remaining attacker. Rage boiled through his veins, numbing him to everything else. He stepped forward, watching with satisfaction his victim’s terror. Then he leapt.

  The policeman raised his hands in a desperate effort to defend himself, but he crumbled beneath Chris’s first blow. Chris landed on the man’s chest, his weight driving the breath from his opponent’s lungs. Mouth wide, the man gasped for air. Chris threw back his head and laughed.

  A wild joy swept through Chris as he punched the man in the face. The policeman’s head snapped back, bouncing from the concrete. His eyes rolled into his skull and a low groan rattled from his chest, but Chris no longer cared. He lashed out again, his knuckles cracking as they slammed into flesh, the sound of blows echoing down the alleyway.

  By the time Liz and Richard pulled Chris away, he was covered in blood. Rage drowned his thoughts, and he hissed as they grabbed him, struggling to break free. Twisting, he tried to lash out, but Richard and Liz held him tight, their strength more than a match for his own, and finally the fight began to drain from him. The red faded from his vision as his heartbeat slowed.

  Chris slumped in their arms, gasping as the pain returned. Pain shot through his arm, and fiery needles radiated down to his hand.

  But it was nothing to the ache in his heart, the agony of his loss.

  A sob built in his chest, persistent, undeniable. It tore from his lips as the first tears spilled. He cried out as Liz pulled him to her, burying his head in her shoulder, holding her tight, as though his very life depended on it. Fear rose inside him, that if she let him go, he would slip away, would lose himself forever in the depths of his despair.

  “What are we doing, Liz?” The words rose from somewhere inside of him. “It’s all out of control.”

  She shivered and hugged him closer. But she did not answer, and they stood together in silence, amidst the long shadows of the alleyway.

  Closing his eyes, Chris surrendered to his grief. He let it wash over him, to ebb and flow with the pain of his body. He embraced it, accepted it. Slowly, the tension went from him, the mad chaos that had taken hold falling away. Through it, he sent up an offering, a thought, a final farewell to the woman who had raised him.

  Mom, I love you.

  12

  Liz shifted nervously on her feet as Daniella, the girl Chris had rescued in the alleyway, stuttered through her story. She had been speaking for ten minutes already, the words tumbling from her in a rush as she told her mother about her rescue. The older woman stood beside the girl, eyes wide and face pale as she stared at the five intruders on her doorstep.

  It hadn’t been until after the confrontation in the alley that Liz had realized Chris had been shot. Though the wound was hardly bleeding, Chris himself had gone into shock. As he'd started to shake, Liz had lowered him to the ground and emptied the last apples from their sack. She’d used the sack to bind his arm, but with the filthy conditions, she knew it would need further attention, and soon.

  It was then that the girl Chris had rescued had reminded them of her existence. Staggering to her feet, she’d introduced herself in a quivering voice as Daniella. She looked to be around twenty years of age, and while obviously terrified, she had managed to stammer her thanks, before noticing Chris’s bullet wound.

  To Liz’s surprise, the sight of Chris’s injury had galvanized Daniella. She’d insisted they come with her to her mother’s apartment. That was where she’d been heading when the policemen offered to escort her home.

  Liz and the others had reluctantly agreed. While some of the color had returned to Chris’s face, the risk of his wound becoming infected was too great out in the street. It needed to be cleaned at the very least, and there was no way they could take him to a hospital.

  Now Daniella was finally wrapping up her story, finishing with how Chris had been shot and needed help. She fell silent, and her mother turned back to the group.

  Liz’s cheeks warmed as the woman’s gaze fixed on her, suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the filthy state of her clothes. It had been a long time since her dip in the mountain river. The five of them were well used to their own stench, but she winced at what the woman must think. Gritting her teeth, Liz readied herself for the woman’s dismissal.

  All of a sudden, Daniella’s mother clapped her hands. “Thank you, children,” she all but shrieked. Her words trailed off, her eyes drifting to Chris, who Liz supported over her shoulder. She blinked, seeming to take in the bloodstained bandage. “You’re injured.”

  “Yes, Mom, I told you!” Daniella said.

  The mother frowned, flicking an irritated glance at her daughter, before drawing Chris and Liz into a gentle hug. “Oh, thank you, thank you so much,” she said, her voice warm now. She looked at Chris. “We’d better take a look at that, hadn’t we?”

  Chris nodded, his lips drawn tight. The tension fled Liz as Daniella’s mother moved to a cupboard in the wall. She closed her eyes, relieved to let an adult take control. Since their escape, she’d hardly had time to breathe, let alone rest. Now she wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week and let someone else worry about their future.

  “Take a seat,” Daniella’s mother said, gesturing to the couch as she rifled around the closet. “Don’t worry about the mess. I can’t believe this. Now where is that first-aid kit? It’s not much, you should really see a doctor, go to the hospital or something…but I suppose you can’t really do that, can you? What is this city coming to, policemen assaulting citizens, it’s like we’re out on the farms or something. My name is Danny, by the way. Short for Daniella, but went and gave that name to my daughter, didn’t I?”

  Liz clenched her teeth at the woman’s casual insult about her heritage, but she shoved down her anger with an inward shake of her head. The police who patrolled the village near her family’s farm might have worked for the government, but they had been valued members of the community. They had certainly never gone around trying to rape young girls.

  Leading Chris to the couch, Liz let out a sigh of relief as they sank onto the soft cushions, though she winced at the dirt they left on the white fabric.

  “Ah-ha!” Danny emerged from the closet holding a red pouch marked by a white cross. She stepped around the coffee table and took a seat on the other side of Chris.

  The woman had regained her composure now, and quickly threw herself into the task of patching up Chris. Idly, Liz wondered how much good the little first aid kit could do for a bullet wound, but at that moment it was the best they were going to get.

  Beside her, Chris winced as the woman unwrapped their makeshift bandage. Liz smiled, reaching out to take his good hand. Their fingers entwined and she flashed him her best smile. “Don’t be a baby.”

  “It’s okay!” Daniella interrupted. She took a seat on the coffee table in front of them. “Mom will patch you up.”

  Chris nodded his thanks and returned her smile. Liz suppressed a growl, reminding herself of the trauma the girl had just experienced. She was only trying to show her thanks, though Liz couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealously at the way Chris smiled back at her.

  Danny hissed as the last layer of bandage came away, revealing the jagged tear the bullet had left in Chris’s arm. Blood had congealed around the wound, along with a fair sprinkling of dirt and grime. Muttering to herself, Danny started rummaging in her first-aid kit.

  She came up a second later with a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Chris
’s eyes widened, and Liz gave his hand a squeeze. She flashed a look at Richard, hoping he caught its meaning. If the pain became too great, they might have to hold Chris down.

  “Hey, I saw that,” Chris grumbled. “Don’t get any ideas, you two. I’ll be good.” With that he leaned back into the couch and offered his arm to Danny.

  He flinched as Danny brushed an alcohol-soaked cloth across the wound, but Liz held his hand tight and he steadied. A low whimper came from his throat as the woman cleaned out the dirt.

  “You big wuss,” Liz whispered in Chris’s ear, then smiled as he turned to look at her.

  Ignoring Daniella on the coffee table, Liz kissed him hard on the lips. He melted beneath her, relaxing into the couch as she pressed herself against him. A snort of indignation was followed by a thud as Daniella stood and stamped away. Liz felt a twinge of guilt—the girl had only been trying to be supportive—but at least she’d distracted Chris from the pain.

  “That help?” she asked, pulling back a fraction.

  Chris gave a wry grin and nodded. Liz stroked his cheek, feeling the soft hairs of his unshaven chin. He closed his eyes, seemingly relaxed, though Liz knew well the agony of rubbing alcohol on open wounds.

  A few minutes later, Danny finally announced she was done. “I think the bullet passed straight through,” the woman chattered as she started to apply antiseptic cream. “Definitely should be seen by a doctor, though. I hate to think what might happen if it became infected. You could lose your arm! Oh, I don’t know, such a mess, I wish we could do more for you. You look like such nice kids. Where are you from?” She looked around the room, taking in the state of their clothes and their filthy faces. “It looks like you’ve come a long way?”

  Liz nodded, thinking quickly. “We came down from Seattle. Just finished school and heard there might be work here. Our bus broke down on the way though—took days to get here, by the time they sent a replacement and all that.”

  The woman nodded. “Oh dear. Well, I’m not sure about the work—I’m just a lowly office lady—but why don’t you help yourselves to the bathroom? Clean yourselves up and spend the night. Really, it’s the least we can do!”