After the Birds

Chapter One

Remerton

NY, USA

2039

Andy

Zoya rushes to stand in front of me but I hold her back. Instinct makes me crouch next to my German Shepherd. Her ears flicker back and forth, and what I can see of her fur stands up in a jagged formation. My dog knows better than to indicate this fiercely at the sight of a rodent or wild cat. No, this is about something bigger. Bigger—and that usually means something worse.

“Shh, girl,” I say and place a calming hand on her back. She now knows that I’ve understood the danger and goes quiet. I listen for whatever made her react. All I can hear is her restrained breathing. My heart thunders, but my hand is steady when I take a firmer grip on my second-best friend, my reinforced baseball bat. Reinforced with crisscrossed metal bands to give it more power, it’s been more useful than the two Glock 22s that I carry, one on each hip.

I get up soundlessly and I’m careful where I place my feet. The pavements are full of debris and what’s left of crumbled walls, but the streets are quite clear. Tall weeds have pierced the asphalt, which is another advantage. I often use shrubbery as a cover when I reconnoiter. Now, in the sunset, I see the last rays reflect in eyes, visors, and weapons further up the street. I signal with my hands for Zoya to shadow me. It’s not her favorite thing. My dog wants to be up front, protecting me.

I’ve seen a lot of gangs come and go over the years, but this group of people is unfamiliar. I see ten, no, fifteen of them, all dressed in protective gear. They move in unison, as soundless as Zoya and I, and they keep their weapons trained on the broken facades of the buildings around us. They make me think of bands of soldiers that I’ve seen in old magazines. Dressed alike, armed alike—just like soldiers at war.

Zoya gives another low growl. The sound doesn’t carry over to the others, but I shush her anyway as I keep my gaze moving up and down the street. Getting caught during an ambush is not what I have in mind.

Then I see them. From another direction, a familiar group of people is approaching. Loxi gang members, eight of them, sneak along the wall to a half-crumbled garage. If nothing else, their red bandannas give them away. I was at their mercy once, years ago, and don’t want to repeat that experience. I know how to keep my distance.

Carefully, I give Zoya silent command to back up. We hide behind what’s left of an old car. I should get out of here, return to the forest, but I’m curious. I want to know who these new ones are and observing how they handle the Loxi gang might be interesting and informative.

With my arm around Zoya, I peer through the rusty wreck. Where there once were seats, only the framework is left. I hope it gives us enough protection. Now and then, I glance around me to make sure I have enough escape routes if I’ll need them.

Behind me is the ruin of a shop that was looted down to the bones a long time ago, I know since earlier recons, that I can run straight through and out on the other side on a parallel street. There, old garbage containers line the sidewalks. They are good for protection in case someone shoots at us. Most of the time, people don’t waste precious ammo on a loner like me, and besides, the noise attracts too much-unwanted attention. But it does happen enough times for me to consider the risk, because if someone were to shoot Zoya…I shudder at the thought. I protect her as well as I can. She wears a modified flak vest, but it doesn’t cover her head.

The new arrivals move in a pattern that suggests they’re well-trained. Lithe and with a firm grip of what looks like assault rifles, they move toward the intersection. I realize I must move too, if I want to avoid ending up in a potential crossfire. I turn around and study the exterior of the shop behind me. The windows are long gone, but there’s enough of a brick wall still intact and it’s placed high enough for me to be relatively safe behind it together with Zoya. I direct her using hand signals again, and move next to her, keeping close to the ground. There is a small risk that someone among the new people will spot me, but no shots are fired as I enter the shop. Crouching under the window opening, I scratch Zoya’s head. “Good girl,” I whisper, and Zoya seems to agree with my assessment.

I attach the baseball bat to the harness on my back and move further into the room. There I can look out the window and nobody outside can see me in the dark corner. The Loxis are only five yards from the corner of street where the new people are approaching. The Loxis aren’t as quiet as the unfamiliar crew. I can tell from the sudden change in the newcomers’ positions that they are aware of the danger. Damn, it’s like watching a movie back in the day, being a spectator to an unfolding drama which you have no stake in. Yet.

The first soldier signals to the other two, pointing with an open hand toward the corner. They want them to advance further. I wonder if they realize how such a maneuver could reveal their position as the corner building has empty window openings right there. I needn’t have worried. Just before the first opening, the two soldiers crouch and stealthily move on. I have perfected that heal-to-toe walking over the years myself and cover quite long stretches like that. Even Zoya can crouch and crawl.

The Loxis have now stopped just before their first window frame opening. The leader waves one of his people forward and points to the ground. Is he really supposed to do the army crawl right there? That won’t be a be quiet enough, and painful against all the debris and rubble. But, oh, yes, the skinny guy throws himself down, holding onto a sawed-off shotgun in one hand, and pushes forward on his elbows. The shotgun makes some noise against the ground, but he is not as noisy as I thought.

Zoya gives a quiet “off” and I know what it means. She’s seen someone assume a battle position and now she wants me to know. I don’t think she likes that we’re still here, but her gaze is alert, and she trembles the way she always does when she is ready to act.

I have a feeling that this new well-trained bunch can have more tricks on their roster. Carefully I stick my hand inside my vest and pull out my mirror. It is a dentist's kind of mirror attached to an old car antenna. Careful not to allow it to reflect the last rays of the setting sun, I deploy it just outside the window frame. It takes a few seconds, but then I see a faint movement in the mirror. The sun reflects in one visor. Then two more. I pull back the mirror and push Zoya and myself further into the corner. They pass my store, and I sense that they’re crouching behind the car wreck I just abandoned.

“Eight red. Three o’clock.” A husky voice makes me want to flinch, but years of practice makes me only push my fingers deeper into Zoya’s fur. She’s still trembling but breathing as quietly as an excited dog can possibly do.

“Loxi.” The voice speaks again and the fact that they know about Loxi shows they have reconnoitered in what once was Remerton. “Secure two. Understood.”

I wonder what they mean. Secure two? Do they intend to take two prisoners? What do they expect to come from that? They obviously don’t know that Loxi warriors are mere commodities to the leaders of this trash, much like cannon fodder in the olden times. There are a lot of them and the ones at the bottom yearn to rise in the ranks and thus get more food and better habitat arrangements. If these new ones think they can negotiate with Loxi by taking hostages, they’re mistaken. But if they’re after information, that’s more likely to happen. Those at the bottom of the barrels are not specially trained in tolerating interrogation.

“Scout’s approaching. Down.” The man outside my window has probably seen that the Loxi warrior is close enough, hisses the order. I realize now, and I kick myself mentally for not catching on sooner, that he’s talking into some transmitter. A walkie-talkie. I haven’t seen anyone use them for a long time. While people still had access to usable batteries, I used to have a walkie-talkie five, six years ago. I think I was eighteen or nineteen when I gave up hope of finding new batteries. After going through my backpack, I tossed the walkie-talkie and everything that was my old life. I only kept the Samsung cell phone with pictures of my dead family—which I would never be able to switch on again, my Kindle, and my mother’s old Nintendo DS with ten games. I haven’t even thought of this stuff until now, when I see how the soldiers are using what I consider dead technology. They obviously have access to some amazing storage facilities.

“Fire!” The order makes me flinch this time and now the voice has gone from husky to booming. It can be heard through several walkie-talkies down the street. One moment later, I would’ve been able to belt out a Celine Dion song without anyone hearing me. The weapon’s fire echoes between what is left of the buildings. I can smell dust mixed with gunpowder when a lot of bullets create small holes in the wall to my left. I shove us farther in and make sure that Zoya is well covered. The walls seem porous enough to embed the bullets, but I still worry about ricochets. Zoya’s flak vest is tailored to her, and she carries her water in the pockets I’ve attached, but the vest only covers her torso. Her legs and head are still exposed.

After what feels like an eternity, but it’s probably just a few minutes, the two groups stop firing. The silence is now only broken by clipped commands, and I send my mirror back out again. The sun has set by now, but it’s still light enough to see the running figures. It looks like it was an easy victory for the soldiers since I can’t see any red bandannas. Instead, a larger group consisting of the new folks gather in the intersection while a few others are on sentry duty, facing all four directions. I count around fifteen to twenty, but it is hard to get an estimate in the small mirror.

Zoya growls again, a low and gurgling noise. My hand on her neck quiets her temporarily and I worry when she starts up again. Someone must be close. Have I been too careless, too relaxed, in my curiosity? Is there someone inside the former store with us?

No. Zoya wouldn’t have gone quiet at all if that had been the case. She would have taken over and insisted on getting in front of me. She has two long scars on her chest to show her way of doing things.

“What is it, girl?” I ask quietly into her right ear when she continues to vibrate soundlessly. “Something more going on?”

“Off,” Zoya says, and I have to smile.

“Maybe time to pull out before they decide to expand their reconnoitering?” I get up on my knees and since it is almost dark outside, I dare to peer over the edge of the window frame. A few more of the new people have shown up. They carry visors and helmets like the others, but their weapons are holstered and attached to their harnesses. The uniforms are green-grey and show wear but aren’t torn. They look like the ones my dad used to wear when he was in the army when I was little.

“Any survivors?” the person standing in the middle of the group asks. The voice belongs to a woman, and she seems to be the boss. I can tell from how she moves her head that she is scanning the surroundings.

“Two, Colonel, as ordered. “One of the men she addresses stands at attention. “I think the tall one over there is the leader of this group. The skinny youngster looks persuadable.”

I study them thoroughly. The woman they call colonel stands with her feet apart and her hands on her hips. A clear power pose for anyone who’s ever watched any of the Marvel movies before the birds. The man who spoke is also her subordinate, I have no doubt, as he even salutes her. This reinforces my theory about how well-organized they seem.

“Good thinking,” the colonel says. “Take them to vehicle one. Bring six from the unit to assist you. The rest of us will sweep this street and take vehicle two back.”

“Understood, Colonel.” The man nods and makes some form of two-finger salute against the visor.

“We will reconvene at the base.” The colonel waves the greater part of the new soldiers over to her. “You five, come with me. The rest of you take the other side of the street. Let’s make a thorough search of what was once shops. They are probably picked clean, but you never know. If you see any signs of these structures being inhabited, I want to know.” The colonel pulls out her automatic weapon from the harness of her back and cocked it with ease.

It's time to exit. I look around and make sure Zoya and I will leave no traces. After giving Zoya a gentle push, I point to the inner rooms behind the shop. “Time to go, girl.”

Zoya keeps close to me when I maneuver behind the long counter where a cash register once stood. I make it halfway through the shop when I hear the colonel’s voice, now much too close. “Ensign, we’ll start in here.”

Shit. I realize they’re coming this way. There’s no chance for me to make it out the back door. I have simply been an idiot and waited too long. Without hesitation, I rush toward the counter and throw myself down. Zoya is next to me and gurgles a warning deep in her throat. “Shh.” I take a soft grip around her nose. That’s my strongest command when it comes to telling her she must be quiet. I risk feeling my way toward the back of the counter. I’m sure there must have been spaces for boxes and stuff, but now it is all empty. I push Zoya in under the counter and follow her. Without hesitation, I deploy my right Glock and flip off the safety.

The counter is deep, and I sit pressed against the back of it, as far as I can with my legs pulled up. Sweat pours down my back. I notice that I’m holding my breath, a bad habit I have when I’m stressed. Instead, I force myself to breath slowly and deeply. The brain needs oxygen to work. Zoya pushes her paw against my side. I can tell she’s concerned.

I can hear steps inside the shop. Old crushed glass on the floor breaks further under boots or heavy shoes. I haven’t paid attention to what the new soldiers are wearing on their feet. Combat boots, perhaps. A loud noise above my head makes me tremble. I’m not scared, I tell myself, just ready to fight. The fact that I’m completely outnumbered is unfortunate, but I tell myself that it doesn’t have to mean anything. I have been in worse situations than this.

Two legs show up to the left of us when one of the new people round the counter. Damn it. I press further back and hold my gentle grip of Zoya’s nose. My mouth is so dry, it makes it impossible to swallow when I raise my hand holding the gun.

The legs stop a meter from us. They back up a few steps against the shelves behind them and now I see the visor reflect some light. Flashlights? It is dark where I sit, and I don’t know how much they can see under the counter. My hand doesn’t leave Zoya’s nose, and she isn’t moving.

“There’s nothing here, Colonel,” a male voice says from above me.

“Wait a minute,” the colonel says, because of course it’s her. Then I’m blinded by a light directed at Zoya and me. I raise my gun, aiming toward the light, purely on instinct, but I don’t pull the trigger. There is no reason to shoot blindly—I won’t find my way out of here until my eyes have gotten used to the light, even if I do manage to hit her. I blink furiously toward the piercing light. Now I can make out the colonel’s contours. It’s her holding the flashlight. I keep the gun trained on her and hope the message is clear. If she gives me away, I’ll shoot. Even if she has a flak vest, bullets from this angle will cause great injuries.

She moves her flashlight to Zoya who pulls her lips up in a terrifying, soundless growl. I don’t move my gun at all. If the colonel makes one move to reveal my presence, it’ll be the last thing she does. That’s just the way it is.

“You’re right,” the colonel says and nods at someone on the other side of the counter. “There’s nothing here. Continue to the next space. I’ll be right there.”

Steps from several people fade away. I listen for signs of someone staying behind and hiding. I haven’t seen the colonel give any obvious signs, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t.

“Who are you?” the colonel asks and moves the beam of the light away from Zoya. She doesn’t direct it back to my eyes, which is good because that would probably make me shoot.

“I’m coming out now,” I say in a low voice without answering her question. “Don’t do anything stupid.” With the gun steadily directed toward her, I slide out from under the counter. Zoya rounds me and takes her place on my left side.

“Well? Who are you?” The colonel sounds impatient now. She’s obviously not used to being questioned, let alone commanded.

I, in turn, study the woman before me. She’s tall, like me. She holds her automatic weapon in a defensive position. It hits me that she probably could have shot me without risking very much when she blinded me. Whatever her reason for not doing so is, I find it illogical. Or at the very least, unusual.

“I’m out of here,” I say, keeping my voice indifferent, thinking I might jinx my fate if I sound too eager. “This isn’t my fight.”

“Who are you?” the colonel asks again. She takes one hand away from her weapon and removes the helmet and the visor. In the indirect light from the flashlight, which is attached to the short weapon, I see her short, white hair. Her features are sharp, and her eyes blue and guarded.

I grab my gun with both hands. “Move. I’ll go in the other direction, that way there’ll be no trouble.”

“Who are you?” Her blue eyes narrow. They are of the type that can drill into your soul and read all your secrets if you don’t watch out. Damnit, she’s stubborn about my name. Very well, I can be just as stubborn.

“I said move. Now.” I take one step toward her, aware that I’m provoking some action on her part, good or bad.

“No need for any hostility,” she said haughtily. “Your name. Now.”

“Now who’s hostile? Will you let me go if I give you my name?” I’m not happy about how this is playing out, but her guys might be back any time to check her status, and I have to get out of here.

“Yes.”

“Really? Her answer is so immediate and sounds honest. But honesty is a rare and practically an extinct commodity in the world we live in, so I’m not entirely ready to do a happy dance. “Okay. My name is Andy.”

“The colonel raises her eyebrows, looking surprised. “Andy? As in Andrea?”

“Once upon a time.” I go rigid at the same time as Zoya gives a warning growl. “Come on, girl.” When it doesn’t look like the colonel is going to move, I raise my hand to push her aside. I don’t want to shoot, but I will if I must.

Instead, she moves out of the way at the last moment. I throw myself into the next room. Zoya is right behind me, and it is only thanks to the fact that I’ve been here so many times before that I can run full speed through the dark rooms. Then we fly out the back door together and I keep running. Zoya isn’t growling and I know she would be if she heard anyone. When we’ve run four blocks, I stop and listen. At a distance, I hear faint voices and wonder if the man who called out to the colonel saw me and inquired about me. I hope not.

I reset the safety on the gun and holster it. I circle a few extra blocks and double back from another direction. I want to know what kind of vehicles the colonel was talking about. I haven’t seen a functioning vehicle in over three years. If these new people have access to them and some fuel that actually works after all this time, I want to know that too.

Zoya and I were lucky today, but I know better. You can’t count on this amount of luck. Ever. Despite knowing this, I move with renewed strength in my legs along the sidewalk. I admit I'm curious about this colonel--and I want to see  how many of these soldiers she commands.

All I have to do is keep a safe distance.

Continued behind door 2 

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